Chapter 4

The town centre of Scarborough covers the rocky promontory beneath the castle, with a deep valley separating this from the neighbouring headland of South Cliff. Rows of elegant Victorian hotels line the South Cliff promenade with the old spa complex and public gardens below. The Spa Bridge, a lofty walkway of ornate iron was constructed in 1827 to connect the two headlands, and Bernard Quist leant on the handrail, smoking a cigarette and peering seventy-five feet down into the bottom of the gorge.

The Grand Hotel stood on the town side to his left, with hundreds of kittiwakes soaring and clamouring noisily around the huge building. Viewing the faces of the hotel as cliffs, these dainty gulls used the countless ledges and baroque ornamentations to sleep and nest. Their shrill cries supposedly sounded like “kitty wake,” but to the guests, especially in the early hours of the morning, it would sound more like an absolute bloody racket. The private detective had arranged to meet his friend Rex Grant here on the bridge at three-thirty. It was easier than meeting at the front entrance as, knowing Rex, he’d probably get the wrong door.

Quist sighed. Knowing Rex, he’d probably get the wrong hotel.

Drawn by the mournful cries of the birds, he turned to gaze at the building. He knew the Grand had been designed around the theme of time, with the domed towers representing the four seasons, twelve floors for the months, 52 chimneys for weeks, and 365 bedrooms for days. There were far fewer rooms now, as many had vanished when internal renovations took place and ensuite bathrooms were added. The bathing habits of modern guests extended to more than a bowl of tepid water and most seemed to prefer the concept of flushing toilets to using a stinking chamber pot under the bed.

Pulling on his cigarette, the detective thought again about his bizarre meeting with the Scarborough clairvoyant earlier. He stared at her distant white cabin on the promenade below and remembered the various mediums he’d encountered over the past three centuries, especially in the years following the first world war. Many had set up business back then, eagerly rubbing their hands and cashing in on the countless bereaved folk who had lost young relatives in the fighting. Only two of the psychics he’d ever met had been genuine and Madame Selene, or Vera Lewis, now brought that total to three.

Vera had clearly known everything about him, but highly dangerous as that could be, he didn’t feel worried in any way. There was an indefinable something about the old woman that told him she’d keep his secret.

A loud squeal of tyres ended his thoughts and momentarily drowned out the sound of the kittiwakes. Quist winced to hear a powerful engine being over-revved and looked past the hotel to see a car hurtle around the corner - a gleaming black supercar, like a Batmobile with a severe eating disorder. The square behind the Grand provided parking for residents and operated a strict speed limit, but the driver of the McLaren MP4 had clearly missed the 10 mph signposts. Tearing in at over forty, he also luckily missed the scattering bystanders and stationary vehicles, to perform a handbrake turn and skid to a sliding halt by the fence. The detective closed his eyes and slowly shook his head as Rex Grant climbed from the car.

“Unbelievable,” murmured Quist, as Rex spotted him on the bridge and cheerfully waved.

As usual, the young man was dressed from head to toe in black and wore mirrored sunglasses that cost the best part of a thousand pounds. His leather jacket and shoes were Gucci and the shirt and jeans had been knocked out by a similar designer for a similar obscene price. The Grant family owned one of Britain’s largest housing construction companies and Rex wisely invested his share of the profits in the lifestyle of a spoilt footballer. Twenty-five years old, with short black hair and movie star looks, the London millionaire was often referred to as an eccentric, shallow playboy. Other people, who had got to know him better, used the word “arsehole.”

There was a time when Quist would never have associated with such a crass idiot, but that was before he’d employed Watson at the detective agency, and before this new assistant coaxed him from his reclusive shell and into the twenty-first century. This was the reason he’d chosen the happy-go-lucky teenager; he’d needed someone youthful, jovial and streetwise to help him integrate more with modern society on every level. The reason he socialised with Rex Grant, however, was that, reckless, chauvinistic and dim as Rex was, Quist felt he had to remain friends and discreetly keep an eye on him. Unfortunately, Quist was now responsible for this young man. Not responsible for him being such a twat, but for his dark supernatural secret.

“Hi there,” said Rex, strolling onto the bridge. He resembled the young Tom Cruise in Top Gun - if Cruise had worn nothing but black and had taken lessons in being pretentious. “So how’s the private eye business going?”

“Consultant detective,” corrected Quist, holding out a hand. “It’s going swimmingly. How are you?”

“Terrific as usual.” Rex shook hands and winked over his sunglasses. “Three girlfriends currently on the go in London, all models, and I’ve just returned from Saint Lucia with one of them. How about you?”

“Oh, pretty much the same, apart from the plethora of young ladies and the Caribbean sojourn.”

“Plethora and sojourn?” Rex grinned. “Yeah, I love the way you speak and that refined English voice. Like I always tell people, you remind me of Chaka Khan.”

Quist stared blankly, unsure of how to reply.

“You know - the suave tiger in Disney’s Jungle Book.”

The detective took a deep breath. “I see you drive a McLaren now,” he said, offering his cigarettes. “When I heard you were replacing your Porsche, I assumed you’d purchase another Ferrari.”

“Not a chance.” Rex took one from the pack. “Ferraris are getting to feel a bit old-fashioned, aren’t they?”

“Really? That must be why most people don’t drive them.”

“Exactly.” He nodded towards the sleek black vehicle. “I wanted something a little more state-of-the-art, and the McLaren is a real beauty. I couldn’t have flown here from London any faster. I have Marilyn Monroe on the satnav and that sexy voice of hers really makes you press the accelerator.”

“Monroe’s voice?” Quist smiled. “She probably recorded it for the satnav company before she died.”

“Well, obviously.”

Rex tended to miss irony. Even if the irony was brightly wrapped and handed to him with IRONY printed on the packaging.

“Have you spoken to your Uncle Rupert yet?” asked Quist. “You mentioned you’d be residing with him on his estate whilst you’re here in Yorkshire.”

“No, I rang to say I’d be staying for a few nights, but I drove straight here from London.” Rex flipped open his Zippo lighter and lit his cigarette. “You were a bit vague on the phone. What’s this problem you want me to help with?”

“I’ll explain shortly.” Quist gestured to the seafront below. “I really have to tell you, I’ve just had the most bizarre conversation with an elderly lady down there on the promenade. She’s one of those fake mediums who operate in seaside towns, but now it seems she’s developed a genuine psychic gift and she’s able...”

“Psychics?” laughed Rex. “I have a psychic aunt, as you probably remember, and most of the models and celebrities I date are forever paying to see those people. It’s like an obsession with them. I always tell them about the time I visited a medium myself. I told her a joke and, when she was giggling at it, I punched her in the face. The thing is, I always like to strike a happy medium.”

The detective sighed. “Are you finished?”

“What? You don’t think that’s funny?”

“This is a serious matter, Rex. The point is, this lady knew about my lycanthropy. She sensed it immediately as I walked past her cabin and, had you been there with me, I have no doubt she’d have known about you too. About how I bit you last year to save your life.”

“Yeah.” Rex grinned and peered over the bridge handrail. “It’s been a while now, but I’m still getting used to the amazing fact that I’m a werewolf. Strange to think that I could jump off this bridge and I’d be okay. How brilliant is that?”

Quist glanced into the gorge. “You’d be quite a mess and the pain would be excruciating, but please...” He gestured to the drop. “If you want to try it, I’d be more than happy to hold your designer jacket and that £20,000 Rolex.”

“No, you know what I mean. I’d survive the fall and the wounds would heal pretty much straight away. Only silver, fire and decapitation can kill us.”

“Very true. Is that why you insist upon driving the way you do?”

“To be honest, I used to drive like that before you bit me.” Rex laughed again. “Hey, come on. You have to admit that being a werewolf is cool and exciting.” He held up his cigarette. “And you get to smoke as many of these as you like without them harming you.”

The detective gave one of his odd lopsided smiles. “You’re still in the honeymoon period, so to speak, and you’re far too enthusiastic about this for my liking. Wait until you have to leave your loved ones and friends behind, change your name and move towns to prevent people from becoming suspicious.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Rex nodded to Madame Selene’s cabin. “So is this the problem you mentioned? This psychic knowing about who you are and what you are?”

“No. It’s difficult to explain why, but I sense I can trust this woman.” Killing his cigarette stub underfoot, Quist headed for the hotel. “Come along. The problem lies this way. I need your assistance here and I’ll explain inside.

Rex gazed up at the big building ahead. “So is this the latest case you’re working on?”

“Not as such. It’s actually something I’ve embarked upon as a favour for Watson, and I asked you to come because it relates to you directly.”

“Me? How do you mean?”

“All in good time,” said Quist. “The White Rose Party is holding a promotional meeting here at the Grand this afternoon.”

“A gardening society?”

“Not quite. As you’re probably aware, the white rose is the emblem of Yorkshire.”

“Yes,” lied Rex. He had no idea.

“White is definitely the appropriate word for this group.” Quist paused on reaching the hotel doorway and lowered his voice. “White Rose is fairly new. They’re a political party based in York that claims to work for the local folk of the county. They campaign for Yorkshire independence, similar to the Scottish campaign, and these meetings are being held to accrue members and to find candidates to stand for them.”

“So what’s the problem?” asked Rex, smoking his cigarette.

“Basically it’s all a front,” said Quist, smiling thinly. “In reality these people are an extremist right wing organisation and fully committed to white supremacy. A smooth character named Dominic Churchill leads them and I recently tracked down one of his party deputies. I managed to accidentally bump into him in a pub and we chatted at length. I heartily agreed with his right wing views and those views became more disturbing and openly racist as the alcohol flowed.”

“Are we talking about braindead skinheads with swastika tattoos?” Rex frowned. “I thought groups like that were outlawed in Britain?”

“Not at all,” said Quist. “This is a free country and the authorities only become involved if an organisation uses terrorism like the National Action group. There are many neo-Nazi groups filled with the kind of morons you’ve just described, but they’re small, easy enough to identify and simple to monitor. The problem is, White Rose is far more intelligent and insidious than the usual cretins and they’re gaining plenty of support. They have numerous candidates in constituencies across the county and they’re exceedingly careful in what they say and how they push the boundaries of intolerance. They only hint at their true colours and their so-called policies are engineered to instil local pride and appeal to the masses. They demand more police on the Yorkshire streets, big changes to the immigration laws, an end to faith schools...”

“Well, I can see how such people would dislike Muslim schools, but aren’t Catholic schools faith schools too?”

“Yes, and many of the nationalities they despise are Catholic. Romanians and lots of East Europeans and some black nations too. White Rose maintains a high media profile by being slightly comical and proposing eccentric ideas to catch the attention of the tabloid press and social media. They want the Yorkshire pudding adopted as Britain’s national dish instead of the foreign chicken Tikka Masala, which is typical of their media tactics.”

“I thought our national dish was roast beef,” said Rex. “Er, or is it fish and chips?”

The detective shook his head. “Britain doesn’t have a national dish. The press, however, have publicised the myth of Tikka Masala since it was voted the most popular dish a few years ago, not the national dish. By the way, it’s a British invention and not foreign, but White Rose never mentions that inconvenient fact.”

“So why are we here?” quizzed Rex. “You say it’s a favour to Watson, but why is he interested in these characters?”

“A friend of his was recently assaulted by them,” said Quist. “I wouldn’t have involved you, but something pertinent has just arisen.”

“Which is?”

“Follow me.” He gave a lopsided smile. “You’ll soon see.”

“We’d better tread lightly.” Rex gave a dry laugh as they walked in. “If these people don’t like foreigners, they probably won’t like werewolves.”

The front doorway of the Grand certainly lived up to the hotel name - an enormous entrance of marble pillars and carvings that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the mausoleum of King Midas. Although the vast lounge inside was pleasant enough, it didn’t live up to the promise of the doorway. Decorative columns and arches supported a painted ceiling with chandeliers, but like so many of these old British hotels, the Victorian grandeur had faded over the decades. Halloween was just three days away and bright orange pumpkins were strewn about the place, with bats and fake black cobwebs hanging from many of the light fittings.

A wide carpeted staircase led off the lounge with more columns, ornate banisters and statues of nymphs - the sort of staircase where brides are filmed by wedding photographers, and drunken guests from the bar hum the Rocky theme as they unsteadily ascend. Rex followed Quist up the steps to the first floor and into the Palm Court, one of the hotel function suites.

With its dance floor and window bays overlooking the sea, the Palm Court could be hired to accommodate christenings, weddings and other large gatherings such as this afternoon’s political event. The room was full, with rows of chairs facing one of the bays where a middle-aged man stood speaking on a small stage. Five men sat behind him and, seeing Craig Battersby, the obnoxious character he’d plied with drink a few nights ago, Quist guessed this was the inner circle of White Rose deputies.

“This is Dominic Churchill,” whispered the detective, heading for two empty chairs at the rear of the assembly. Sitting, he turned to Rex and sighed to find he was still wearing the sunglasses. “It would appear we’ve missed the start of his promotional talk, but if you’ve ever seen any of those old Hitler speeches at Nuremburg, you’ll have some idea of how it probably went.”

Journalists at the front of the crowd listened and occasionally snapped photographs of the party leader on his microphone. Churchill was attractive in a rugged way, clean-shaven, with a thick mass of silvery hair and a dark blue suit. A banner hung above him with one of the party slogans.

YORKSHIRE FOLK SPEAK COMMON SENSE. A VOTE FOR WHITE ROSE IS A VOTE FOR COMMON SENSE.

Rex leant close to Quist’s ear. “I recognise him,” he whispered. “He looks like a younger George Clooney and I’ve seen him in the media with one or two well-known faces.”

“I’m sure you have,” said the detective. “Churchill stands beside any celebrity he can find, especially Yorkshire celebrities. His people take pictures, post them all over social media and release them to the press. All those photographs work on a subliminal level and make it appear as if the famous sportspeople, pop stars and actors are endorsing the party.”

Dominic Churchill paused in his speech to flash an expensive set of dazzling teeth. “Now some have called my views racist,” he said, chuckling. “But that’s the loony left for you, and where’s the racism in common sense? Remember, the White Rose Party only speaks common sense. No one wants to see mosque minarets towering over the beautiful Yorkshire Dales or the Yorkshire Wolds. That isn’t racist, it’s a simple fact. Any right-thinking person would tell you they’d be totally out of place. We all want to see ancient Norman churches and historic chapels.”

One of the cleverer journalists raised a hand. “So have the Muslim community actually said they want to build mosques in the national parks?” he asked.

“It certainly wouldn’t surprise any of us to discover that they had,” said Churchill, deciding this was better than the actual answer which was no. “And that’s another thing; why haven’t the Yorkshire Wolds been given national park status like the Dales and the North York Moors? This is something we’re campaigning for, and a vote for this party will ensure the Wolds are recognised at last. No one else seems to care about our wonderful Yorkshire heritage and that, to me, is a crime.”

“This is how they invariably operate,” murmured Quist. “They constantly plant seeds of hatred - visions of minarets above beauty spots - and then instantly change tactics to work on misty-eyed Yorkshire pride.”

“I’ve told you about my Uncle Rupert and his weird right-wing views,” whispered Rex. “This is the kind of crap he’s always spouting.”

“The Wolds aren’t a priority,” laughed Churchill. “That’s what the other parties say. They aren’t a priority and they don’t have the necessary money, but how much money would it take? They have plenty of money to give to immigrants. To provide every immigrant with a free apartment and a brand new phone, but when it comes to our amazing heritage, to our stunning landscapes and our rich history, that I for one am incredibly proud of...”

“What a dickhead,” whispered Rex.

“Eloquently put,” said Quist, raising his eyebrows. If Rex could see it, how come thousands of others couldn’t? “Yes, it’s all thinly-veiled racism put across in an exceedingly patriotic manner. They constantly strive to paint a picture of old England. A return to the wondrous days of Cider with Rosie and...”

“Shush, you wankers,” hissed a nearby White Rose supporter. “I’m trying to listen.”

“Sorry,” murmured Rex, glancing at the broken nose and the British bulldog tattooed on his large bicep. He turned back to Quist. “To be honest, I can’t believe my Uncle Rupert hasn’t joined this mob. You still haven’t said, what’s this problem that relates to me personally. What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Speaking of money,” said Churchill, beaming widely and holding out a hand. “I’d like to introduce you all to one of our latest financial backers and the new candidate for the Pickering constituency.”

Rex lowered his sunglasses, his eyes widening to see an obese man rise from the crowd. “Oh, you have to be joking?” he muttered, as Uncle Rupert stepped onto the small stage.