Chapter 23

What could that thing have been?

It was Wednesday afternoon and Quist had thought about little else since leaving the late Stephen Taylor’s house the previous evening. Driving along Holgate Road in York, he contemplated the bizarre events in Beverley as he headed for his appointment at the White Rose headquarters.

Inspector Bradstreet’s visit had aroused his curiosity in the murders, but the police had no idea they were dealing with a supernatural creature. If any officers managed to get near their “suspect”, they’d be in serious danger, although they would have seen the state of the victims and this pretty much went without saying. Quist knew he had no choice but to track down this killer himself.

Tonga, as the police referred to him, wasn’t human, but what exactly WAS that creature he’d chased after across the fields?

The detective realised that he might actually need Rex Grant’s offer of assistance, not to infiltrate the right wing party, but to stop this supernatural killer. Although Watson was fairly unfazed by such strange things these days, he wouldn’t be much use if they bumped into that powerful creature again, especially if on the next encounter it didn’t run away.

He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. There was little doubt that the Tonga creature was responsible for all three deaths, but why would it murder these specific people - Lee Millican and the Taylor brothers - and why on earth do it naked? Millican worked for Churchill in his Task Force and, if Daniel Geller’s letters were to be believed, the Taylors were actually named Schneider and both were neo-Nazis from Munich.

And then there was the clay. Why were those traces of brown clay found near every victim?

Quist brought his car to a halt by the kerb and gazed up at Birlstone House beyond the neat garden of gravel and tiny shrubs. Compared to supernatural murders, exposing a bunch of racists seemed trivial, but it still needed to be done. His phone suddenly vibrated and he saw it was Rex.

“Hello there,” said the detective. “I was going to ring you, but you beat me to it.”

“Really?” snapped Rex. “Seeing as I’m no use to you, it was presumably to say cheerio before I leave for London. This is just a quick call to let you know that Churchill sent two of his Task Force to Sedgefield last night. They tried threatening Rupert into giving them the cash he’d promised, but it didn’t work. I gave them both a bit of a spanking.”

“I see,” said Quist, puffing on his cigarette. “No, I wasn’t intending to say goodbye. The situation has altered somewhat and, if you’d still like to help with...”

“Absolutely,” broke in Rex, excitedly. “Definitely. Of course I’ll help.”

Quist smiled. “That sounds to me like a yes.”

“Yes, it’s a yes. I’m glad to hear you’ve seen sense. After those bastards threatened Marika last night, I’m more determined than ever to help with this. These racist scumbags need closing down and I’m your ideal undercover guy. I can’t wait.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little,” said Quist, glancing at Birlstone House. “I’m a little busy right now, but I’ll ring you later today and explain everything.”

The detective pocketed his phone. Whatever the creature might be, it was unbelievably strong and two werewolves would have a better chance against it than one... even if one of them happened to be something of an imbecile. Right now, however, he had to put all thoughts of the paranormal aside and focus his mind on this meeting with Dominic Churchill. The first step was to gain entry into the inner circle and win his trust. He had two items in his coat that would hopefully help with that.

He remembered the nugget of brown clay found at Taylor’s house that he also carried in his pocket. Clay? Those traces of clay residue at the crime scenes must be relevant in some way, but how?

“Forget it,” he muttered to himself. Climbing from the car, he crushed his cigarette underfoot and straightened his leather overcoat with a brisk shake. “Concentrate on this.”

Walking up the front path to the White Rose headquarters, Quist ran his eyes over the four-storey building and realised that human nature changed very little with the passing of time. When this terrace was built in the early 1800s, these large houses had been home to the professional classes and wealthy businessmen, none of whom would have welcomed the idea of black people in Britain unless they were kept out of sight and toiling as servants. Two-hundred years had passed by, men had walked on the moon and the current occupants of Birlstone House still felt the same way about dark skin.

The front door stood open and he entered a hallway with a reception desk and waiting area of chairs. Most of the building’s original features had been preserved, with wooden wainscoting, ornate coving around the high ceilings and glass fanlights above the panelled office doors. Coffee tables were covered in copies of Yorkshire Life and other local magazines, and patriotic pictures of the Royal family hung on the walls beside Yorkshire sports stars and actors. Two men in smart suits approached.

“Bernard Quist,” said the detective, smiling warmly. “Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Mister Churchill.”

Nodding, one of the assistants gestured for him to lift his arms.

“Seriously?” He politely raised them. “I take it there’s a justification for such stringent security?”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” said the man, patting him down. “We get a lot of hate mail from left-wing nutters and you must have heard about the recent bomb threats? Like all politicians, Dominic has enemies.”

“Yes, I fully understand.” Quist managed to contain his laughter at the “politician” description. “Good Lord, did you just run a hand over my shirt checking for microphones?”

“You could be a journalist wearing a wire to secretly record your meeting.”

“Really? What on earth do you think Mister Churchill might say?”

“Recordings can be altered to portray Dominic in a bad light.”

The detective nodded. The plan was to involve Churchill in a racist conversation and tape his views, but Quist hadn’t worn the secreted recording equipment today. Once trust had been established, they wouldn’t bother to search him again.

The assistant found a bulging envelope in his overcoat. “What’s this?”

“A little something for the White Rose Party.” Taking back the envelope, Quist opened it to show a thick wad of twenty-pound notes and returned it to his pocket. He didn’t want his second gift to be discovered. “It’s a financial contribution that I’m sure Mister Churchill will appreciate. Now I’ve had enough of this nonsense. You’ve seen my donation and you’ve established that I have no machine guns or microphones, so I wonder if you’d be so good as to take me to him?”

Nodding curtly, the man led him along a passage and into a smart modern office with filing cabinets and glass cases of books on Yorkshire. More pictures of the Royal family hung on the wall and the leader of White Rose sat writing behind a desk.

“Bernard Quist, Sir,” announced the assistant, closing the door as he left.

Sighing, Churchill climbed to his feet and walked over him; he didn’t appear to be in the best of moods. Quist estimated the man to be mid-forties, six feet tall, and his toned body indicated regular training sessions in a fitness spa. His hair had obviously turned grey at an early age and the thick silver locks complimented his tanned movie star features.

“Good afternoon,” said Quist, enthusiastically. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve seen you speak many times at the meetings and your words never fail to stimulate me.”

“That’s good to hear.” Churchill shook hands and managed a tight-lipped smile. Quist noted the manicured fingernails and the expensive Omega watch. “You should have introduced yourself earlier. Which meetings did you attend?”

“Scarborough was the last one. I have to say, your plans to end all immigration are radical, but clearly the only feasible way forward. These people are flooding in and will soon be taking over. No one in their right mind wants a Muslim Britain with Sharia law courts.”

“Absolutely.” Churchill shrugged. “But the mainstream parties don’t agree, or they’d have already adopted my policies.” He sat at the desk and gestured for his visitor to sit opposite. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m not exactly myself today. I’ve had some bad news.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes.” Churchill smiled sourly again, but didn’t elaborate. “So what can I do for you, Mister Quist?”

“Call me Bernard, please, and it’s more of what I can do for you.” The detective sat back and crossed his legs. “The appearance and subsequent rise of White Rose is the best thing to happen in this country for decades. I really admire you and what you stand for.”

“Well, thank you, Bernard. It’s always good to be appreciated.”

Quist lowered his voice slightly. “I’ve come to admire you even more since I spent an evening recently with one of your colleagues. It was a gentleman named Craig Battersby and I liked him immensely. Craig is my kind of man and, from what he was telling me, I now know you’re definitely my kind of political party.”

Churchill narrowed his eyes. “I’m not so sure I follow.”

The detective gave an enigmatic smile. “In my younger days I was a member of the National Front. Later I was involved with the British National Party, the English Defence League...”

“You must know those aren’t the sort of people we would ever associate with?”

“Indeed I do.” Quist laughed quietly. “You’re far too astute to be connected in any way with those openly racist morons, but before your party appeared, my options were somewhat limited.”

“Are you comparing White Rose to them?”

“Of course not. I can see what you’ve achieved here and you’re something very different indeed. Something powerful that hasn’t been attempted before and a thousand times more effective than those volatile groups who claim to stand for a purer Britain. You see, my discussion with Craig was rather lengthy and very informative. I know we think alike and I want to stand as a candidate here in York. White Rose is the only organisation who will make a difference in Britain and it’s the only party for me.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Churchill, reaching across the desk to shake his hand again. “I’m starting to like you, Bernard.”

Quist relaxed slightly. He’d been hoping he hadn’t gone too far with his gushing praise for these racist idiots.

“I also know you’re seeking financial backers,” he said. “I’m aware of your recent setback with that fool at Sedgefield, Rupert Grant. I know the man socially through hunting and shooting and I honestly believed he and I shared the same views.”

“Grant?” Churchill frowned. “If you know him, perhaps you could enlighten me as to why he pulled out?”

“God only knows.” Quist shook his head. “Grant told me he’d changed his mind when I spoke to him yesterday, but he wouldn’t say why.” He brought out his envelope of cash. “The point is, I won’t let you down. Here’s eight-thousand pounds as an initial expression of goodwill and, once I have your banking details, I can transfer a far more substantial amount to assist the party.”

“Well, this is excellent.” Churchill held up the envelope and grinned. “I honestly can’t thank you enough, Bernard. Yes, we really do need candidates like you. Intelligent and cultured Yorkshire folk with the correct revolutionary views.”

“As I said, our politics are the same and I have another offering that I believe will demonstrate that. Something that will prove just how alike we are.” Quist produced a roll of cloth from his coat and opened it to show the Nazi dagger he’d found at Stephen Taylor’s house. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The ultimate symbol of racial purity and perfection. I’ve treasured this for many years and now I’d like you to have it. It’s a gift you can either keep or sell to fund the party.”

Churchill’s eyes widened. “Breathtaking,” he murmured, reverently lifting the black knife. “Yes, these weapons really are quite exquisite, aren’t they, Bernard? This would be worth a small fortune to the right collector.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Quist. “But its symbolic value is worth so much more and I feel you may wish to keep it. As I say, I believe we think alike.”

“I believe we do.” Caressing the SS dagger, Churchill slid out the blade and froze, his smile instantly fading. “Yes,” he said. “I will definitely be keeping this.”

His right hand reached beneath the desk and Quist heard an almost silent click. Human ears wouldn’t have picked up the sound of the hidden alarm button being pressed.