Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  “That’s the ticket,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He watched the man with the binoculars. “They were observed boarding at Dublin and the manifest checks out. The vehicle is a five-year-old Ford Sierra 2.9L on Eire plates…” He read out the licence plate number and shrugged. “I guess they’re trying to be inconspicuous with the car choice. It’s old, but not a banger. I guess the engine will be good. Is it more powerful than this?”

  They were in a Ford Mondeo, the Sierra’s successor. Randal shook his head. “No, although we have a smaller engine, we’ve got more horsepower and the motor-pool have breathed some magic on the engine.”

  “And the other cars?”

  “The Rover will struggle a bit, but the motor-pool usually do a good job. The others should be alright,” Randal said convincingly.

  “Good.”

  The prow of the ferry broke through the fog. It was sudden and quite an impressive sight. Gradually, more and more of the vessel revealed itself. The fog-horn sounded as the ferry started to dock. Men in yellow high-visibility vests performed various duties, some with ropes and machinery to engage chains, and others just looking busy.

  Randal put down the binoculars and picked up a Motorola hand-held radio. “Do you want to make the call?”

  Forester shook his head. He had learned when to put his name to something and when to sit back. It was how he had fallen from grace, and how he would climb back.

  “Alpha Lima Two, this is Alpha Bravo One. Sit-rep, over.”

  “Alpha Bravo One, we are in position at the bottom of the ramp. Will report when we get a visual, over.”

  “Alpha Lima Two, have that, out.” Randal put the handset down. “I can’t believe PIRA would try anything with just six days until the peace agreement is signed.”

  “The Det said that the group was a splinter cell. They want to derail the Good Friday Agreement. They are not happy with the terms Sinn Fein have negotiated.”

  “What? Getting all of their prisoners pardoned and released?” He ground his teeth. “It’s alright for you, but I patrolled Ulster in the green army. I lost comrades across the water and now all those fuckers are being released next month! The agreement isn’t bringing our dead soldiers back. Shame the Det couldn’t put bullets in them on the way. Say they attacked them, the murdering bastards.”

  The Det was the undercover wing of 14 Intelligence Company, the British Army’s intelligence corps. It was formally called The Detachment and worked closely with both MI5 and MI6 in Northern Ireland. The team had illegally followed the terrorists through the Republic of Ireland and confirmed them boarding the ferry at Dublin. Now it was being handed over to the Security Service, often referred to as MI5. Operating on UK soil was the department’s remit, with the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6, gathering intelligence overseas.

  “Just murder four Irishmen because of a loose tip-off or because they are acting suspiciously?” Forester smiled. “A little callous, I’d say.”

  “No more than they deserve, I’m sure,” Randal seethed.

  “Well, leave the semantics to me. I’ll figure out what the signs mean. I’ll see what these boyos are up to.”

  Randal took the Browning 9mm pistol out from his jacket pocket and tucked it under his thigh. “That’s better, nice and close. Maybe they’ll give me an excuse.”

  Forester eyed the weapon closely. He never carried a weapon himself. MI5 did not officially have a remit to use weapons, however, when detailing the movements of known terrorists on UK soil, certain operatives could arm themselves to provide security for both their team and members of the public. These officers were assigned under the umbrella of Special Branch liaison and detachment. “You’d kill someone rather than let the courts deal with them?”

  Randal stared at the younger man. He felt a little cornered by the question. He was suddenly wary. Finally, he said, “No, I suppose not.”

  “Alpha Bravo One, this is Alpha Lima Two, status report, over.”

  Randal grabbed the Motorola, thankful for the distraction. “Alpha Bravo One, go ahead, over.”

  “Tangos have disembarked. We are three vehicles behind, over.”

  “Alpha Lima Two, have that, out.”

  “Tell them that’s too close, drop them back a couple of vehicles,” Forester said.

  Randal looked at the younger man and smiled. “And if they lose them, that came from me? I suggest, sunshine…” he said, handing him the handset. “You tell them that yourself.”

  4

  North London

  “What kind of proposition?” Simon Grant watched the road ahead. But he couldn’t help glancing into the mirror to study Holman’s impressive collection of chins.

  Holman turned the wheel sharply left, then right, negotiating the mini-roundabout. He let the wheel settle against his ample stomach. “The kind that makes you rich, son. The kind that makes you rich.”

  Grant studied him. He had put on more weight, if that was possible. His hair had greyed at the sides, perhaps he’d even thinned a little on top. His eyes were the same though, almost black and weasel-like. There was an intensity behind them, a ruthlessness.

  “I’ve heard it before.”

  “No doubt.”

  “From you.”

  Holman tapped the steering wheel. “Haven’t done so badly myself lately.”

  “Nice,” said Grant. “I do six years inside and you get a hundred-grand motor.”

  Holman smiled. “I am grateful; you know?”

  “Do I?” Grant asked. “You never showed up with a cake with a file in it.”

  “I couldn’t go near you!”

  “Or they would have had you.”

  “Exactly,” Holman agreed. “Now, like I said, I am grateful. Your share is waiting, along with a handsome bonus for keeping your trap shut.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “So we’ll go and get it, then you can hear my proposition.”

  “No. I’ll take the cash, but I’m not interested in anything else. I’m going to find Lisa.”

  Holman laughed callously. “Don’t waste your time! She’s moved on mate. She’s got herself a nice businessman, nice house, a dad for her kid…”

  “My kid!” Grant snapped.

  “Yeah, your kid. Jesus wept, what kind of father have you been for six years?”

  “Because of your fucking gunman! Because you went out to bring the car round and never came back! Where did you go?”

  “The filth turned up with sirens and flashing blue lights!” Holman snapped. “Someone must have heard the gunshot and called the police.”

  “So you left me.”

  “I couldn’t get back to the square.”

  Grant shook his head. “What the hell was the bloody shooting about? We could have knocked the security guard out, tied him up. Shit, you could have sat on him!”

  “I see prison hasn’t trimmed your lip any.”

  Grant looked at Holman’s straining gut. “No, just my stomach.”

  “Bitch.” Holman smiled. “I hear little David is calling the bloke Daddy. Of course, he would after six years. How old is he, ten, eleven? Fuck, he won’t remember you then, will he?”

  “You’re a bastard, Frank.”

  “Aye, son. A bastard’s bastard, and no mistake.” Holman slowed the car. They had entered a well-healed, tree-lined street with large houses and expensive vehicles parked along both sides. There were large four by four vehicles taking up two spaces. “Look at this lot,” Holman said. “All the posh mums are driving these fucking farm vehicles now. That one’s a Mercedes with a bloody great five-litre engine like this. BMW are making one next year. BMW making farm equipment! Times are changing. There’s big money about now. You need to hear my proposition, or you’ll just be some shithead with a few grand in his back pocket. A man who can’t get a job because of his criminal record. A man who can’t get a mortgage because the bank won’t lend money to ex-cons.”

  Holman slowed for a school crossing and let a group
of women across. They were well turned out with neutral tones and expensive hair. He carried on through the crossing when they were clear and stopped on the yellow zig-zags the other side. He kept the engine running.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Just watch.”

  Grant did. He saw children in smart school uniforms. Red ties, white shirts and grey blazers. The sign to the school read Avingdon Preparatory School, boys & girls, 4 – 11 years.

  A sporty BMW two seater convertible pulled into a drop-off space. The black roof was up and a boy of about ten stepped out. His mother got out and walked around the bonnet. She hugged him close and handed him his mini-rucksack. The boy turned and walked up the steps.

  “Handsome lad, eh?” Holman grinned. “Don’t know where an ugly shit like you figured. Are you sure he’s yours?”

  Grant stared at the boy as he reached the top of the steps, turned around and waved at his mother. Grant turned his eyes to the woman. She was mid-thirties, slim and attractive. Her auburn hair was cut short in a bob. It revealed her slender neck, bare shoulders glimpsing out from a thin woollen sweater. She was beautiful. But then, she always had been. Her hair had been long and brunette when Grant had last seen her. Brunette was her natural colour, but the red tone suited her. Grant’s stomach seemed to drop through the seat. He reached for the door handle.

  Holman flicked the central locking before he could open the door. “Don’t be a tosser, sunshine.”

  Grant glared at him, pulled the door handle but it would not release. “For Christ’s sake Frank!” he snapped. “Open the fucking door!”

  “Don’t be a twat. Take a look at her. She’s like a bloody model, isn’t she? A bit of money has ironed out the rough edges. No silver Argos jewellery and catalogue clothes for her now. See that car? That’s a BMW Z3. James Bond drove one in the last film, but I doubt you would have seen it in the nick. Private school for your boy, a nice sports car, everything your missus could desire… Could you provide all of that? You should see the house!”

  “So what have you brought me here for?” Grant asked as he watched the tiny sports car drive away. “To rub my nose in it?”

  Holman laughed. He put the gearbox into drive and pulled out. “I wanted to show you what you’ve lost. And I wanted to show you what you could get back.”

  “What?”

  “You have to listen to my proposition first.”

  5

  Wales

  “Keep back! You’re getting too close; they’ll suss us any minute!” Forester snapped. He picked up the handset. “Hello Alpha Lima Two, this is Alpha Bravo One, message, over.”

  “Send, over.”

  “Alpha Lima Two, advance and take point, over.”

  “Alpha Bravo One, wilco, out.”

  Forester turned to Randal. “Right, they’re on point now, anchor up and we’ll leap-frog later.”

  Randal glared in the mirror as he watched the green Rover 600 overtake and take the lead. He slowed the Mondeo down enough for a delivery van to overtake them and pull closer to the Rover.

  They were using the buddy system and along with another vehicle, a blue Peugeot which was driving the anticipated route a mile ahead of the target vehicle, they had enough resources to shadow the target vehicle without becoming suspicious.

  ***

  Ahead of them two more MI5 officers travelling in the Rover were settling into the pace, just on the cusp of the fog. They could see the Sierra’s fog lights and braking lights, but little more.

  “So who are they then?”

  “Top players. An IRA active service unit. Two of them wormed their way out of the Enniskillen bombing. The RUC messed up some evidence and they walked. Another one is a known hitter, a gunman. Wanted for the death of two RUC officers and a solider in the Parachute Regiment. Not sure who else is in the vehicle. The Det haven’t filed a completed report yet.”

  “I can’t believe they were so blatant,” the man said. “Just hopping on the ferry like that.”

  “They couldn’t lose,” Mary Vaughan said, running a hand through her jet black mane. She studied her vanity mirror, but not for her stunning looks, she needed to keep tabs on the vehicle behind. The white delivery van was so close to their bumper, but at least it shielded Forester and Randal in the Ford. “They knew we wouldn’t be able to resist. They must have known that someone would pick them up. Perhaps they have a plan to get rid of us along the way.”

  “That’s worrying,” Davis said quietly.

  “We’ve got weapons,” she said calmly. “Perhaps they just think they can lose us. Or maybe with just six days to go until the peace agreement is signed, they feel empowered. If we act too fast and have no evidence or proof, then we could de-rail the Good Friday Agreement. They are all on the list anyway. Every man in that car is free, in a manner of speaking, after Friday. What are we going to do, arrest them now? No. They’re up to something and we need to know what.”

  “And they know it too,” Davis said. “The bastards.”

  6

  North London

  Simon Grant stared at the house in genuine admiration. “You’ve come a long way, Frank,” he said, then glanced across at Holman, who was smiling a little smugly at the compliment.

  The house was clearly of late Georgian architecture. Big, square and of uncompromisingly bold design, it suited the large man perfectly. It stood four storeys high, with a thick belt of ivy taking over the whole left side. “Got a home in south-west France as well now. I go down a few times a year. That way I can bring a shed-load of wine back. I might even be buying into a vineyard down there. Near Bordeaux.”

  “Funny, last time I saw you, you didn’t know the difference between a fine wine or a bottle of Blue Nun.”

  “A lot of things have changed.”

  The Mercedes swept into the entrance over the loose gravel driveway and glided to a halt next to a new Porsche sports car. It was a little two-seater with a canvas roof and looked similar at both ends. Grant studied it, but did not recognise the model. Another reminder of how great swathes of life moved on when you were inside for more than half a decade.

  “Eileen’s.” Holman stated flatly. “I can’t get rid of the bitch, so I might just as well keep her quiet.”

  Eileen and Frank Holman had a marriage of pure convenience, but the convenience was entirely Eileen’s. The marriage had been a sham from day one. A peroxide blonde, twelve years his junior. She had been thirty-five when they had married, and had become his wife under the pretence of being pregnant. Money had been her only motivation from the start, and as no evidence of a baby ever appeared, Eileen had made it clear that it would be considerably cheaper for Holman to keep her in the manner to which she had now become accustomed than to let her go. She knew all of her husband’s business deals and associates, so it would certainly not pay for him to even consider seeking a divorce. She was happy to live a separate, parasitic existence within Frank Holman’s life, and he made only two stipulations: she would have to accompany him to public gatherings to maintain the charade, and neither would bring a partner back to the house. Above all, Frank Holman could never afford to lose face in public.

  Frank Holman could live with it. And in truth, he had grown accustomed to their estranged life. He preferred to use his bed for sleep, and whenever he felt the urges he could not satiate with Eileen, even with one of their rare consolidations where they seemed to forget they hated one another, he would visit one of the three brothels where he held a financial stake, and collect a freebie. That not only offered more variety, but he was aware he would probably never have found a woman who would have attempted to partake in his particular sexual perversions. Not one outside the world of prostitution at least.

  Grant opened the Mercedes, swung his feet out onto the thick bed of gravel, and stared up at the impressive-looking building. He could not help being surprised by the extent of Frank Holman’s financial progress during the six-years that he had spent in prison. Sure, Holman had always b
een financially secure and had always had his fair share of investments, though never the sort to be found on the FTSE 100. But this? The house was worth over a million in this postcode, the Mercedes S600 was worth well over one hundred-thousand pounds, which was around half the value of Holman’s previous home.

  “I can see what you’re wondering sonny,” Holman paused. “How in God’s name did old Franky-boy make good?” He grinned. “Watch this,” he said, stepping away from the car. He pushed the door shut, then grinned as the door eased itself closed on soft-closing electric hinges and the wing mirrors slowly folded flush to the door automatically. “Not your everyday motor, is it? Come on, let’s go inside and we can talk a little more about my proposition.”

  Grant shook his head. “No thanks, Frank. Just get my money and I’ll be on my way. I don’t mean to be rude or ungrateful, but I need to go straight.”

  Holman waddled around the rear of the huge car and stared at him coldly. “What for, sunshine? For Lisa? For little David? Do me a favour! They don’t want you, that’s for damned sure!” Holman stared at him, his face hard, his eyes cold and merciless. Grant opened his mouth to protest, but was cut down by another vicious tongue-lashing. “Wake up shithead! She’s with another man! A nice, sensible, successful man. Nice house, nice car, nice possessions. Better than you ever gave her, that’s for sure,” he paused. “How long did she visit you for? Five, maybe six months? Then she slipped between another man’s sheets, while he slipped between her legs. Wake yourself up and forget about her.” Holman’s face was hard and cold again, his lightning changes of expression were becoming unnerving. “What were you going to do? Go round there with thirty-grand in your pocket, the rags you’re standing in, and try to win her heart back? Get real, thirty- grand barely buys you one of those!” He waved a hand towards the Porsche and laughed. “One of those and a couple of cheap suits!”

  Grant cast his eyes to the ground. He had known before the sentencing, known that it had been the last straw, that he would lose her forever. She had reached the end of her tether long before he did what was meant to have been his last job, long before he had been caught. She had given him enough warnings and had told him that if he didn’t give up his life of crime and the company he kept, then she would leave him. Grant had never realised that she had really meant those words, not until it was too late.