Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  “Hardly your family any more though, are they?” Holman reminded him flatly. “You’re not the man in Lisa’s bed, and you’re not putting food on the table. Not that you were ever any good at that sort of thing when you were with them. Christ, if Lisa didn’t work nights in the social club bar, you’d have barely eaten twice a week…”

  “You bastard!”

  Holman suddenly looked genuinely sorry for this cruel comment. He hung his head, perplexed, then looked up apologetically. “Look, I’m sorry, mate. Things just got out of hand. Trust me, this job is a piece of piss. You and the boys will make it in and out in no time at all.”

  “And what about you? What about those arseholes in there? What about Neeson and O’Shea? What about the other three men in the barn, what do you all do?”

  Holman smiled wryly. “We’re all on something else. In this job, two wrongs definitely make a right.” He pushed himself away from the wall, looked around for somewhere to sit, then rested his broad backside on the foot of the stairs.

  “What is it? Come on, level with me this time, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’m telling you what you need to know. Just do the job you’ve been given and everything else will be all right.”

  Both men turned their heads, as they heard a vehicle pull into the muddy driveway and enter the courtyard. Holman stood up, patted Grant on the shoulder and grinned. “Come on, lad,” he said. “Sounds like things are getting underway.”

  ***

  King watched attentively from the wooded fringe that ran parallel to the quiet roadside. He pressed the field glasses to his eyes and studied the man that he had been ordered to kill. As he watched Mark O’Shea step out of the passenger-side of the Saab, he felt an overwhelming familiarity with the man. He knew his mannerisms, the way that he held himself, his usual gait, with its short purposeful strides. He knew his characteristic expression: an officious pout, bordering on pomposity.

  This was about as close as he had ever been to this man, but he recognized him instantly, from the laborious hours that had been spent studying the surveillance tapes, the file photographs, and reading and rereading the man’s dossier. He had been made privy to all the material which had been accumulated by the likes of MI5, MI6, Special Branch and combined military intelligence.

  It would surely not be long now. Forsyth had warned him the night before that the executive order would not take much longer to assign. It would soon pass through the final channels and end up on the SIS Home Desk, at the heart of a certain monstrosity on the bank of the River Thames.

  King had barely begun to read the file on Simon Alan Grant before he was interrupted by a beep from his laptop computer, indicating that Neeson’s Saab was on the move. He dropped the file in the van’s foot well and started in pursuit. However, on the basis of even a cursory glance at his file, King was sure about one thing: Simon Grant was without the political ideals to be drawn into terrorism.

  He kept the field glasses on Neeson’s back. The man was walking towards a dull-brown car that had arrived ahead of them. He had watched the Saab pull into the end of the lane and box the brown car in. A horn had sounded and the brown car had driven ahead of Neeson’s Saab and pulled into the farmyard. Neeson’s Saab now blocked the exit. King adjusted the focus on the binoculars. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but the tough Irishman seemed hostile. A man in his late-fifties or early-sixties got out, his hands in front of him. It was a gesture of de-escalation, of calming the mood. The passenger door opened and the man who got out was big, both wide and tall, but he looked a great deal older than Neeson and as he moved in front of the car, pointed at the Mercedes and the farmhouse, he looked stiff and unfit. He also pointed a finger at Neeson, and unlike his companion, it looked like a gesture to escalate rather than subdue the mood.

  He thought of repeating his trip to the barn, getting closer, but King was a great believer in fate. He had been successful once, but it did not necessarily follow that he would be successful a second time. No, for the moment, regardless of the fact that he could not hear what was going on, he would simply have to watch and wait.

  ***

  Holman opened the door and saw Mark O’Shea standing in front of him.

  “Get the fucking boys out here now!” O’Shea glared at Holman, watching his indecision. “Move your arse, you fat bastard and go and get them!”

  Holman jumped to it and barged his twenty-five stone bulk past Grant. Grant watched the big, grey-haired man pointing aggressively at Neeson and shaking his head. The man looked at Grant in the doorway. Grant recognised him as the man who had hit him in Holman’s driveway yesterday morning. The man took a few steps toward him, but Neeson stepped in front of him. Then Grant felt himself barged out of the way into the doorframe as the four Irishmen, led by McCormick, filed out of the door and into the farmyard. Holman held back, standing behind Grant as he straightened himself up.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Holman said breathlessly.

  “I was hoping you would tell me,” replied Grant. He stepped out and walked closer. Holman followed.

  “Do you know these guys?” Neeson shouted to Holman. Holman shook his head. “Seems they have a deal going with your man here,” he added, nodding towards Grant. “You know them?”

  Grant shrugged. “That bloke hit me yesterday,” he said. “They have a problem with the job I ended up inside for. Their colleague was shot,” he paused, then added, “Not by me though.”

  O’Shea walked over to Holman. “How the fuck did they end up here?” Holman shrugged and O’Shea said, “They must have followed you. They were right on your arse, must have parked up, didn’t expect me and Danny to drive in behind them. How long have you been here?”

  “Five-minutes, tops,” Holman replied.

  “Then that works out.” O’Shea looked at Grant. “What’s this fucking job?”

  “I cracked the safe. Holman brought in a psycho trigger-man who went Reservoir Dogs on the job. Started shooting at the unarmed guard, then shot the poor bloke in the back as he ran away. Holman was the driver…” Grant looked at his old friend. “He sodded off and left me to face the music. I got caught and went down for it. The guard got shot, now he drinks through a straw and shits in a bag, according to that bloke over there,” Grant paused. “They want compensation for him.”

  “Fair enough,” O’Shea said. “But life ain’t fucking fair, is it?” He looked coldly at Holman. “So this is down to you?”

  Holman stuttered. Grant noted he was scared. He’d never seen him like this before. “I… I guess so.”

  O’Shea turned and spoke over his shoulder as he walked back into the farmyard. “Then you’ll sort this shit out, you fat bastard.”

  “I think he likes you,” Grant said quietly.

  “Fuck off.”

  Grant watched as O’Shea spoke briefly with Neeson and McCormick. The two men nodded and spoke to the other three. The big, grey-haired man was looking on in bemusement, but that soon changed to fear and then aggression as the driver was set upon with fists and feet and fell quickly to the ground. He did not put up a good fight, and as the big man watched he was already rounded up on by Neeson at the rear and McCormick head on. Both men were savage fighters and although blows were exchanged on both sides, the two men were all over him. Neeson bent low and pulled the older man’s leg off the ground. The man responded by pounding on his back and neck with his fists, but Neeson kept lifting despite the beating and the man pivoted and fell to the ground. Both men switched to feet and kicked him repeatedly around the head and ribs. Neeson stamped on the man’s fingers and as he recoiled and clutched his hand, he was no longer able to defend himself. The fight was over in no more than a minute and the five men were heaving for breath over the two inert forms on the muddy ground.

  Grant looked on as the men worked together. Both of the unconscious men were picked up and dragged to the barn. Dugan drove their car over to the barn and through the open doors. He watched Pat
rick close the doors and walk back into the barn through the smaller door to the side. The door closed and it was as if the incident had never happened.

  O’Shea walked over to them and pointed to the door. “Get back inside. We’ve matters to discuss.”

  “See, I told you he likes you,” Grant said under his breath.

  Holman shook his head. His expression had changed. He had been exuberant and self-assured before; now he was looking anxious. O’Shea led the way and pushed the door open. He walked on into the kitchen and paused at the table, staring at both men as they caught up.

  “Sit.” Holman did as he was told and Grant followed suit. Both remained silent, but Grant drummed his fingers on the table. O’Shea looked at him, but he did not stop. “I don’t like what has just transpired. How many more men are going to come looking for you?”

  “Less than will be looking for you, or so I hear,” Grant said.

  O’Shea looked at Holman. “You told him?”

  “He worked it out.”

  “So,” O’Shea said to Grant. “Is that a problem for you?”

  “I just want to do the job, get my fee and walk away.”

  “Good.” He looked at Holman. “Not so simple for you though.” Holman didn’t reply. “I guess you’re in this up to your neck.”

  Grant ventured, “The job. Can we talk about it now?”

  O’Shea shrugged. “I suppose. You will need to make a list of the equipment that you will require and give it to Holman. He will get hold of everything you need. There will be two reinforced glass doors, a seismic alarm system with thermal detection, and a safe with an electronic alarm system and dual time locks.”

  Grant leaned back in his chair. “What kind of time locks? There are a great many different systems on the market, what are Kempton Park equipped with?”

  O’Shea shook his head, then admitted, “We don’t know for sure, so I’m afraid you will have to plan for every contingency,” he paused and grinned. “You’re the professional, so make a list.”

  Grant shook his head slowly, in exasperation. “What about the alarm system? I always do a thorough reconnaissance of the location. It always helps to know exactly what you’re walking into, you must be able to tell me that, at least?”

  O’Shea glared at him as he stood up from the table. “You should be able to find that out for yourself,” he paused. “You’re going there today to have a wee look round. And before you get any wild ideas about taking off, Danny Neeson will be there to hold your hand, so he will. There’s an antique fair on there today, outside and in. It should give you the opportunity that you need to familiarise yourself with the surroundings, so if you encounter anything unexpected, make sure to add it to the list when you get back. Neeson will phone it through to Holman for you. It’s your only chance for a thorough reconnaissance, so make it good.”

  “I need more details than that,” Grant protested. “I will be able to see their CCTV placement, the alarm facia boxes, but those will be bullshit. Kempton Park will have plenty of built-in details that a quick scout round won’t pick up. I thought you lot were connected. A set of blueprints would be helpful, or an insider’s account and drawings.”

  “We know that after the last race, the money is held in a central safe until the tellers count it and make it ready for the security company come for it next morning. There is a window of one hour in which to work. The last tote commission comes in and the tellers start work when the park is closed. There’s around an hour before the shift comes on. We know the location, and my boys will get you there. But you will need to work every contingency.”

  Grant shrugged.

  Holman smirked. “What more do you want? The fucking key?”

  O’Shea smiled. “No, he’ll do okay. I guess it’s because of his vested interest. Family will do that for you,” he paused. “It’s you I have a problem with now, Frank.”

  “What?” Holman shook his head. Grant had never seen the man so scared. “Mr O’Shea, I’ve done everything to set this up. I have never let you down in the past.”

  “No,” the Irishman conceded. “But it only takes one mistake to lose the trust. Like a dog that runs away, or a wife who shags somebody else. You never truly regain the trust. You messed things up when you allowed yourself to be followed. And all the way from London no less. You must have been damn near asleep at the wheel…”

  “Look, Mark,” Holman swallowed. “Mr O’Shea, please, I’ve given you the contacts, pulled in favours, even got you the cracksman you needed,” he said, nodding towards Grant. “I’ve even brought in an investor…” O’Shea shot Holman a look and he stopped talking, glancing at Grant. “Look, you can trust me. It was one silly mistake…”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” O’Shea laughed. “The look on your face!” He stood up and smiled. “It’s okay, Frank. I trust you. I forgive you. I need a favour, that’s all.”

  “Yes, of course,” Holman looked relieved. “Anything.”

  “Good, good.” O’Shea walked to the door. “Come on then, both of you. Let’s see how things are working out up at the barn.” He walked ahead of them, out into the yard and stood to one side as a lorry drove past them and down the lane towards the road. The three men who had been in the barn when Grant first arrived were seated in the front. “They’re off to get the other two cars we need,” he said, matter-of-factly. O’Shea pushed the door open and stepped into the bright light.

  Powerful lamps had been rigged and Grant could see the Porsche sitting behind a tent of clear plastic sheeting, a red lamp glowing, drying the recent paintwork. The car was squat and wide and compact. Purposeful, fast-looking even at a standstill.

  There was another area of plastic sheeting a dozen paces away. This had been hastily erected, draped over hay bales and the side of the barn and the floor. The two men knelt in the middle of the sheet. Their hands bound behind their backs, their heads bowed.

  Grant looked at Holman, but the big man looked straight ahead, his eyes transfixed on the scene before him.

  O’Shea spoke with Danny Neeson for a moment. He nodded, asked something, then shook his head. It was a hasty conversation. He turned back to Holman and beckoned him forward. Neeson took out his pistol, screwed the bulbous suppressor into the adaptor that had been fitted to the muzzle. He readied the weapon.

  “Trust,” O’Shea said. “A little test, Frank. A little favour to me to show your commitment. These men are the loose ends from something you orchestrated many years ago. It’s time to sever those loose ends, before they ruin what we’ve planned here.”

  “No! Please…” one of the men cried out, but was struck on the back of the head by a piece of pipe that Patrick had been holding. The man slumped forwards onto his stomach and the other man grimaced. He started to shake, his foot creasing the plastic sheeting and sending ripples outwards.

  “I need to see your commitment, Frank.”

  “I am committed!” Holman shouted.

  “Then in that case, I need to see an act of penance.” He nodded to Neeson, who put the weapon in Holman’s hand and pointed it towards the two men. “Pull the trigger, Frank. Pull the trigger and everything will be right between you and me.”

  Holman’s hand started to shake. Neeson smirked as he released his grip and the weapon seemed to bounce around in the thick, sausage-like fingers at the end of Holman’s thick arms. “I… can’t,” he said quietly.

  “Can’t or won’t?” O’Shea asked.

  “Mr O’Shea, please,” begged Holman. “I haven’t let you down before…”

  “And nor will you again,” the Irishman said. “Point the gun at his head, pull the trigger. It’s simple.”

  “Please…” the man who remained kneeling begged. He was dealt with as swiftly as his companion. Both men now lay on their stomachs. The first man to go down was sobbing into the sheet.

  O’Shea shook his head. “Last chance, Holman. You’ll be fucking joining them in a moment.” Holman tried to steady his hand. He closed his
eyes at the last moment and fired. The bullet thudded into the ground between the two men and they both flinched as a clump of earth blew out of the ground and showered them with dried mud and tiny stones. “That’s the stuff!” O’Shea grinned. “Commitment, Frank. Commitment.” He walked over to Holman and took the pistol off him. He pointed it down to the men on the sheet and fired twice, so quick it sounded almost as if the weapon coughed just once, the suppressor drowning out the noise to nothing more than a loud cough. Both men kicked out, a spasm of violent movement, then lay quite still. There was a sudden tremor in one of the men’s legs on the ground. Holman lurched backwards and all of the men, except for Grant, laughed and jeered.

  O’Shea handed the pistol back to Neeson and nodded towards the door. “Right, now the fun and shenanigans are over, let’s get a brew.”

  22

  King filmed the unmarked lorry as it drove out from behind the building and parked with its engine running, outside the double doors of the huge barn. The driver sounded the horn, and almost instantly a man jogged out from the barn, around the front of the lorry and got into the passenger side of the cab. King kept filming, panning with the camera as the lorry travelled down the lane, until he had a perfect close shot of both men in the cab. He then gently placed the camera at his feet and crouched low, keeping perfectly still amongst the foliage to avoid detection.

  As the lorry eased out onto the road he noticed that the driver was the same man who had brought the van in, but this time he wasn’t going back the way he had come. Instead, he took the other direction, travelling towards Guildford. He relaxed as the lorry passed his vantage point. He stood up, yet kept behind the foliage and stretched his aching muscles. His secure cellular telephone vibrated suddenly, pre-set for silent ringing. He reached into his pocket and retrieved it, keeping his eyes on the farm and its entrance. He could not afford to let down his guard for a second.