Chapter 6

The time was almost five o’clock, the late October sun had set over Scarborough and the seaside resort basked in deep twilight. Flocks of starlings whirred past the Grand Hotel, their nasal screams combining with the yelping kittiwakes to create a deafening cacophony. Quist decided the racket was far preferable to the insidious garbage he’d been listening to inside the building. The White Rose Party was finishing their meeting in the Palm Court, but Rex and the detective had slipped out before the end.

Standing by his friend’s black McLaren in the parking area, Quist lit a cigarette and offered the pack to the young man, who took one and used his own lighter. The detective noticed he was still using the shiny steel Zippo with the wolf’s head engraving. He rolled his eyes. Yes, Rex definitely looked upon the lycanthropy as being cool and exciting, which had always worried him.

“Well...” said Rex, looking up at the hotel over his sunglasses. “I don’t know about you, but after that meeting I could use a shower.”

“Absolutely, and perhaps a scrub with bleach,” agreed Quist. “Did you notice how Churchill kept repeating common sense and White Rose? It’s a fairly standard psychological technique to have listeners associate the two. Mention something often enough and many people will actually accept it as truth. It’s similar to the gutter tabloids printing: “I’m not gay, claims Michael Wilson”. The simpler readers invariably assume there’s no smoke without fire and believe the person mentioned is gay, even though the entire story is attributed to a nameless source and is invented.”

“Who’s Michael Wilson?” asked Rex.

“Well, no one, obviously. It’s just a name I plucked from nowhere to illustrate my point.”

“Oh, right.” The young man gave a puzzled frown. “So is he gay?”

Quist stared for a moment. Like many young people born into vast wealth, Rex wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. “I believe so,” he said. “Michael has great hair and dress sense.”

“This bunch would hate him.” Rex scowled at the hotel. “I wouldn’t mind betting they want to make homosexuality illegal again. You say one of them punched Watson’s friend?”

The detective nodded. “A young lady named Sara Hoffman. Her grandfather wrote letters to various local newspapers voicing his concerns about the organisation’s closet racism. Two people were sent to rough him up and threaten him into silence. He wasn’t home, so they assaulted his granddaughter instead.”

“Incredible.” Rex shook his head. “And my uncle actually intends to finance this bunch of morons.”

“I told you how I plied that party deputy with drink last week,” said Quist. “Craig Battersby is his name. He became rather inebriated, we had a good old racist chat and he revealed far more information than he should have. Apparently, Churchill employs a small group to do his dirty work, four hardened thugs whom he refers to as his Task Force. They have no links to White Rose and he uses them to intimidate anyone who speaks out publicly against the party. In their spare time they vandalise foreign businesses and generally create racial tension, which Churchill then has the audacity to condemn in the media and loudly blame on the lack of police. He says immigrants are a huge problem, but the problem shouldn’t be settled with violence.”

“He’s a real beauty, isn’t he?” Rex sucked angrily on his cigarette. “So you’re clearly planning to do something about this?”

“Absolutely. I intend to expose White Rose as neo-Nazis and finish them. They’ve recently been increasing their advertising campaigns and boosting their media profile with these promotional meetings, their objective being to recruit candidates in every area before they begin campaigning in the by-elections. They’re in Harrogate tonight and then Selby, Thirsk, Wakefield and Whitby later this week. All this takes large amounts of money, they’ve overstretched themselves and Battersby claims they desperately need Rupert Grant’s cash injection. That’s why I asked for your assistance; your task is to somehow persuade your uncle to see sense and to cancel his funding.”

“No problem,” nodded Rex. “Don’t worry, I’ll soon get him to change his mind.”

“It may be more problematic than you envisage. From what you’ve told me, he isn’t the most open-minded person.”

“Hey, this is me you’re talking to, remember? I have amazing people skills and a rather sexy silver tongue.”

“Er, yes.” Quist raised his eyebrows, but didn’t argue. “With your Uncle Rupert out of the picture, I’ll then pose as a candidate and financial backer myself, gain Churchill’s trust and obtain recordings of him revealing his true self.”

“Brilliant.” Rex grinned. “And hopefully a nice photograph of him playing with himself as he reads Mein Kampf.”