When he was sure the man had lost consciousness, Blake checked for a pulse. It was weak, but steady. He'd be out for the count for a while, but shouldn't suffer any lasting effects. Blake found a length of vine coiling across the damp woodland carpet and used it to tie the scout's wrists and ankles. Then he dragged the body deeper into the wood and hid it under a cover of fallen branches and leaves.
Proctor and Clark were still on their knees when he returned, the robed figure gesticulating with expansive gestures above their heads, like a high priest in a weird cult, speaking words in a low monotone that Blake couldn't catch. Needing to move closer to hear what was being said, he darted away to his right on a circuitous route away from the farmhouse bringing him to a copse on the northern edge of the site. He broke the cover of the trees, and sprinted across open ground towards the barn, aiming for a section where the wall had collapsed, leaving a hole large enough to drive a car through. He clambered over the fallen rubble, and stumbled inside.
He picked his way over the remains of a few hay bales, past a rusting red tractor with cracked and deflated tyres, and towards a low window in the wall that overlooked the farmhouse. A wooden shutter hung loose from its hinges, leaving a gap that allowed Blake a perfect view of the courtyard, allowing him to examine in detail the elaborate robes the priest figure was wearing.
The material had been beautifully embroidered with gold trim and swirling emblems. But one symbol stood out, prominent on the front of the gown. A symbol that Blake had seen before. It looked like the letter 'P' dissected horizontally, but crafted with spiralling flourishes and curls. It was the same symbol that had been branded on Proctor's chest. The symbol of the Phineas Priests.
The priest's voice rose to a crescendo as he placed a hand on the men's heads, and urged them to stand. As they rose, he took the edges of his hood and pulled it back, letting it fall over his shoulders.
From inside the barn, Blake had a clear view of his face bathed in the bright light of the van's headlights. The wide grin and rich-man's tan. The black hair peppered with grey.
Ken Longhurst extended his arm and shook each man warmly by the hand.
Chapter 9
Trent Garside rubbed the sensation back into his fingers, and continued to study the computer screen. It was so cold in his flat that he'd contemplated heading for a nearby café, until he'd considered the bitter wind and drizzle outside. Now his back was aching from leaning over the low coffee table where he'd set up his laptop, and he was becoming increasingly frustrated with the lack of progress in his investigation.
The internet was choked with information about every conceivable subject apart from the one that gripped his interest. Various articles widely documented that Ken Longhurst was a former businessman turned politician, and there was plenty about the BFA's humble beginnings in the 1980s when it had been set up with the explicit aim of repatriating Britain's immigrant population. But there was next to nothing of significance on Longhurst's life before the BFA. And the less Trent found, the more intrigued he became. If the party was being bankrolled by an anonymous benefactor, he was sure Longhurst's past would hold the key.
He sipped at a mug of strong, black coffee and returned to the entry for the British Freedom Alliance in an online encyclopaedia, hoping to discover something he'd missed first time around. He pored over every line, and double-checked each reference, but drew the same blank. Finally, he decided to try revising his search.
He typed "Ken Longhurst BFA businessman" into a search engine, which returned more than three million results in less than a second. Most of the entries were articles he'd already read, but on the third, he discovered an article from a local newspaper he'd not previously seen.
He smiled when he saw the byline. His old friend and colleague, Pete French, the chief reporter at the Newham Gazette. It was a position Trent imagined he'd hold until they carried his lifeless body to the grave. Trent skimmed the story without much hope or expectation. It was a human-interest feature about local characters. A fairly dry and predictable filler piece with a large picture of a suited and grinning Longhurst.
Trent made it halfway through the article, and was about to give up on it when he found a reference that caught his eye. It was a small, almost insignificant nugget of information, but nonetheless something new. A crumb of a lead.
He found Pete's number in his phone, and dialled. The call was answered after two rings.
'Trent, what's up? Still obsessing with the BFA?'
'It's called research, Pete. I'll give you a lesson one day.' He fell back into the soft cushions, and ran a hand over his tired eyes. 'But to be honest I'm struggling. There're so many question marks over the BFA, I can't even begin to fathom out the answers.'
'What do you need to know, other than they're just a bunch of racist fanatics? That's it.'
Trent could hear the familiar background hubbub of his old newsroom. A mixture of chat, ringing phones, and the clatter of computer keyboards.
'A bunch of racist fanatics who happen to be snatching power across the country. Listen, until Longhurst came along I'd have agreed with you. They weren't worth bothering about. But they've got cash now, and they're gaining quite a following. I'm seriously worried about this country. Before you know it, we'll have sleepwalked into the BFA having become the acceptable face of modern politics. Doesn't it worry you?'
'It's clever marketing, that's all. A new logo and a poster campaign have given them a bit of a boost. It'll blow over. It always does.'
The BFA's marketing strategy had begun with a rebrand, which included the toning down of its traditional demand for the repatriation of immigrants, although it remained in the small print of its manifesto. Longhurst had then cleverly focussed attention on the country's deepening economic crisis, repeatedly taking a stand on the government's failure to tackle rising socio-economic problems, and sidestepping awkward questions about the BFA's own questionable policies.
'I don't know, Pete. This thing’s building momentum.'
'Longhurst's a charismatic guy. People like him. He tells them what they want to hear, and he speaks his mind. That makes him different and appealing. Plus he has a top-notch comms team. People will lose interest though. They'll see through him.'
'You know they're still committed to removing all non-whites from Britain? And even Longhurst talks about the dark spectre of Islamic extremism. I want to dig deeper, Pete. I want to find out what's really going on inside the belly of the beast.'
'Well, be careful, Trent. I don't want to be writing your obituary. You know what they'll do if they find you poking about.'
The BFA retained a firm of hotshot city lawyers poised to launch legal proceedings against any journalist who claimed the party was racist. A number of newspapers that had made such insinuations had already been forced to pay undisclosed sums of damages when they discovered the burden of proof was against them. But as Trent had found, obtaining evidence to prove such allegations was beyond difficult. Party gatherings were held in secret, and policed by hired muscle. Trent knew of at least two journalists who had infiltrated the BFA, but were exposed before obtaining any usable material. One was still learning to walk again, after what Michael Keyes later described as a 'regrettable accident'. The other had been beaten and hospitalised after being unmasked.
'Thanks for the concern,' said Trent.
'I mean it. Now was there a reason for the call?'
'I want to find out who's putting up the cash. I found an old interview you did with Longhurst a while back.' Trent ran a finger across the computer screen and read out the date of the article. 'You mention something about a failed used-car business that Longhurst ran. Don't suppose he mentioned the name of it by any chance?'
'Maybe. I can't remember. Hang on, let me look my notes out.'
Trent remembered that Pete French kept his old notebooks in a cardboard box under his desk, dated in bold black pen.
'Here you go,' said Pete, his voice muffled as if he was holdi
ng the phone under his chin while he flicked through his old shorthand notes. 'It was called Diamond. He said he ran it with a partner, but wouldn't elaborate. He didn't want to talk about it as I remember, so we moved on.'
'Any inkling who this business partner might have been?'
'Sorry, he wouldn't say.'
'Where were they based?'
'Somewhere local I think. Why? Do you think it's relevant?'
'It might be, but at the moment it's the only lead I've got.'
'Trent, sorry I've got to go. I've got another call coming in. Let's speak soon, and please be careful. I mean it.'
'Thanks, Pete. I owe you a beer.'
Trent hung up and dropped the phone on the sofa. He rolled his neck to stretch out his muscles and dived back into the computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard with a new found energy. A lead at last. He knew he could rely on Pete.
Chapter 10
Trent Garside studied the dozen skeletal figures lined up in vinyl-covered armchairs around the edge of the lounge. Each one a shadow of their former selves, living out their days waiting for the inevitable cold hand of death. God's waiting room, he thought. He stood with a milky tea in a chipped, porcelain cup, and was reminded of his mother's slow deterioration in a home not unlike Sunny Bank. It was the smell that brought back the worst memories. A peculiar combination of stale urine and biscuits. The fragrance of the Grim Reaper lurking.
An old television set was blasting out in the corner, the volume set so loud the speakers were distorting. Above the din came the clatter of dishes from another part of the building, as staff prepared lunch for the residents.
A nursing assistant who'd met Trent when he'd arrived, and who looked barely old enough to be out of school, appeared with an elderly man shuffling on a walking frame.
'Here you go, Bob,' she said.
'Mr Longhurst?' said Trent, as the old man slumped into a chair, his mop of white hair carefully combed into place, apart from a rogue tuft that stubbornly stood on end at the back of his head. 'My name's Trent Garside. I'm a journalist.'
'Sit down, sit down,' he instructed, with a wave of a hand speckled with liver spots.
'I wanted to talk to you about your son. I'm writing a piece about his success. They say he could eventually win a seat in the House of Commons,' said Trent, finding he was shouting to be heard over the noise of the television.
Ken Longhurst's father nodded sagely. 'Yes,' he said. 'His mother and I are very proud of him.'
Trent had discovered Ken Longhurst's mother had died from cancer more than eight years previously, but let the comment go. They'd lived for more than thirty years in a prim semi-detached house in Croydon, but when Trent had visited he'd found the house empty and the garden overgrown. A neighbour had told him that Bob Longhurst had been moved into a care home and scribbled its name on a scrap of paper. Trent wasted no time in arranging a visit. It was a shot in the dark but he hoped the old man might be able to reveal a few untold secrets about his son.
'Can you remember what he was like as a child?' Trent raised his pen to his notepad in expectation of a coherent answer.
'He was a good boy. Gave his mum and me the run around sometimes, but that's children, isn't it?' The man laughed and induced a phlegmy coughing fit. 'Now what was your name again?'
'It's Trent, Mr Longhurst.'
'I've not met anyone called Trent before. Is it foreign?'
'No. My mother just had a strange taste in names.'
'And who are you working for?'
'I'm a freelancer, but if I can get the information I need, I'm hoping to persuade one of the national newspapers to take the story.'
'I see,' Bob Longhurst replied, but Trent wasn't sure that he did.
'Does Ken have any brothers or sisters?'
'No, he was an only child. We couldn't have any more even though we'd have liked a brother or sister for him.'
'And where did he get his interest in politics, Mr Longhurst? From you?'
'I can't bear politics. Bloody politicians are all the same aren't they? Can't be trusted.'
Trent smirked at the irony. 'From where then?'
'He's always had a way with words, even at school. He managed to get all the bigger boys on his side when he was being bullied, and they looked out for him. I suppose he had a natural talent for these things.'
'I see.' Trent continued to scribble shorthand notes. 'And before he went into politics he was a successful businessman. I think he had a used-car company.'
'Well, he made a mess of that, didn't he? But I blame that so-called business partner of his. He took everything my boy had worked hard for.'
Trent raised an eyebrow. 'Remind me of the name of that business partner.'
'Samson. Gary Samson. How could I ever forget after what he did. Don't know why Ken ever got involved with the man. He was trouble from the start.'
Trent waited for the old man to continue, but his attention had been drawn to a quiz show that had started on the television.
'Henry the Fourth!' Bob Longhurst yelled across the room.
'But he recovered, didn't he, Mr Longhurst? I mean, he's a rich man now.'
'What? No, he hasn't got any money. You don't think he'd leave me in here if he was rich?' Bob Longhurst nudged Trent's arm, and laughed a throaty laugh.
'So how's he affording the Bentley? The big house? The expensive suits?'
Bob Longhurst laughed again. 'Mr Garside, I might be old, but I'm not going to fall for that one. Ken might have a heart of gold, but that's about it!' The laugh turned into another spluttering cough.
Trent rested his pen on his pad and frowned. 'Yes, I must be thinking about someone else.'
The smell of boiled cabbage wafted through the room, and some of the residents began to rise unsteadily from their seats and tramp out.
'Lunch time,' said Mr Longhurst. 'Are you staying to eat?'
'What? No. Thank you but I can't.'
'Right-o. Well, very nice talking with you, and good luck with the article.' Bob Longhurst dragged his walking frame close to his chair, and pulled himself up. 'I hope I've been some help,' he said, as he joined the slow-moving exodus.
'Yes, thank you, Mr Longhurst. It's been very enlightening.'
Chapter 11
Gary Samson was hunched over a copy of the Racing Post on a stool beneath a bank of television screens. He didn't seem to notice Trent Garside appear in the doorway. Neither did the only two other people in the bookmaker's; a thin, grey man in tracksuit trousers and a scruffy bomber jacket watching a race, and a bored-looking cashier flicking through a magazine behind a glass security screen.
Trent sauntered up to the counter and spoke through the glass. 'I'm looking for someone. I wondered if you could help?'
The cashier looked Trent up and down. Tiny arteries had fractured under her skin leaving unsightly blotches on her cheeks. 'Depends,' she said, pulling a thin cardigan around her shoulders.
'His name's Gary Samson. I was told he comes in sometimes.'
The cashier nodded towards a man with thinning, blond hair huddled over his racing paper and returned to her reading material.
'Thanks,' said Trent.
He took a stool next to Samson, and grabbed a betting slip and stubby blue pen from a Perspex box. 'Any good tips?'
'What?'
The belt straps from Samson's dirty, cream raincoat dangled against his leg.
'I wondered if you had any good racing tips?' Trent nodded at Samson's newspaper where he'd highlighted races and horses in swirling black ink.
'No, not really.'
'Come on, you must have one you can share,' said Trent.
'Who are you?'
'The name's Garside. Trent Garside,' he announced, presenting his hand. 'You're Gary Samson, right?'
'Do I know you?'
'I wanted to talk about Ken Longhurst. I'm trying to find out some information about him, well, about the British Freedom Alliance really. I think you know him - or at least
you did.'
Samson's face darkened. He banged his palms on the counter and eased off his stool. Trent followed as he approached the cashier, betting slip in hand.
'I've no idea what you're talking about.'
'I think you do,' said Trent. 'You were in business with him. You ran Diamond Cars together. What happened, Gary? I need to know what went wrong.'
Samson passed his betting slip with a wedge of notes under the security screen.
'Fifty quid on Modern Romance in the three-thirty?' said the cashier, counting out the cash.
'Please, Jean.' Trent watched over Samson's shoulder. 'Are you the filth?'
'I'm a journalist. I'm writing a piece about Ken Longhurst's rise to power in the BFA and, more to the point, where the party's getting its money. And I have a feeling you might be able to help,' said Trent.
Samson turned from the counter and put himself toe-to-toe with the reporter, their faces inches apart. Trent forced himself to hold his ground, determined not to crumble under the test of nerves.
'Okay. But not here.' Samson brushed past Trent's shoulder and headed for the door. He threw it open, and lumbered out onto the street with Trent following a few paces behind.
He led the reporter to a nearby park, found an empty bench overlooking a boating lake, and the two men sat at opposite ends.
'First things first, I want assurances my name's kept out of this,' said Samson, wrapping his coat around his chest.
'Of course. It goes without saying. I take the protection of my sources extremely seriously.'
Samson nodded. 'Stitch me up and I'll come after you. Clear?' There was a menace in his tone that left Trent in little doubt that he meant the threat.
'You absolutely have my word. But I'm coming up against the proverbial brick wall on this Longhurst backgrounder. I need someone who knows him.'
Samson snorted. 'He's a man who's got a lot to hide. What do you want to know?'
'Let's start with how you met.'
'We've known each other since we were knee high to grasshoppers at school. We always used to hang around together, right through to when we went to the same comprehensive. It was always us bunking off to smoke fags around the back alley and chasing the same girls.'