Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  Grant returned unsteadily to his chair and flopped down, still rubbing his chest. He reached for the remnants of brandy and took a sip, before replacing the glass on the table. It was getting late. He hadn’t eaten and the brandy was taking effect.

  Holman walked towards the door, then looked sombrely back at his old friend. “It’s two-million, Simon. More money than you could ever dream of. A few days planning, a few hours’ work, and a lifetime spending,” he paused. “If you’re interested, you can take the bedroom at the top of the stairs and we’ll talk some more in the morning. If not, then drink up and get the fuck out of my house.” He walked through the open doorway and closed the door silently behind him.

  Simon Grant stared at the glass on the table beside him. He took shallow breaths, his chest still aching from the savage, unexpected blow. The man had caught him completely off guard. Frank Holman was certainly not a man to underestimate. In all the years he had known him, this was the first time they had come to blows. He closed his eyes. The warmth of the central heating and the comfort of the soft leather chair, combined with the alcohol, none of which had he been accustomed to for so long, started to influence his senses. Soon he was peacefully asleep, unable to wake from his familiar dream, as Lisa reached back for the headboard, arched her back and accepted her new man, the man whose face Grant could never see.

  ***

  “We could force them off the road, take the bastards out and end it now!” Randle snapped. “We’d be justified! They’ve killed one of our colleagues! We could force their hand, take them out!”

  “What, murder them? Take retribution for Mary?” Forester shook his head despondently. “Just keep calm, for Christ’s sake. Mary was a good friend of mine as well. Keep your distance and wait for control to respond. Until the police get the CCTV footage, we can’t be sure they were even involved. There will also be a bigger picture to consider. If they are intending to target something over here, it could kill hundreds of people. We need to retain an eyes-on and learn more.”

  After the four Irishmen had left the services and Mary Vaughan had not returned to her vehicle, the two men had received a curt message from Davis for them to follow the target vehicle. Four miles down the motorway, almost out of the hand-held Motorola’s range, they had heard Davis give Control the news of Mary Vaughan’s gruesome death. Both men had been aware that Davis had been greatly distressed, possibly sobbing; yet neither man had commented about it. No doubt they would both shed a tear or two for their team-mate as they tried to sleep in the early hours.

  “Hello Alpha Bravo One, this is Control, message, over.”

  “Alpha Bravo One, send, over.”

  “Control, stay with target vehicle for now. Replacement vehicle will relieve you at the junction for Reading Over.”

  “No way, we’re staying…”

  Forester snatched the handset from the man’s clasp, fumbled with the pressel switch and started to speak. “Alpha Bravo One, static interference, all is correct now, understood. Will be relieved at junction eleven, Luton. Wilco, out.” He turned towards Randle as he returned the handset to the centre console. “How you made it this far in Five is beyond me. No wonder the police kicked you out.”

  ***

  “Is he in?”

  “I would think so; he hasn’t left just yet.”

  “Make sure that you get him, Holman. Nothing more can go ahead without him. If he declines, then up the offer as you see fit.”

  “No, he’ll be happy with two. He’s out to impress. He’ll agree to it in the morning.”

  “Still wants her then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well, but I’ll sort out an insurance policy, just in case.”

  “Well, whatever needs to be done. I’ll keep you informed from this end, I’m going to check on him now, I’ll see you soon…” Holman heard the click of the receiver being replaced, which always infuriated him. The other man always broke the conversation in that manner; one day he would do the same to him. He replaced the receiver and walked back down the staircase, crossed the hall and gently opened the lounge door. As he peered inside he could see Simon Grant sleeping. The man was slumped in the comfortable leather armchair, his head resting on the silk cushion. Quiet, warmth and too many brandies. Holman knew he would be out for a while, and he wouldn’t wake and leave in the middle of the night. He had nowhere to go, and then he’d be thinking about the money. In the cold light of day, the money would speak to him. Quietly, Holman pulled the door to and headed for his study. There was more brandy in there, and there were the plans. The plans needed fine-tuning, but they were sound. Simon Grant would help bring the plan closer to fruition, as long as he agreed. And Holman knew he would. It simply depended on how much leverage was needed.

  9

  “What the bloody hell was all that about?” Alex King shook his head in bewilderment then replaced the tiny earpiece, and looked down at his scribbled transcript of the telephone conversation. “And who the bloody hell is this Holman guy?”

  “No idea.”

  “O’Shea said to up the offer, then this guy Holman says that he’s sure that he’ll be happy with two,” he paused and looked across at his liaison officer. “Two what? Two-thousand, two-million?”

  “Beyond me, old chap. It might as well be two lumps of sugar in his bloody tea, for all I know.” Ian Forsyth lit another cigarette and expelled a smoky sigh. “It’s traced to a St. Albans telephone number, no name, but I can soon sort that out.”

  “I don’t like it. Especially the bit about an insurance policy, sounds a bit dodgy to me,” King paused, stood up and paced over to the window. “Danny Neeson, O’Shea’s driver, he’s more than he seems isn’t he?”

  Forsyth smiled wryly. “Oh, Danny-boy is his bloody right-hand man, his bodyguard as well. Had the front to come across the water and train with an established close protection agency. The ironic thing is the agency was run by British ex-special forces.” He inhaled another lung-full of smoke, then rested his head against the chair and blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling. “Ex-SAS soldiers actually trained an IRA terrorist in the art and craft of close protection and anti-terrorism.” He chuckled and looked back at him. “Danny’s not just our chap’s right-hand man, he’s a top player in his own right. He killed three of your lot at Crossmaglen security base. Used an old Soviet-stock mortar.”

  King frowned. “My lot?”

  “Yes, you know, soldier johnnies,” he paused, a little ponderously. “Marines I think.”

  King stared at the MI6 officer in bewilderment. Forsyth was outfitted like the archetypal sixties British spy. Double-breasted, pinstriped suit, trench coat and trilby hat. He also spoke with not one, but a whole bag of plums in his mouth. “I’m not a soldier. I work for MI6, but was seconded to the SAS for field experience.”

  “Private soldier then.”

  “I’m not for hire.”

  “Not yet, old boy, not yet. You’re a blunt instrument for the service. We refer to you lot as soldiers. And that’s the same, as the marines or green army,” he paused, exhaling a thin plume of cigarette smoke. “You all get a little muddy and bloody, from time to time.”

  10

  It was a powerful kick. Not a tap, nor a half-hearted shunt, but a kick of sheer, unimaginable, pent-up aggression. The quick run had helped. Three paces, a quick shuffle and then, side of the foot and in for the kill.

  Then came the sudden realisation of what he had done.

  The boy watched the ball, studying its trajectory, the gradual curve, and then the sudden deviation, which could only spell inevitable disaster. There was no way that it would make the makeshift goal, not even the post, not even close. The guttering gave way upon impact, crashing to the ground as the ball continued on its path of destruction and bounced to the conservatory roof, cracking the glass into a spider’s web, then turning at an acute angle and rattling against the two metal dustbins.

  “David!”

  The boy looked up, star
tled, and then horrified that the shout had come so quickly after the event. He turned his attention back to the ball, which now rolled across the neatly kept lawn, and halted, somewhat incriminatingly, at his feet.

  “Are you deaf, boy?”

  The boy looked at the fearsome expression on the man’s face, as he strode across the neatly cut lawn towards him. He started to tremble at the thought of what might be coming. “No, sir.”

  “Then come here.” The voice was calm and patient, yet the eyes seemed to scream at him, agonisingly loud, threatening to shatter his eardrums.

  The boy walked forward hesitantly. He knew the tone - frighteningly calm, but devastatingly deceiving. He stood before him, head bowed, eyes staring hopelessly at the ground. The man reached out and gently touched his face, stroking the boy’s cheek as lightly as a caress with a pinch of down. He stared up at the smiling man, then cringed as he noticed the expression change. Slowly at first, then abruptly, glaring hatefully at him, as if he wanted the boy dead. He gripped hard, fastening his hold on the boy’s soft, puppyish skin, then twisting, spitefully so, until tears started to well in the young eyes.

  “What have I told you about playing in the garden with that bloody ball?” He stared at the boy then clenched his teeth as he squeezed with all his might. “Play! Play! Play! That’s all you ever do! Have you done your homework? No, of course you haven’t!”

  The boy sobbed, the tone threatening to burst into a tearful wail at any moment. He looked up at the man pleadingly. “I don’t have any home...”

  “Don’t bloody interrupt me!” He released his grip on the boy’s soft cheek, only to catch and twist his earlobe. Earlobes were better. They turned red, but they didn’t leave a bruise. The man knew which parts of the body bruised and which parts concealed the evidence of violence. He twisted, and the sob instantly became a wail, as a searing stab of pain ripped through the soft skin of the lobe, and all his imagination focused on whether the ear was about to rip clean from his head.

  “God, you’re so soft, so bloody weak!” The man shook his head disdainfully, then released his grip and swiped his hand across the boy’s cheek, catching him with the back of his knuckles, sending him to his knees. “If somebody doesn’t sort you out now, then you’ll grow up to be a loser! Do you want that?”

  The boy held his flaming cheek and blinked through the salty intrusion of tears. “No, Sir,” he replied meekly. He knew what would come next, and it would hurt, it always did. He wished it wouldn’t, yet something inside told him that it was worse than any physical pain that the man could ever inflict. More than his cheek, more than the stretched ear, more than the spiteful dig in the ribs he received every single morning before breakfast.

  The man looked at him in disgusted pity and shook his head. “A loser,” he paused. “A loser, just like your pathetic father.”

  ***

  Grant opened his eyes, slowly at first, feeling a little groggy. He was not used to the dry heat from the radiators, or the brandy, which now reminded him of its presence by fuelling the headache that was threatening to beat his brain into a gelatinous pulp. He eased himself out of the deep leather chair then felt the sudden rush of blood surge through his body and leap into his brain. He wobbled slightly but regained his balance as his head gradually began to acknowledge the feeling and compensate. He blinked several times, and gently rubbed his tired eyes.

  His first hangover in six years, and already he was promising that it would be his last. He sniffed the air, the unmistakable aroma only noticeable now that he had started his slow progress to recovery. He turned towards the door, sniffing the air and following his nose.

  Frank Holman stood at the stove, looking almost comical in a plastic apron with the strings fastened loosely across his back. Last night the man had swilled his brandy as if to the manor born, now he wore a plastic apron with Kiss the Cook emblazoned across the front. Frank Holman had never presented a balanced persona.

  Simon Grant declined the written instruction and made his way unsteadily across the kitchen, perching himself against the side of the large mahogany worktop.

  Holman turned and grinned. “I see you’re still here,” he said, a little patronisingly. “Good night’s sleep? Must be nice with nobody trying to bugger you in the middle of the night.”

  Grant forced a grin. “That never happened. Maybe I’m not that good looking.”

  “You’re right there.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Two eggs or three?”

  Grant blinked. “Three?” He shook his head. “No, one will be just fine. Who the hell eats three eggs?”

  “No appetite, eh?” He walked nimbly across the kitchen and set two plates on the large, matching oval mahogany table. “Enjoy.”

  Grant drew up to the considerably smaller of the portions and started to pick his way through some of the bacon and sausage.

  “Never could stand the way you ate,” Holman commented. He speared a sausage and forced the whole thing into his mouth, long end first, then switching to broadside with a well-practised twist. He chewed twice, perhaps three times, then swallowed. He smacked his lips in satisfaction, then smiled. “Gorgeous!” He tore a slice of greasy, over-cooked fried bread with his hands then dipped it into the yolk of the first of his three fried eggs. “Food is there to be eaten, not bloody looked at.” He bit a large mouthful of fried bread, then sucked in huge mouthfuls of air to quell the sizzling fat on his tongue.

  Grant watched the trickle of egg-yolk down his host’s chin, then turned back to his breakfast. “I just like to take my time, that’s all.”

  Holman patted his chest to speed the passage of a loud belch. He smiled, obviously pleased with the result, then looked back at his old friend. “That’s the thing about time, isn’t it?” He stabbed a whole tomato, jabbed a round of black pudding and forced the stack into his mouth. “You let time pass you by without seizing the opportunities,” he paused, thinking it better to swallow the obstruction first. “And what are you left with?” Grant shrugged haplessly. He knew the answer, knew that it had nothing to do with eating fast or slow. It was purely rhetorical, an excuse for Frank Holman to pontificate. “I’ll tell you what you’re left with.” Holman sneered. “Nothing!” He took another deep breath between mouthfuls, allowing at least some of his food to start its journey towards his ample stomach, before stabbing a whole rasher of bacon with his fork and expertly twisting it into a mouth-sized piece, like a skilled native Italian, about to eat a forkful of spaghetti. “You come into this world with nothing. You can’t take anything when you go, that’s for damn sure, but you can sure as hell try to get yourself as much as you can in between.”

  Grant nodded. “I tried that six years ago, so did you. Only, I was the one who ended up in prison. I was the one who lost everything.”

  Holman shovelled the last remaining fried tomato into his mouth, chewed once, then swallowed. He pursed his thick lips together in satisfaction, then smiled. “Mmm, superb!” He sipped from his mug of sweet tea, then replaced on the table and grinned. “Can’t beat that little lot to start the day.”

  “You eat like that every morning?” Grant asked, somewhat surprised that the man was still on this earth, let alone walking it.

  Holman grinned. “Each and every day, sometimes I end the day on that too. Some famous guy, I don’t know who, said that if you want to eat well in England, then eat breakfast three times a day,” he paused, adopting a heavier tone. “Seriously though, I am offering you the chance of a dead cert, big money job. You got yourself caught last time, this time will be different.”

  “Why should you care?”

  “You didn’t grass on me,” Holman smiled. “You could have, and you could have got your sentence cut as a result. However, you stayed loyal to your friend. I admire that.”

  Grant chuckled. “Loyal? Do you think that my kneecaps would still be functioning if I grassed you up? One of your contacts would have paid me an early morning visit, sooner or later.”

/>   Holman gave him a look of mock surprise. “Simon, I am deeply offended.”

  Grant pushed his unfinished meal aside and took a sip of lukewarm tea.

  “Like my old grandmother used to say; waste not, want not.” Holman reached forward and pulled the plate towards him, exchanged Grant’s cutlery for his own and started to eat.

  “Was that the grandmother who could have kicked my arse?”

  Holman smiled through a mouthful of sausage. “Kicked it, skinned it and hung it on the fucking shed door.”

  Grant smiled at the thought then looked at his host seriously. “So what is it?” he asked. “I mean, two-million is an awful lot of money, just for one man’s share.”

  Holman smiled wryly. Occasionally, on the hottest of summer days, he would go fishing. Rod, tackle, bait, a few beers, the sun on his face and a pleasurable drive down to the coast. His uncle had taught him to fish at an early age, amongst other things. The secret, above all else, was to tease. Move the bait gently and never strike the rod upon the first bite. If you did, you would be guaranteed to arouse suspicion, lose the fish and scare it off for good. Always wait until the bait and hook was firmly in its mouth, preferably swallowed, only then would you make the strike. “Two-million is a hell of an amount of dosh for a few days’ work,” Holman agreed. He wiped a piece of fried bread around the newly acquired plate, mopping up the egg yolk and grease, then popped the morsel into his avid mouth. “Excellent! Fry-up, food of the Gods! Tried that caviar stuff once. Fish eggs?” He laughed raucously. “More like fish shit!”

  11

  The yellow works-van pulled into the quiet street, crawled along the line of parked cars, then parked in a nearby space opposite a row of terraced houses. The larger of the two men, muscular and bulky, but by no means fat, got out of the driver’s door and walked to the rear of the vehicle. He rubbed his fingers through his bushy beard, relieving himself of an irritating itch, then reached out and opened the double doors. The smaller man opened the passenger door and stepped onto the pavement, a huge smile upon his face, which was rapidly turning into a laugh. “...So then he says…”