Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  “This way,” Holman said, then tiptoed among the farmyard’s myriad of muddy puddles towards the large barn. There he stopped and turned around impatiently, as he waited for Grant to catch up with him. Grant turned his eyes from the derelict-looking farmhouse towards the barn, noticing the flatbed lorry parked alongside, almost out of view. He looked back towards Holman, who had by now run out of patience and was opening the door to the barn. “Come on Simon, get your bloody arse in gear!” Holman shouted, then stepped into the doorway and waited while Grant picked his way through the ankle-deep mud.

  ***

  King pulled into the quiet forecourt of a petrol station and switched off the engine. He was damned if he was going to run home like a little schoolboy after Forsyth’s unexpected reaction. He picked up the Nokia mobile phone from the passenger seat and pressed the re-dial button. The dialling tone rang for a few moments, and then Forsyth came onto the line.

  “Hello?” he answered cautiously, not giving away his name.

  “Ian, this is Alex. What the hell’s going on?”

  “My god man, you’re not still there, are you?”

  “Of course not, half a mile away at a guess,” he paused, glancing around cautiously. “Now come on, play it straight. What’s happening in Holben Drive?”

  Forsyth hesitated for a moment, then sighed somewhat tiresomely. “A team of watchers from Box have been in place since last night. The Security Service intercepted a PIRA Active Service Unit at Holyhead, earlier yesterday,” he paused and King had a clear picture of him blowing out another ponderous smoke ring, then smiling at the result. “A woman from one of the MI5 watcher units got too close in a service station on the motorway. Managed to get herself throttled as a result. At least that is what they think the post mortem will confirm.”

  “What about O’Shea? Where does he fit in?”

  “Not entirely sure, old boy. Although at a guess, I would say that Danny-boy Neeson and his boss are in with them,” he paused. “Looks like the two services are working on the same case but from opposite ends. I shall attempt to find out more, see who was playing first. Meet me at the safe-house at nine o’clock.”

  King switched off the phone and thought for a moment. Forsyth’s comment about who was playing first seemed to sum up King’s experience working with both MI5 and MI6. Both services tended to treat their work as a game, often withholding relevant information from one another, merely to be the one to come up with the result. In his opinion the sooner the two services merged to become the country’s complete intelligence service, the better. He was still new to the game, but he was learning fast.

  He turned his eyes back to the laptop computer and watched the stationary red dot. Forsyth had told him to get out, but he hadn’t mentioned leaving the assignment. Until it was time to meet with Forsyth, he would stay with the Saab.

  ***

  “Nice, isn’t she?”

  Grant stared at the Porsche 911 and nodded. The bodywork had been prepared for paint spraying, with all glasswork, mirrors and logos taped over. Sean checked the nozzle of the sprayer, then signalled for Ross to start the compressor. Both men wore facemasks to protect themselves from the harmful toxins, and as the paint spraying commenced, Holman stepped back outside, holding the polythene curtain aside for Grant to follow.

  “Hot?” Grant asked as he stepped into the cleaner air.

  “Of course, straight out of the showroom.” Holman turned his attention towards Jason Porter, who was working on something in the corner of the barn. He looked back at Grant and smiled. “Come on, I want to introduce you to someone.”

  Porter was busy, hard at work sanding down the Porsche’s front and rear bumpers. He looked up quizzically at the two men as they approached, and frowned.

  “You’re the lad that I was told about,” Holman stated almost accusingly. “I hear that you’re something of a genius behind the wheel. Glad to be aboard?”

  “Not given a lot of choice, was I?”

  Holman’s amiable smile turned to a cruel scowl as he stared at the man in front of him. “Well don’t complain, laddie, you’ll be rich at the end of it,” he paused and turned to Grant. “The two of you should have a lot in common, you’re both bloody ungrateful for the opportunity to become richer than you deserve.” Jason Porter bowed his head and continued with his sanding work. Frank Holman shook his head despairingly, then walked back to the other two men. He peered inside the polythene curtain, spoke briefly with one of them, then walked back to where Grant was waiting, somewhat uncomfortably, as he watched Porter work silently on the bumpers. “Seems that the man I wanted to introduce you to is out for a while, but he should be back within the hour. How about a cup of coffee?” he asked

  ***

  The little red dot flickered momentarily, then started to race across the screen. King switched on the ignition and started the engine. With any luck, the dot would edge down the road in the direction that he was facing. “Bollocks!” he shouted in irritation. He quickly engaged reverse and accelerated hard out of the forecourt, the van’s front tyres screeching in protest against the wet surface of the road. The dot was rapidly moving towards the edge of the screen, and at half a mile the distance was nearing the receiver’s cut-off point. If he failed to close the distance, finding the target vehicle might become impossible.

  He swung the steering wheel hard to the left, veering the vehicle erratically across both lanes, then crunched the van’s notchy gearbox as he struggled to select first gear. He floored the accelerator then slipped the gearbox into second gear almost immediately. The van’s engine whined and screamed in protest, at the ill treatment, overtaking a series of slower moving vehicles that had built up behind the Saab.

  King glanced at the intermittent flashing red dot, which was cutting a path across the laptop’s screen. The note was weaker than mere seconds ago, struggling to make itself heard as it approached the signal cut-off point. He swung the van out across the white line on the crown of the road and floored the accelerator, as he attempted to overtake a row of three cars. He passed the first, then had to take refuge behind a silver Audi while he waited for another suitable gap in the oncoming traffic.

  The warning alarm started to wail and he quickly turned his eyes down to the screen of the laptop. The Saab was exactly one-thousand metres from the receiver, and from the roundabout ahead, Neeson could take any number of routes.

  King decided to chance it. He pulled out into the crown of the road, dropped to third gear, then kicked the accelerator to the floor as he headed straight for the oncoming bend. The driver of the Audi displayed his surprise, as the tatty Ford Escort van pulled alongside him, and whined past in the other lane. There was now only one vehicle between King and a clear stretch of road. He pulled into the tight gap behind the Vauxhall Vectra, cutting up the Audi to the sound of its horn.

  The road swept around to the right in a long drawn-out curve. The road ahead was clear. King pulled out and accelerated hard, nearing maximum revs, then changed up into top. Predictably, the Vectra’s pace increased gradually, matching the van’s speed, the driver clearly unable to accept the manoeuvre as less than a challenge to his ego. The Vectra, with its considerably more powerful engine, kept King out in the middle of the road as the two vehicles charged side by side towards the blind corner.

  King was driving at maximum revs, the Vectra was little above cruising, its engine taking the speed in its stride. Side by side, the two vehicles entered the bend, both braking for the approaching tight corner. King had to lose the driver. If he succeeded in overtaking the Vectra, which was looking ever less likely, the driver might follow in a fit of road rage. That would only draw attention to him, as he caught up with the Saab. He was out of options, as to ram the Vectra was not to be considered; the two vehicles were travelling far too fast and were evenly matched in weight. At this speed both drivers would end up as another accident statistic. The driver of the Vectra was grinning from ear to ear, thoroughly enjoying King’s predicament
, or at least what he thought it to be. The Vectra had the power advantage; the driver of the out-powered van would have to back off.

  King maintained his pace, then with only moments to spare, he reached into his jacket and pulled the Browning 9 mm pistol from his shoulder holster. He aimed it steadily at the driver and glared. The driver of the Vectra braked suddenly, desperate to evade the pistol, the vehicle’s ABS brakes bringing it to a dramatic halt.

  The Audi was not so lucky.

  The driver had been transfixed by the sight of the two vehicles duelling for road supremacy. His brakes had worked, but only in response to his reflexes. They proved wanting. The Audi impacted the rear of the Vectra and shunted it violently into the hedge.

  King glanced in his rear view mirror as he slipped back across the crown of the road, barely making it to the bend. He smiled, adrenaline flushing wildly round his veins. “Sorry, pal,” he said. “Wrong time, wrong driver.”

  He quickly turned his attention back to the laptop and the small, intermittently flashing dot. He could not help but to sigh with relief, in the comfortable knowledge that the Saab was now approximately six-hundred metres ahead of him, about to negotiate a series of mini-roundabouts. He settled back in his seat and increased his speed slightly, as the narrow single lane suddenly merged into a dual carriageway. As he closed the gap to around four-hundred metres, he caught his first glimpse of the target vehicle, confirming the much-needed visual. He watched as it slowed and turned off the stretch of dual carriageway and onto a slightly narrower road. The manoeuvre was followed in tandem by a Ford Sierra, which was keeping purposefully close to the blue Saab.

  King slowed, then turned off, deciding to keep out of sight and use the tracking device to its full potential. It was always more comforting and reassuring to follow visually but it made no sense to risk being spotted. He noticed a red saloon tailgating him. It wouldn’t hurt to put another vehicle between him and the target vehicle, now that he was following on the tracker. He slowed a little and kept close to the grass verge. The Ford Mondeo sped past and King glanced across and saw the man in the passenger seat speaking into the radio handset. He frowned, noting the look of the two men. They were police for sure, maybe Special Branch. Or perhaps MI5. It seemed to be a security forces day out. He just hoped that they would not get too close to the Saab and scare the target off.

  ***

  Danny Neeson glanced into his rear-view mirror and checked that the Sierra was not too close before he slowed and pulled into the narrow entrance on his right. The Sierra copied the manoeuvre, directly behind him, just before the Mondeo flew past the entrance, its brakes squealing as the driver attempted to avoid a collision.

  “Christ, Randle!” Forester tensed in his seat, gripping the door’s armrest. “Could you get any closer?”

  “It wasn’t my fault, the bloody turning’s on a blind corner!” He shook his head, more out of relief than in protest, before looking back at Charles Forester. “If that damned van hadn’t of held us up for so long, it would never have happened.”

  Forester relaxed a little. It had been close, but he was confident that they had no need to expect anything untoward. “Alright,” he paused. “I think we’re in the clear. Keep going for a few hundred metres then find somewhere to pull over.”

  ***

  King noticed that the flashing red dot was slowing considerably, and adjusted his speed accordingly. He pulled over to the left-hand side of the quiet road and parked the van in an overgrown gateway. The Rover was all too visible, parked further up the road where it looked a little too obvious beside a wooden post and rail fence.

  King looked across the fields at the distant farmhouse. The exterior looked derelict, although the inside might have another story to tell. The property was surrounded by a constellation of outbuildings and large barns, but dominated by the large Dutch-style barn to the left. The yard was steadily filling with vehicles, as the two new arrivals parked alongside two other cars. He picked up his powerful field glasses and the compact video camera, then stepped out of the van and closed the door as quietly as possible. He had decided not to take the pistol with him as there seemed to be a lot of people at the farm. Should he be compromised; he would probably fare better with a story of ornithology and confusion of boundaries.

  King surveyed the farmyard and the surrounding area, then turned his attention towards the parked Mondeo, approximately three hundred metres further down the road. As it was obvious that the two men were observing the farm, he just hoped that the players wouldn’t spot them as easily as he had. He tracked the field glasses in a wide arc and smiled to himself, as he watched the infamous IRA man, Danny Neeson step out of the Saab and walk towards the farmhouse.

  ***

  “Ah, here they are!” Holman stood up from the kitchen table, knocked back the last of his whisky from the coffee mug, then walked across the kitchen and placed the mug on the cluttered draining board. He turned back towards Grant and smiled. “Time to introduce you to the team.”

  Grant stood up and followed Holman, as the man padded across the kitchen and out of the back door.

  “Didn’t expect to see you, Mr O’Shea, I thought I’d be dealing with Danny-boy here.” Holman nodded towards the hard-looking man who was sounding off a series of instructions to the four new arrivals.

  Grant watched as the tough-looking Irishman glanced briefly at Holman. He couldn’t work out whether the man’s look was one of disgust or contempt. He settled on indifference. There was certainly no love lost between Holman and the man he had referred to as Danny-boy.

  O’Shea turned around and stared at Grant then looked back at Holman. There was as much indifference in his eyes as his companion’s. “Is this the man?”

  Holman nodded. “Allow me to introduce you to Simon Grant... The best safecracker ever to grace Her Majesty’s Prison!” He turned to Grant and smiled. “Simon, this is Mr O’Shea.”

  Grant looked warily at the slightly built man with the pale, almost sickly complexion and flame-red hair. He was not a big man, not in the physical sense at least, but Grant had seen the type before, the type of man who has a great deal of power at his fingertips. It was not often that Frank Holman was courteous. But he made a flamboyant exception in favour of the man whom he had greeted as O’Shea. Grant stepped forwards, extending his right hand.

  The sickly-looking Irishman smirked, blatantly ignoring the outstretched hand. “The best safecracker ever to grace Her Majesty’s Prison,” he mused quietly. “We shall soon see.” He turned his attention back to Holman. “We have a little test for your man here. Myself, I’m more than a little fucking dubious. If he’s the best, then how did he end up doing time?”

  19

  At six-foot and a well-muscled fourteen stone, King was a big man. A former middle-weight and light-heavyweight boxer, he moved with a catlike grace and stealth. Well-practised in the art of covert advancement, his footsteps were silent and precisely placed. His breathing, calm and unlaboured. He edged his way down the side of the hedge, making sure not to step on any loose twigs, or such debris that could give his position away. At the bottom of the slight hill he slipped under a barbed-wire fence, then stepped over the narrow brook which divided the two fields. The second field was a mass of thistles and nettles, which conspired to slow his progress considerably.

  As he neared the top of the incline, he stood close to the hedge and watched for movement in the farmyard. It seemed to have gone quiet, the gathering of men had moved on. He looked at the large barn, where he observed the group walking through the smaller of the two doors. King quickly edged his way along the hedgerow, then paused as he came to a rusted iron gate. He promptly vaulted the obstacle, then jogged the rest of the way down the lane, until he came to the entrance of the farmyard. There, he slowed and walked confidently to the rear of the barn.

  Approximately three-quarters of a mile away, the valley below gave way to a small lake where a variety of birds flocked to and fro. It could provide him wi
th an appropriate cover if necessary; using the farm to take a short cut. With the video camera and his powerful field glasses, King would pass as a bird-watcher, although to sustain the image a garment or two from Ian Forsyth’s tweed and herringboned wardrobe would have been handy.

  Easing his way over the piles of slate and rusted metal which so often seem to accumulate on farms, King made his way towards the middle section of the barn, searching the timber frame until he found what he had hoped for. He carefully eased the loose wooden board, tentatively working it free from the panel, until he had a small slit through which he could observe the scene within.

  ***

  “A little test, sonny,” said O’Shea and he beckoned Grant towards him with a grin. “Come on, laddie, don’t be shy now!”

  Simon Grant stepped forwards hesitantly, glancing briefly at Holman who shrugged helplessly. He looked as worried as Grant did.

  Danny Neeson walked to the centre of the floor space and pulled a sheet to reveal an old, yet solid-looking, wall safe. “There you go, wonder boy, open it,” he paused. “If you can!”

  Grant turned around helplessly and stared at O’Shea. “But I don’t have my tools and equipment with me!”

  Neeson took the small, but lethal-looking pistol out from his jacket pocket and pointed it at Grant’s midriff. “Best be using your initiative then. Oh, and I forgot to say, if you can’t open it, I’ll waste you, and the boys will bury you out back.”

  Grant stared at his old friend for assistance, but Holman merely shrugged and stepped over to stand at O’Shea’s shoulder. It was clear where Frank Holman’s loyalty now lay. Grant had to think fast. He bent down, caught hold of the front corners of the safe and heaved. It was heavy, but he managed to roll the old safe over on the earth. It was constructed entirely of solid wrought iron, with overlapping inserts around the doorframe. The locks were of two types, as was often the case with wall safes. The first to be attempted was the combination dial, usually a four-digit code for a safe of this size. Next would be the lock, a basic tumbler device, which could take anywhere between one and four turns. Without a stethoscope and a selection of picklocks he would be there forever, unless he attempted a less orthodox method of entry. He looked around, trying to overcome his feeling of helplessness, then spotted the bag of chemical fertiliser. He walked over and picked up the nearby feed-dipper and started to open the bag. O’Shea glanced across at Neeson, who merely shrugged and returned his attention to Grant, who by now had half-filled the dipper with the chemical fertiliser. Grant then turned the safe over again and decided that the back offered the best point of entry. He checked that the safe was stable on the slightly uneven ground, then poured the chemical fertiliser into a pile. With the bottom of the dipper, he started to grind the fertiliser to a fine, white powder, which he then returned to the dipper.