Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  “Hello?” he answered quietly.

  “Mac, it’s Forsyth. How’s it going?”

  “Busy,” King commented. He watched as a man walked out of the barn towards the farmhouse. “It’s a real hive of activity here. And there’s more. Two unknowns turned up, they followed Holman. O’Shea and Neeson arrived shortly afterwards. There was an altercation, and then a proper kick-in. Both of the men were taken to the barn, and someone drove their car in there as well. I don’t think they’ll be coming back out anytime soon.”

  “Interesting. However, one can’t be responsible for the company others keep. I would say that there is no honour amongst thieves. I’m not sure we should risk derailing our intelligence gathering phase by looking too closely at the minute details.”

  “Ian, it’s not minute details. I think two guys have been either executed or imprisoned in the barn…”

  “I know!” Forsyth snapped. “But the Executive Order has been signed off on. We are now officially The Increment, and we have an execution or two to perform of our own. We’ve got rid of MI5 on this, we don’t need plod looking at a gangland killing now that we are so close. The peace agreement will be signed in less than a week and then all bets are off.”

  King kept his eyes on the farmyard and spoke quietly into the tiny telephone. “Well, there’s also the fact that something else, something major is going on here. We’ve got this Grant fellow, the safe-cracker, and Frank Holman. There are vehicles coming and going, and that barn is where it’s all going on.”

  “We have our own task.”

  “But they could be planning a huge event.”

  “Not our problem,” Forsyth replied. “Maybe you should have gone and worked for MI5?”

  “I’m a serving operative of MI6. I didn’t get to pick and choose.”

  “Shame.”

  “A major terrorist event would derail the peace process.”

  “Good. Then we get to play cowboys and Indians again.”

  “Sorry, I thought that’s what we were doing here,” King said. “I thought eliminating the likes of Neeson and O’Shea was meant to protect the peace agreement. Or is that just a load of old bollocks?”

  “There’s always a bigger picture, Alex. You and I may not be a part of it, but that’s no reason to find issues our end. Our task was to find a way to take out Mark O’Shea, and Danny Neeson if he poses a threat to life. We had to find a way for it to be done without witnesses, harm to others and it had to be done before the peace agreement was signed. That is all we had to do, and that is all we are going to do.”

  King may have been relatively new to the Secret Intelligence Service, and particular The Increment, but had been around long enough to know when to hold, and know when to fold. There wasn’t much room for negotiation here. “After it’s done,” King ventured. “Do we hand our findings over to the Security Service and Special Branch?”

  “Yes,” Forsyth paused. “Absolutely.”

  King knew a lie when he heard it. But he also knew that there would be no mileage in exposing it. He had gathered the intelligence, and knew the details. If he felt that his duty to Queen and country would be better served informing the security forces or the police, then he had no qualms about giving them an anonymous tip-off. But for now, he would play the game and keep his relationship with his liaison officer on workable terms. The trouble with MI6 was that when they used the skills of a specialist, they never truly accepted that the men were intelligent enough to know their own mind. King knew that more important than pulling a trigger was knowing when not to. He lifted the binoculars and looked at the farmhouse and the barn. He needed to know more. He needed to lull the intelligence officer into thinking it was solely for the purpose of killing the two known IRA terrorists. “Well that’s good to know Ian,” King said. “Now, let’s get back to the operation. It’s going to pay to know more. I’ll carry on here and meet you tonight at the flat.”

  “Very well, say around nine?”

  “Twenty-one-hundred?” King verified.

  “Oh have it your way, old boy. Have it your way.”

  23

  “Right, come with me, we’re going on a little outing,” Neeson said, looking down at Grant, who was seated at the table having just finished making a lengthy list. “If you’re quite ready,” he added sardonically. He put his empty cup down on the table.

  Grant folded the sheet of paper and passed it to Holman, who took it and started to read without a word. Grant had never seen Holman so shaken. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it in the barn. Holman, for all his swagger and talk, had never seen a man killed before.

  Neeson turned and led the way out of the house. Grant followed him across the courtyard towards the blue Saab then stood at the passenger door while the Irishman unlocked the driver’s door, activating the vehicle’s central locking.

  Neeson stared at him contemptuously. “You know the deal by now. Don’t mess us around, there’s more than just your life at stake.” He opened his door and smiled. “I shouldn’t have to threaten you anymore. If you cross us, I’ll enjoy seeing to your wife. After all, she is quite a peach.”

  Grant opened his door, ignoring Neeson’s comment. He knew that the man was trying to get under his skin, he had to try to resist the temptation to bite. Instead, he stared straight ahead, avoiding eye-contact with the man. “What are we doing?”

  Neeson scowled. He had hoped for some form of reaction from Grant, he always enjoyed baiting people, prided himself on being good at it. “We are going to the race track. They have some sort of antique fair going on today, and Mr O’Shea wants you to spot the security systems.” He turned the key in the ignition and the Saab’s quiet, refined engine gently fired into life.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if we had a camera. It’s best to take pictures of the systems, that way we can study them further when we get back.”

  Neeson chuckled. “Aye, already thought of, got one in the boot. I have a facility to develop the film back at the farmhouse. Not bad with a camera myself, but you already know that.” He smirked, as he drove out into the lane. “Got some good close ups of your beloved wife, didn’t I? She really is a looker, too bad she’s shagging someone else, isn’t it?”

  Grant glared at him. “I heard the same about your mother.”

  Neeson spun around in his seat, brought his hand up under Grant’s chin and seized him savagely by the throat. “You watch that mouth of yours, laddie!” He glared icily at him, as his lips formed a cruel, deceptive smile. “I can’t wait for you to mess up, and you will, it’s just a matter of time. And when you do, I’ll take pleasure in wiping your family out.” His grip tightened even more, and Grant felt the blood drain from his head, threatening to make him pass out. “But it won’t be before I’ve given your wife a damn good seeing to. I’ll tie her up, spread her out. Have a damn good time with her. I haven’t decided quite what I’ll do, yet. Either way, she’ll be screaming, and I’ll be smiling.”

  Grant smacked the man’s hand away and took a deep breath. “Cut the crap! You need me for a job and if you give me anymore shit, I swear to god I’ll fuck it all up for you,” he paused, expecting the Irishman to try and hit him, but to his surprise, the man simply glared at him. “You know,” he added. “You’re throwing down your bargaining chips too soon. You’ve already got me wishing I was back inside, don’t push me. There’s not much for me out here, maybe I’d be better off in prison again. You know, maybe I won’t be able to get into that safe before the law comes crashing the party. Thought about that?”

  Neeson looked at him, then started the vehicle. As he drove across the yard and towards the lane, he said without looking at him, “You will fuck-up, Grant. It’s in your nature. O’Shea has got it into his head that your man Holman is the vital link, and he trusts his opinion on you,” he paused as he swung the car onto the road and accelerated harshly. “But I’m here to look after the interests of the cause. Cross me, fail me or betray me and I’ll make you
wish you’d never been born.”

  Grant looked out of his window, casually bringing a hand up to rub his throat. He closed his eyes, wanting only to be out of this impossible situation, but he was in too deep. There was no way to go but forward. Forward with the job, which by now he found utterly hateful.

  ***

  King had moved back deeper into the undergrowth. Not wanting to tempt fate, he had thrown himself down onto the ground and lain perfectly still until the Saab had pulled out onto the road. Now that he could hear the vehicle’s engine accelerating into the distance, he had to move fast. If it reached the one-thousand metre maximum range of the tracking device, finding it could well prove to be near impossible.

  He sprang to his feet and pushed his way through the newly sprouting foliage, until he reached the clearing where he had parked the van out of sight of the road. He quickly unlocked the door and dropped down into the seat. The engine fired instantly and he engaged first gear and floored the accelerator. The front wheels spun briefly on the wet ground, spinning up clumps of mud and gravel, then gained traction and propelled the van erratically towards the road. A cursory check to the right was all that King had time for as he sped out onto the tarmac, changing gear as soon as his speed allowed. As he rounded the first corner onto a straight stretch of road, he opened the laptop on the seat beside him and switched on the tracking receiver. As he negotiated the next bend he precariously glanced down and selected the relevant file with the built-in mouse and waited for the dot to appear on the screen. He breathed a sigh of relief. The Saab was right on the cusp of the one-thousand metre cut off point, but at least he knew that he was on the right track. Further ahead lay a myriad of lanes, turnings and smaller roads, invariably leading to larger roads. At least he was in with a chance.

  The dot on the screen was flashing intermittently. He was at a good distance, keeping to a minimum of three-hundred metres, but never allowing more than eight-hundred metres separate the two vehicles.

  ***

  Neeson had travelled cross-country, keeping off the motorway. He had taken the A3 towards Esher then turned off onto the A309 towards Sunbury. The traffic had slowed the Saab down considerably. “We’ll not get into the park, it’s full of dealers and bargain-hunters. Besides, I don’t want to get stuck in any queues in case we’re sussed and need to bug out,” Neeson paused, looking down each side of the street as he drove. “Keep an eye out for a parking space.”

  Grant nodded dutifully and glanced down the street. “Over there.” He pointed unenthusiastically, then added, “Behind the red sports car.”

  Neeson nodded and drove up to the car in front. The car in front pulled past the space, its near side indicator flashing, then its reverse lights came on. Neeson drove right up to its bumper and blocked the driver’s manoeuvre. The driver held up his hands in despair then pointed towards the space, indicating that he had intended to park.

  “I know, pal,” Neeson muttered to himself. “But you’re shit out of luck.”

  The driver hurriedly unfastened his seat belt and got out of his car slamming his door shut. He stood in front of the Saab and mouthed an expletive, which he backed it up with a succession of insulting hand gestures.

  Grant turned to Neeson in protest. “Give him the space, you bloody idiot! We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  Neeson scowled. “Shut up! I’ve got this, I know what I’m bloody well doing!” He glared at the driver and held up his middle finger in mindless retaliation. The driver held up both his arms in exasperation then conceded and went back to his car. “See, I told you I knew what I was doing.” Neeson gloated, then pulled further forward when the car moved away. He took several attempts at manoeuvring the Saab, then after much effort slipped into the space between a classic MGB GT and a Volvo estate.

  Grant gritted his teeth. They had escaped a violent confrontation with the harassed driver and had finally got into the space. But at what cost? There was more and more CCTV going up these days, and the last thing they needed was to attract attention. He had also noted that Neeson was not a particularly skilful driver. The space had not been excessively small and would not have posed a problem for the majority of motorists. He hoped Neeson wasn’t going to be driving on the heist.

  The entrance to the park was awash with people coming and going. Grant watched as satisfied bargain and treasure hunters came out with their arms full of what they obviously considered to be great finds.

  “They have three inside stalls. The gold ring, the silver ring and the bronze ring, which also houses the tote hall. The inside stalls sell jewellery and fine antiques, while the outside stalls are nothing more than a glorified car boot sale.” Neeson smiled as a middle-aged woman struggled through the main gates, carrying a rather dire-looking stuffed moose head, much ravaged by moths. “That’s where we’re going. Through that gate, then straight across and into the first building.”

  ***

  King had to squeeze the van into a nearby gap where it fitted too snugly for comfort, well aware that it might prove a problem when he needed to leave. He got out and walked to the end of the street, peered around and was just in time to see the two men walk towards the entrance of the park. He noted any possible VDM’s (visual distinguishing marks), then set about following them towards the main gate.

  Simon Grant was wearing a blue and white ski jacket; with a red, fleece-lined hood. It was a poor pairing, he looked like a Union Jack. That became his VDM. Danny Neeson wore a pair of white, high-top running shoes, they were too chunky for his jeans and the bottoms stuck into the trainers. It was fashionable, had Neeson been ten-years younger. And a black American rapper. These became his VDM. Now, at a momentary glance, King would be able to pick the two men out without looking directly at their faces. Both men turned to their right, and walked casually to the entrance. He walked straight past the gate, glancing to his right as he did so. Satisfied that neither man was aware of his presence, he turned back and walked into the grounds. He kept a distance of approximately fifty-metres behind the two men, never looking directly at either of them and never standing out in the open.

  King noticed an attractive blonde woman in her early thirties who was browsing the stalls, which were a mixture of genuine antiques and timeworn bric-a-brac. She perused the stalls in the manner of one who knew exactly what she is looking for, disregarding items quickly upon inspection and not hiding her distaste. Most probably a dealer herself. He moved over towards her, then trailed behind, following her every move. To anyone who might have been watching, he was accompanying her as her somewhat bored, yet loyal partner.

  ***

  The two men stood at the far end of the cavernous building, with hordes of people dodging or pushing past them, as they hurriedly, almost frantically, went about their business. There were bargains to be had, deals to be made. It was a pleasant day out for bargain hunters, but just another day for traders. They snapped up deals, took them back to their stalls and traded them on.

  “This way,” Neeson ordered. “Let’s get a good look at the inside of the building. I want you to check over the layout.”

  “No.” Grant turned and looked at Neeson. “I want to check out the outside first. After all, it’s where we’ll have to start from.”

  Neeson scowled, but followed all the same. To a certain degree, Grant’s word would have to go, he knew more about this sort of work than he did. He slipped the Pentax camera off his shoulder, held it by the strap then swung it towards Grant. “Here, take what pictures you want, but don’t be too bloody obvious.”

  Grant felt a shiver run down his spine. Just the thought of Neeson hidden away with that very camera, taking pictures of Lisa and David, made him feel sick to his stomach. They had been oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. How easily the camera could have been a rifle sight. He snatched the camera off him then held it down by his side. “I don’t understand. Surely if we’re going in after the last race has finished, we won’t have to bypass the secu
rity systems, as they won’t be operating. The security staff will be the main problem.”

  “Not so loud!” Neeson hissed at him, then caught hold of him by his shoulder. “You’re going in after the security staff have finished. We weren’t quite straight with you. The job will commence much later than we first said. Just take note of the systems, and we’ll talk later.”

  Grant kept walking. Something wasn’t right. The whole set-up seemed sketchy, only partly thought-out. Unless they were omitting to divulge all the details for another reason.

  ***

  “Charlotte, darling!” The man called out, waving a patterned silk handkerchief in theatrical manner. “I haven’t seen you in an age!”

  The woman held out her arms in an equally theatrical manner and waited for the imminent embrace. The man duplicated the reaction and leapt elegantly towards her. He was around six-foot-three and pear-shaped, with womanly hips. His dress was neo-gothic, with great cuffs and his coat was fastened with large, silver buckles. The two air kissed with a foot between them.

  King dodged down the side of a car and around into the next thoroughfare of trading stalls. He slipped around the group of traders talking at the edge of the stalls, and backtracked. He’d lost them. He looked all around, and felt the familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that tells you that you just may have blown it. He scanned the crowds. There were hordes of people, the majority practically stationary, browsing the stalls on both sides. Between these were people moving both from and towards the main building. Mostly, they had filtered to one side or the other, like a road, but there were always a few people who didn’t get on board and occasionally the crowds would part. He caught sight of Grant, standing near a stall and aiming a camera at the building. To anyone who might have observed, he looked as if he were just becoming familiar with his new purchase. Instead, King could see that Grant had just taken a picture of the closed circuit camera system that was mounted halfway up the tall streetlamp on the near side of the racing track. Sure enough, Danny Neeson was standing beside him scanning the crowd.