Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  Grant uncoupled the stethoscope from his aching ears and let the instrument hang freely from around his neck. Having completed the combination sequence, he picked up the case containing the picklocks, then carefully opened it and selected a small diamond-tipped pick and a slightly larger titanium key. He took the Mini-Maglite from his pocket, twisted the aperture to produce a wide beam, then slipped it between his teeth. Grant rested on his stomach, wincing suddenly as his ribs bore the brunt of his weight. He bit down on the metal torch, in a bid to quell the pain, then repositioned the torch between his teeth, until the bright red beam shone against the lock. He slipped the tiny pick into the lock, then inserted the titanium key and started to probe the maze of gates inside the lock, in search of the elusive tumbler. King glanced briefly at Grant, then returned his attention to the light. There seemed even less point in worrying the man and putting him under pressure, he would not be able to work any faster without making a mistake.

  After a further minute or so, which seemed like an eternity, the light in the upstairs window switched off. King kept his eyes on the farmhouse, alternating his gaze from the window to the door, then around the surrounding area. He was quite certain that the light had been due to an early morning call of nature - no doubt there had been a serious amount of alcohol consumed during their celebrations – now nature was taking its course.

  Grant jiggled and probed for the final time, releasing the last of the tumblers, which could only be attempted in a specific sequence. He patiently replaced the picklocks into the case, then turned towards King. “It’s done,” he whispered. “Give us a hand with the door.”

  ***

  Ian Forsyth blew out a long, thin plume of pungent cigarette smoke and grinned. “Well done, chaps. Well done indeed…” He blew three perfect smoke rings, which drifted lazily across the room towards the doorway. He watched them disintegrate on the ceiling, then turned his eyes back to the monitor. King had tied the bags together, looping them over his shoulder. It was a considerable weight, possibly similar to his own, but he managed to walk reasonably freely to the door. Grant struggled with the two rucksacks of equipment. He watched as the two men left the bags in the doorway and returned to the safe. They replaced the safe lid and scattered the straw, leaving the barn as they had found it. Forsyth and King had deliberated upon how to leave the safe, deciding that if the safe were discovered too soon, then it would not allow enough time for Holman to leave for France. Of course, they were banking everything on the fact that the man would do just that. But O’Shea had insisted that the man lie low. They just hoped he would take the IRA quartermaster’s advice.

  Forsyth watched intently, as the two men returned to the entrance of the barn, exited with the bags and closed the door behind them. He stood up, stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray. There was nothing left to see, but he still had a great deal to do.

  ***

  Grant re-locked the padlock using the pick-locks. He then followed King’s path to the hedgerow. King was starting to feel the strain, losing his footing over the uneven ground. It was a great deal of weight, and the para-cord he had used to fasten the bags together was digging mercilessly into his shoulders. Grant felt the weight of the two rucksacks he carried, as well as the money sack. It was a heavy a load as he could manage, only adrenalin and the thought of retribution spurred him onwards. He clenched his teeth tightly together in a bid to ignore the pain that was hammering in his ribs.

  King dropped his load at the base of the hedge, then turned to Grant and pointed to the shadows. “Wait here, there is something else I have to take care of.”

  Without further word, he bolted across the farmyard, then skidded to a halt behind the Peugeot. He kept his eyes on the farmhouse, watching intently for a few seconds; before running in a low crouch to the Ford Mondeo. Again, he checked the farmhouse, making absolutely certain that his presence had not been detected. Satisfied that all was well, he bent down, rolled onto his back, then pushed himself under the vehicle. He reached into the inside pocket of his tatty leather jacket and retrieved a tiny package. The package was approximately six inches long, by four inches wide and almost three inches thick. He reached up and rubbed the dirt away from the underside of the fuel tank, then peeled an adhesive layer from the back of the package and pressed it firmly against the roughly prepared area. He held it in place for about fifteen-seconds, then carefully removed his hand. The package remained in position, bonded securely by the quick-setting adhesive. Located to the side of the package were a ring-pin and a simple connector switch. King gently removed the pin and slipped it into his pocket. Next, he flicked the switch, then eased himself out from underneath the vehicle.

  A cursory glance at the farmhouse was all that he needed, before slipping silently into the shadows and making his way back to where Grant was waiting in the undergrowth. King picked up his heavy load, then caught hold of Grant’s shoulder, pulling him abruptly to his feet. “Come on. Time to move out!”

  36

  Back at the flat, Alex King sent Grant off to get washed and changed. Forsyth, displaying either empathy and foresight, had left a selection of clothes in what he hoped would be Grant’s size and choice of style, in plain view on one of the chairs in the lounge.

  With Grant out of the room, King went over to the pile of sacks and started to unfasten them one by one. He stacked the bundles into neat piles - six currencies in all. Although he did not have time to count it, he would certainly not have been surprised if the amount totalled over five-million pounds. Or even ten. He had no idea what large amounts of money looked like. Forsyth had left an extremely large, brown leather suitcase for him to use. King picked up the suitcase, carried it to the coffee table and dropped it to the floor. He opened the lid and started to stack the bundles of currency neatly into the suitcase. It was a notably tight fit, occupying almost all of the full-size suitcase, but with the money in place, he picked up the selection of clothes and arranged them on top, pressing them down tightly to avoid the money from moving around when the case would be carried. He closed the lid of the case, then applied all of his weight as he went about fastening the two large buckles to either side of the carrying handle. As he heaved the case upright onto to its tiny wheels he noticed the label attached, which read: Frank Holman, complete with his home address in Epsom.

  King smiled wryly. As usual, Ian Forsyth had thought of everything.

  “Ready to go,” Grant said as he walked over to his adopted chair and sat down heavily. His hair was wet and he looked flush from his shower.

  King glanced at him and nodded an approval. He looked far better in Forsyth’s selection of clothes; at least the mustard-coloured slacks actually fitted him, along with the white polo shirt and tan leather jacket.

  “Even the shoes are a good fit,” Grant grinned, extending his right foot to show off the tan leather loafer. “Forsyth certainly has good taste, they’re Lacoste.”

  King nodded approvingly, though not entirely sure why he had. Normally, he had no time for labels. He could never see why people went to such lengths in a vain effort to impress one another by collecting such motifs. When it came down to it, did the fact that someone paid five times the cost of an own brand really make any difference? Were people meant to jump with excitement and fall down on their backsides at the sight of an expensive logo? But then he remembered the Rolex watch he had long coveted. He would buy it one day, had resisted the soullessness of the counterfeit ones he had seen on his travels. There was no reward in shortcuts.

  King hefted up the substantial weight of the suitcase then turned back to Grant. “Right, I won’t be long,” he said, then added, “Be sure not to go anywhere.” He walked towards the hallway, then glanced back and grinned, patting the side of the suitcase. “You’ll forgive me for not wanting to leave this with you, won’t you?” King propped the case up against the bath and showered quickly, letting the steamy spray briefly over the muscles in his aching shoulders. He soaped himself vigorously, then rinsed the
foam away before turning the dial down to its coldest setting and letting the icy spray refresh him. He wanted to awaken his senses, it was going to be a long night. He towelled himself dry, then dressed quickly in his own selection of clean clothes. He had decided to dress in smart casuals, making his and Grant’s cover of businessmen interested in tourism, more credible. Adopting a style similar to Grant’s, he wore a pair of new black jeans, a light blue cotton shirt and light tan desert boots. He topped it off with a smart trench coat. It looked pretty casual for most people, but for the tough specialist, it was his Sunday best.

  He opened the bathroom door and dragged the heavy suitcase with him across the hallway and into his bedroom. Next, he took the Browning out of its leather holster and ejected the magazine, then pulled back the slide to eject the chambered cartridge. With the weapon cleared, he disassembled it into its five separate parts - spring, barrel, working parts, slide and magazine. He took a clean, dry cotton cloth and cleaned each part thoroughly, wiping off all traces of excess oil. With the parts relatively clean, he wrapped each piece carefully in sheets of scented tissue before placing them in individual plastic sandwich bags with self-sealing fastenings, making sure that no excess air was left in the bags before sealing them

  He then took the bundles, along with five unused plastic bags, into the bathroom. He laid them down on the cabinet surface, then put the plug into the sink and ran a little hot water. Then he squeezed a whole tube of toothpaste into the sink and worked it into the hot water, creating a thick, white paste. Next, he took the packages and placed them in the sink one at a time, coating them with the toothpaste concoction. From there they went into the unused bags, which he sealed immediately. King carried the packages back to the bedroom, where he dropped them inside his sports-bag, then picked up the suitcase by its carrying handle and wheeled it towards the lounge.

  Grant looked up at him expectantly as he entered the room. “Are we going now?” he asked, making a move to leave his chair.

  King nodded as he pulled the heavy case through the lounge towards the front door. With Simon Grant safely seated in the BMW, he dragged the suitcase to the rear of the vehicle, then opened the boot and heaved the case inside. He dropped his sports bag beside it, then opened the zip and removed the five separate packages. King hastily removed the left-hand light panel, which houses the rear lights, brake lights and indicator bulbs, then dropped the two packages containing the weapon’s slide and magazine inside. He then removed the right-hand panel and carefully placed the spring and the barrel in the compartment, before closing the panel and checking it would not come loose too easily. He closed the boot, locked it with the key, then walked around to the side of the vehicle and opened the rear offside door. He bent down and quickly pulled the bottom edge of the door panel away from its fastenings then dropped the package containing the working parts of the pistol into the door cavity. He pressed the panel back into its original position, then reapplied the studs, and fastened them securely.

  King doubted that the vehicle would be subject to a thorough search either on leaving the country, or upon entering France. The more detailed searches always seemed to come on the return journey, when most travellers have by far and away exceeded their duty-free purchases, or are intent on smuggling vast amounts of cheap alcohol and tobacco to sell at a profit. King would certainly not risk bringing the weapon home, especially as it would be tainted, if all went to plan.

  Should the vehicle be searched on the outward journey, he had taken two precautions - the scented tissues surrounding the weapon’s parts had proved sufficient to outsmart trained sniffer dogs, which are unable to detect the smell of oil and nitrates over the overpowering scent. The vehicle was unlikely to be subject to search by x-ray, and a metal-detecting device could not be used for obvious reasons. However, should the vehicle be x-rayed, the high counts of glycerine, sodium magnesium silicate and sodium lauryl sulphate create a sufficient barrier of residue to deceive the x-ray’s vision. The smell of the toothpaste also confused sniffer dogs further.

  King opened the driver’s door and got into the vehicle, glancing momentarily at Grant, who was tapping his fingers against the dashboard, obviously needing to release a great deal of pent-up nervous tension. He looked down at the two road maps, which were propped up in Grant’s foot-well, leaning against the centre console. “Fancy being navigator?” he asked amiably.

  Grant stopped tapping his fingers and shrugged. “Sure,” he paused, picking up the road atlas of Great Britain. “What road are we looking for?”

  King started the BMW’s virtually silent engine and slipped the automatic gearbox into drive, then pulled out of the small parking area and onto the main road. There was a throaty rumble from the engine and exhausts as he accelerated. “We will travel down the A24, then join the M25,” he said as he crawled through the roundabout and accelerated out onto the A24. “Then we want the M26. What junction is that on?”

  “I thought you’d know the way.”

  “No.” King lied smoothly. He did not want Grant in a nervous state, the task at hand was going to be difficult enough as it was. The man must regain at least a little composure. Giving Grant a role, albeit a token one, would at least take his mind off the forthcoming, and probably most difficult, part of the plan.

  Grant ran his finger along the blue line that indicated the route of the M25. His finger stopped and he looked up at King. “We join the M26 at junction five.”

  “Great,” King commented, as he overtook a slow-moving lorry, then pulled back into his original lane, resuming the speed limit. “Le Shuttle leaves from Folkestone. Can you find the exact route?”

  “Sure.” Grant studied the map and ran his finger along the page, struggling to keep his place against the combined effects of the movement of the car, and the dim light of breaking dawn. “We turn off onto the M20 at junction three, travel for around thirty miles, then take junction eleven, Folkestone,” he said. “How long does the train take to get there? I don’t fancy the idea of being underground, under the seabed for that matter, for too long.”

  King did his best to sound as inexperienced as Grant. Not only did he know the way without the use of road maps, he had made the journey twice before. He frowned, shaking his head. “Not long, I hope. I hate the idea of a tunnel that length. From what I gather, it takes around thirty-five minutes, with about twenty minutes or so at each end for loading and unloading the vehicles.” He looked down at his black shock-proof watch, then glanced across at Grant who already seemed much more at ease. “We should board the train at seven thirty; at the very latest, we should be in France by nine o’clock.”

  ***

  Frank Holman yawned, stretched, and then swung his stubby legs over the side of the bed. He stretched again, exaggerating another loud yawn, then eased his considerable bulk off the bed. He padded across the polished wooden floorboards and into his own ensuite bathroom, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. “Morning you handsome bastard!” He let out a loud, deeply satisfying belch. “Or should I say, you handsome, rich bastard…” He turned on both taps and slipped the plug into the sink. The sudden rush of running water made him quickly change his plans, and he hurried over to the toilet, hopping uncomfortably from foot to foot as his desperate need grew, barely giving himself enough time to raise the seat. After the near-orgasmic pleasure of his first piss of the day, he flushed the toilet, then returned to the overfilling sink to resume his morning routine.

  Danny Neeson’s words had shaken him, chilled him almost to the bone. Holman had a million-pounds on him; a million reasons why O’Shea and Neeson might want to change their minds. He had decided to get out of the country today, keep out of their way for a while, then maybe help on their next job for a much smaller fee, or even for free, as a gesture of good will. A month or so beside the sea, drinking Pernod in the quiet bars, then he would return to England and contact O’Shea once more.

  He had secured the money in his wall safe, setting aside sixty-thousand po
unds for his French excursion. Sixty-thousand would entertain him for a month, depending on how his luck ran in the casinos of Biarritz. Even with his home near Bordeaux, he liked to stay for a few days in some of the grander hotels in Biarritz. The town had a classy, old fashioned feel to it, and the casinos were grand and luxurious. Most of his money would go on the elegant hostesses who would accompany him on such jaunts. At over five-hundred pounds a night, there was no service that they were unwilling to perform, especially for a big tipper like Frank Holman.

  ***

  At seven a.m. Ross stepped outside the annex built onto the barn and squinted in the bright light of sunrise. It was a fine morning, the glare of the sun made worse by the dew-soaked grass in the surrounding fields.

  Sean walked outside and paused at his friend’s side. “Ready?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Just sniffing the air. Too much booze last night, trying to clear my head.”

  Sean snatched the keys out of Ross’ hand. “That settles it then, you drunken bastard! I’m driving. You can’t keep a car on the road at the best of times, let alone when you’re half cut!” He walked swiftly down the pathway and into the courtyard.

  “Slow down, you’re just showing off, you bastard! You had yourself as much liquor as I did! Jesus, I need a fry-up. Let’s get a good breakfast at the first services, alright?”