by A P Bateman
“Republican Army. The IRA,” Holman paused. “And before you say anything else, you should see what they’re paying me.” He leaned against the hard back of the wooden chair with a look of immense satisfaction upon his face. “More than what you’re getting, that’s for sure.”
Grant shook his head, near dumbfounded. “They kill innocent people, Frank. Easy victims! Off duty soldiers, bombings in shopping centres…” He stood up quickly, a little too quickly with the whiskey inside him. He clutched the table for a moment. “I can’t believe it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He let go of the table and walked over to the window, stared at the darkness.
“Believe it. Two-million is a hell of an amount of money. You can live like a king for the rest of your life. Anyway, these guys won’t be terrorists next week. They’ll all be exonerated as part of the peace agreement. They’re looking for new employment, new opportunities for people with their skillset.” He took another sip, then shook his head sullenly. “Besides, you’re in this now, you can’t just walk away from it.”
“The hell I can't!” Grant spun round and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You never mentioned a damned thing about the IRA!”
“So sue me!”
“You bastard,” Grant said quietly.
“Fine, if you want out, then go! But just be sure to look over your shoulder for the rest of your short life!”
Grant walked back to the table and slumped down onto his hard seat. He sighed deeply and rested his head in his hands. “You are a bloody idiot, Frank. Don’t you realise that we’re only useful to them until this job is done?” He raised his head and frowned at him. “Haven’t you given that any thought?”
Holman scoffed at the suggestion. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been with them for a few years now, well with Danny Neeson and O’Shea. I’m useful to them all of the time, and they pay me well for it. We have quite a lucrative fund-raising scheme going on over here, they’ve got their sticky fingers into everything. Not just dodgy schemes and bank-jobs, but legitimate businesses as well. Estate agents, video hire stores. Mobile phones are going to be big, everyone will have one soon, even teenagers. They’re looking into that market too,” he paused and smiled. “And did you ever wonder why Irish theme pubs have been all the rage for so long?” he asked gleefully. “Take my house - do you think that I could just suddenly afford a place like that in six short years? Of course not! All bought and paid for out of The Cause. That stupid car of Eileen’s, her toy-boy puller? Paid for by the paddies. I agree with them as well; we should leave Ireland to the Irish.”
Grant leaned back in exasperation. “Fuck, Frank! You’re a terrorist! What the hell do you know about it all anyway? What about the other Irish organisations? They were born there, and their ancestors for generations before them. They don’t want to be separated from Britain. What about them?” He shook his head and stared at the man with a look of contempt. “You know nothing, Frank. You’re pig-ignorant and blind to the facts. Ireland is far too complicated for a twat like you to figure out, so just go on taking their money. But if I were you, I’d be looking over my shoulder pretty bloody soon. Or maybe under that fancy car of yours. As for me? Well I’m out of it, right now.”
Holman laughed out loud. “I only have to worry if I cross them, son, only if I cross them! Which I don’t intend on doing, ever.” He stood up from his seat and walked across the kitchen to the large dresser where Neeson had earlier taken out the aerial photographs of Kempton Park. He pulled out the left-hand drawer, then reached inside and retrieved an A4 envelope. “I’m sorry that it had to come down to this, but I thought that for once, just once, you would show some good sense.” He walked back to the table and dropped the envelope in front of Grant. “I think that you’ll find it’s for your own good, I’d hate for you to do anything foolish.”
Simon Grant watched Holman leave through the front door, then looked back at the envelope. He was still staring blankly at it when he heard Holman’s Mercedes drive out of the farmyard. He reached out and picked up the mysterious package. It was not fastened, so he tipped it up, allowing the contents to slide out onto the table.
For six years she had merely been a distant memory. A somewhat blurred memory both of fondness, and of sadness, but now the image was crystal clear once more. Here she stood with young David. How he had grown! Holding his mother’s hand tightly, somewhat insecurely, as the pair waited at a bus stop. Standing in the shelter away from the drizzling rain, little David wore the drab grey colours of a school uniform. He had seen them both with his own eyes yesterday. A glimpse of her hair, her profile. The smile and hug with his son. And then he was gone, and she was driving away from him. A minute to see what his prison sentence had cost him.
Grant flicked through the photographs one by one, all the same but taken with different degrees of magnification. Lisa looked as she always had. Apart from her hair, which was now reddish on the brunette scale. That was new, but she wore it well. She was beautiful. Although there was a visible difference, a distance in her eyes.
A sullen, unmistakable sadness.
The final photograph was upside down and by the look of it, had been placed purposely that way. Grant turned it over and instantly felt a shiver run down his spine. They had been drawn onto the photograph using a fine black pen and much attention to detail. A perfect circle surrounded both Lisa and David’s heads, and a thin cross had been drawn in the middle of each circle, centring on their foreheads. Rifle sights.
Superimposed cross-hairs.
Of course, he doubted they would kill them both in such a way if the moment arose, but the elaborate image did everything to enforce their intentions. Grant closed his eyes, a tear rolling gently down his cheek. Now he knew he had no choice in the matter; he was in this as deep as he could get.
He would have to crack that safe.
***
The two men concentrated on the image on the screen and as they did so, Forsyth pressed the pause button on the remote control. The picture in front of them froze, leaving a perfect close up on a man’s face. “That ugly-looking bugger is Matthew McCormick.” He let the image play on, then froze it again as McCormick walked forwards and stood next to Danny Neeson. “He’s the supposed leader of the cell. As you know, they arrived into the country at Holyhead on the ferry yesterday. According to the MI5 agents who followed them, he is the one most likely to have killed Mary Vaughan in the services.”
“Why so sure?” King took another sip of steaming hot coffee, his eyes still fixed on McCormick’s pock-marked face.
“Last one out, old boy. The other three left in a hurry, but he returned to the vehicle a full ten-minutes later. Security tapes have been collected from the service station, whether he is on them or not, only time will tell. The services management was not keeping a clear security system. You know, recording over the tapes too soon, not filing them. In some cases, the cameras were not recording in certain areas.” Forsyth let the tape play for a while, glanced down at the dossier resting in his lap, then pressed the pause button again. “The big bugger is Patrick Hennessey, sometimes goes under Collier. He is a bit of a Machine Gun Kelly type. Four years ago he shot a fish and chip shop all to hell with an M60, you know, one of those chain-fed guns that Rambo used. Killed the owner, his wife and five customers. Injured sixteen in total, just to attempt to kill two RUC officers eating their chips outside. That was the last anybody saw of him. Combined intelligence sources thought that he holed up in the south for a while, then slipped over to America and hid among the other paddies in Boston.” Forsyth inhaled deeply on the remaining stub of cigarette, then blew out a thin plume of mildly scented smoke. “Maybe he didn’t after all. Either way, the bastard’s a menace. He’s back on the scene and extremely dangerous.” He released the pause button on the remote control then pressed it again soon after. Simon Grant could be seen bent down over the safe, his face in full view. King smiled. The quality of the film footage was extremely good.
Now and again the picture would be lost, only to slip away from the gap and take a close up of the wooden panel through which he had filmed. However, these brief interludes were rare and on the whole the footage was of an excellent standard. “I can take this tape back to the lab and get a photograph of this chap. If he has a past, then I can have a file on him by morning,” said Forsyth.
“I expect you’ll find he has a past. He’s a professional, and most professionals start off small time and learn from their mistakes. He probably has a record for something.”
“Well, you’d know all about that.”
King ignored him. “Why did Five pull off so quickly?”
Forsyth grinned and slipped the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “Baying for blood, old boy. Our department usually gets the dirty work, not that they knew The Increment were on to them, but I think they had their suspicions. It’s rare for SIS to be so concerned, so focused on a terrorist cell on home soil. Maybe they saw a chance to avenge their female officer.”
King frowned. “But the termination order was for Mark O’Shea, with an unofficial by-line for Danny Neeson, should the man get in the way and pose a threat to the operation’s objective. It wasn’t for the Active Service Unit responsible for the death of their agent.”
Forsyth smiled a wry, deceptive smile. “But they don’t know that, old boy, they don’t know that.”
21
Grant woke with a start, prematurely dragged from a fitful sleep by a prolonged crashing and banging. The thunderous clatter seemed to emanate from the general direction of the barn, but for a brief moment he had thought that he was back in prison, with the toughened steel doors slamming shut and the monotony of another tedious day about to commence. Somehow, though, the thought of being back in the security of a cell almost appealed to him. Right now, given the company he was keeping, it would probably be a sight safer.
He squinted through the bright light, which shone somewhat obtrusively through the gap between the curtains, then found himself studying the sparsely furnished room. Only a bed and a hard-backed wooden chair in the far corner next to an old, cracked enamel sink, broke the monotony of the four bare walls. In fact, his last prison cell would have put this room to shame.
A bag of clothes lay strewn on the floor and a toiletries bag hung from an adhesive peg which had been applied somewhat asymmetrically to the back of the wooden door. He swung his legs out over the edge of the bed and rose unsteadily to his feet, feeling the adverse effects of the previous night’s whiskey. An unsteady walk to the sink followed by a quick wash with the cold water, there being no hot on offer, made him feel a little more human. Thus refreshed, he put on his old clothes and walked to the door.
The glorious aroma of frying bacon and eggs greeted him at the top of the stairs and he ambled smartly down into the kitchen where Dugan, the smallest of the four men, had obviously been designated chef and was mastering the frying pan on the gas stove. The little Irishman turned and grinned amiably at the new arrival as he cracked another egg into the hot oil. “Mornin’ matey, fancy some scoff?”
Grant glanced at the other three men who were tucking into great mounds of fried bacon and sausage, then turned his gaze back to the competent cook. “No thanks, just coffee will be fine.” Somehow this selection of table companions had evaporated his earlier appetite.
“Here, fresh pot on the table,” McCormick said amiably. “Just help yourself.” He patted the table and pulled out a wooden chair. “Have to say, you certainly knew your stuff yesterday with that safe, pretty impressive.”
“Thanks,” Grant acknowledged the compliment somewhat dismissively. He didn’t like the company, though instinct told him that had the four men not been terrorists, he could quite possibly have enjoyed it wholeheartedly. They seemed like nice guys, only his knowledge of what they were and what they had done prejudiced it.
“I’ve used a similar mix myself, mixed with a residue of boiled-down bleach and petroleum jelly,” Patrick paused. “Pack it tightly with nails and screws, or even broken glass, and it serves an entirely different purpose.” He smiled at Dugan, who was placing a rack of toast down on the table in front of him.
Grant put down his steaming coffee cup and stared at the big man. “I can imagine,” he replied. “And how many innocent people did that kill? How many widows or orphans owe their status to you for that?”
Patrick glared at him coldly and was about to reply when McCormick cut in hastily, “Now lads, I think we had best steer clear of politics and ideals. Money is the only common denominator here. And we’re all in this together, as a team.” The other three men nodded in unison and resumed devouring their ample breakfasts.
Grant picked up his cup and took a shallow sip, more for a distraction than to slake his thirst. He looked around the table. He was starting to feel very much the outsider, although it was not the first time that he had felt this way. Prison was like a club. Granted, it was a club which nobody ever wanted to join in the first place, but very much a club all the same. Even though its rules were never written down. There were new members arriving all the time, and every new arrival has to tread carefully at first, to establish his place in the pecking order. This was no different. He felt compelled to speak, to establish himself amongst this villainous crew. “So what are we meant to do?” he asked, forcing a smile. “The Indians are here, but where are the chiefs?”
McCormick placed his knife and fork down, having finished his last mouthful. “Mr O’Shea telephoned earlier, he’s coming over with Danny Neeson a little later on,” he said, then picked up his empty plate and carried it over to the sink. “They will lay out the finer points. Then, I guess we do the job.”
Grant picked up his coffee and took a deep gulp of the strong liquid. He felt that he was being swept along by the tide, unable to swim against the current or stop and change direction. For now, all he could do was to go with the flow. There was so much that he wanted to ask, needed to know, but every time he was about to speak, he pictured his wife and child instead. It was better to resign his will to events and hope that he would find a way to resolve things before the actual job took place. He snapped out of this train of thought when he heard the vehicle pull into the farmyard. The driver switched off the engine, and Grant heard the sound of heavy footsteps. He turned his head as the front door opened, then quickly returned his attention to his coffee, suddenly uninterested as he saw Holman’s bulk filling the doorway.
“Morning gents, nice night?” Holman stepped into the kitchen and glanced at the frying pan, which was cooling on the stovetop. He looked over at McCormick who was standing beside the sink and smiled. “Any chance of a bite?” His face fell, as McCormick returned to his seat without a word, and the other three went on eating.
Patrick raised his head and pointed towards the empty frying pan. “Aye, help yourself. The food is in the fridge and the pan is on top of the cooker,” he said around a mouthful of buttered toast.
All four chuckled, aware that Holman had expected to be waited on. Holman made light of the comment and stepped over behind Grant, placing a hand on his shoulder in a parody of affection. “What about you, son. Not hungry?”
Grant stared stonily ahead. The mere sight of Holman was enough to turn his stomach, forcing him to think of his family and what terrible fate might befall them, should he not go ahead with what was now expected of him. The situation seemed utterly hopeless. “No appetite,” he replied bluntly and took a sip of tepid coffee, rebuffing Holman’s attempts at conversation.
Holman removed his hand and smiled lecherously. “Ah, well perhaps you’re hungry for something, or someone else?” He turned and walked out of the kitchen and into the cramped hallway.
Grant stood up, pushing his chair back violently as he did so. He followed the large man out of the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind him. The rest of the men glanced furtively at one another, and Patrick made to stand up.
“Leave ‘em be, Pat,” McCormick said quietly. “The
re’s obviously some history there, best be letting them pick at it on their own.”
Holman stood with his back to Grant, his head bowed sullenly to the floor. “Not my idea, Simon.” He turned around, a look of sorrow in his beady eyes. “I’m as upset as you are.”
“Don’t bloody patronise me!” Grant spat at him venomously. “You didn’t level with me, and you bloody should have, I had no idea what I was getting into!”
Holman smiled wryly. “You didn’t need levelling. Two million was all I had to say, your greed did the rest, as usual.” He rested his elbow against the wall and leaned, taking the considerable weight off both his stubby legs. “Do what you will afterwards, but play along and the pair of them will be safe and sound. You can go round there and play happy families with two-million quid in your pocket.”
Grant shook his head. “How could you do this? How could you allow it? For God’s sake, you were at our wedding!” He rubbed his eyes. “What if the bloody job doesn’t come off, will they be safe then?”
Holman shrugged haplessly, then avoided Grant’s stare. “These are big boys Simon, they play by a completely different set of rules, a very different game to what we’re both used to. I don’t condone everything they do, but I have to say, they certainly get the job done,” he paused. “You understand what I’m saying? There won’t be any room for mistakes.”
Grant spun around and kicked the wall in fury. A piece of plaster chipped off and settled at his feet. He looked up from the momentary distraction. “How could you do this? I did time for you, I didn’t grass you up, and it reflected in my sentence. I stashed the money and got word to you, telling you where to find it. Christ Almighty, I was only caught with the tools from the fucking job! I shouldn’t have been sent down for seven years!”
“It was six,” Holman corrected him flippantly. “Six, and a few of months.”
Grant glared at him. “Good behaviour Frank! I spent most of the time counting down from seven…” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I just can’t believe it. I agreed to do the job, now if I don’t, it’s not only my life at stake, but my family’s!”
