by A P Bateman
“Fine, but I’m still driving.”
Ross bent down, picked up his small leather travel bag and followed Sean towards the Ford Mondeo. “How come you don’t feel like a sack o’shit?”
“Just a tough bastard, that’s all.” Sean laughed as he opened the driver’s door, threw his bag on the rear seat and dropped down heavily on the driver’s side. “Come on lightweight! Move your drunken arse!” He slammed the door shut, then started the engine.
***
King glanced at his watch and smiled. “Any time now, you bastards,” he mused.
“What?” Grant asked, turning in his seat to look at him.
“Oh, nothing,” he said quietly. “Just thinking out loud.”
***
Ross opened the passenger door and flopped lethargically into the seat. “Come on then, are we going or not?”
Sean engaged first gear, revved the engine then suddenly dropped the clutch. The vehicle’s front wheels spun briefly on spot, and sent a mixture of mud, gravel and assorted debris over the sides of the car, before lunging violently forwards. Sean laughed out loud as Ross’s head was thrown backwards into his seat. “Fast enough for you?” he smirked, watching the expression on his friend’s suddenly pale face.
The tiny ball of mercury rolled backwards and impacted against the metal connector, completing the electrical circuit. The digital counter had been pre-set and instantly activated its three-minute countdown. When it reached zero, the arming switch would charge and the detonator would explode into the one-pound block of PE4 plastic explosive.
Big boy’s games, big boy’s rules.
***
Danny Neeson jumped up suddenly, plucked savagely from his sound and contented sleep by the familiar, unmistakable noise of the distant explosion. He leapt out of bed, quickly pulled a pair of jeans over his boxer shorts, then bolted out of the door and onto the landing.
O’Shea stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, wearing only a towel round his waist and a bewildered expression. “What the fuck was that?”
“What the fuck do you think it was?” Neeson ran past him and stared out of the landing window. “It was a fucking bomb! You’ve heard enough of them to know what the hell it was!” He bolted back across the landing towards his bedroom, looking at O’Shea as he went. “Get some bloody clothes on, we’ll go and take a look!” Neeson knew the sound well. He had grown up with the sounds of them on the streets of Belfast. Set enough of them off in his time, and had been around to witness the ensuing carnage. He hurriedly pulled on a sweater and slipped into his tatty trainers, then ran back out onto the landing and down the narrow, wooden staircase.
O’Shea bounded after him, catching up with him in the kitchen. He was ten-years older and a stone heavier than Neeson. He struggled to catch his breath. “Ross and Sean left only minutes ago, I heard them driving down the lane. Titting about, so they were. Revving the arse off the engine and skidding in the mud. The couple of twats, they’ve crashed, that’s what they’ve done…” O’Shea followed him outside.
“Bollocks! That was plastic explosive,” Neeson replied as he stared out across the glistening, dew-drenched fields towards the sun. “There!” He pointed for the benefit of O’Shea, who was squinting into the direct sunlight. “Smoke. Less than a couple of miles away!”
“Let’s check it out, it might not be them. Get the keys to the Saab.” O’Shea walked towards the door and reached his hand out to the passenger door.
“Wait!” Neeson ran over to him and caught him by the shoulder, pulling him back forcefully. “Use your fucking head, man! If that was Ross and Sean, then there might well be a device on this!” He stepped back a few feet and cautiously started to look around the vehicle, then bent down and peered underneath. He worked his way slowly around the car, but paused suddenly at the offside, rear wheel arch. “Bastards!” He reached carefully underneath, then gently pulled out the little black box. “Fucking bastards!”
“What is it, a bomb?” O’Shea asked, peering curiously over Neeson’s shoulder.
“No, looks like some kind of transmitter,” he replied quietly. “We’ve bloody well been made!” He threw the device across the farmyard, then quickly turned back to O’Shea. “Get the keys to the barn, quickly!”
O’Shea shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You don’t think they...?” He turned around quickly and ran inside, not waiting for, nor wanting, an answer. He made his way frantically across the kitchen, then ripped one of the drawers out of the dresser and hurriedly snatched up a set of keys.
Neeson had already reached the barn and was waiting impatiently beside the smaller of the two doors. “Hurry up will you!” he snapped as O’Shea trudged carelessly through the muddy puddles that dotted the farmyard.
O’Shea reached the key towards the padlock with a shaking hand, only to have the key snatched from his grasp as Neeson quickly unfastened the lock. He barged through the doorway, then ran across the floor space towards the pile of straw bales. He pulled them away, throwing them frantically to the side, then ripped the polythene cover away, to reveal the large steel door.
O’Shea took the key from around his neck, then knelt down and quickly twisted the dial to offset the combination lock. He slipped the key into the lock, then frowned up at Neeson. “I locked it yesterday, it’s bloody unlocked!”
Neeson caught hold of the door, and with gargantuan strength, heaved the door open, dropping it back against the remaining straw bales.
The two men stared in silence; their eyes fixed on the empty chasm in front of them. O’Shea stood up slowly, turning his back on the scene. He seemed suddenly calm, despite the discovery. “Tell me Danny, how does a killing sound to you?” he paused, looking at him briefly. “A cold, slow killing?”
Neeson turned his eyes from the empty safe and stared at him. “Frank Holman?”
“Of course! Nobody else knew the location of that safe,” he said, shaking his head despondently. “Nobody else even knew we had a safe. Ross and Sean didn’t, and Keith Parker was long gone by the time we stashed the money. I knew that it was a mistake. Letting that fat, devious bastard see the safe. He’ll suffer, that’s for sure.”
Neeson shook his head. “There’s no way that Holman would have been able to shift that lot! What about Ross and Sean?”
O’Shea glared at him. “Ross and Sean are good lads, fully committed to the cause and have been since they were in short trousers. We never showed them the safe. Never even mentioned it. Besides, I’d bet my right arm that they’re spread all over the road, not two miles away. And I’ll bet what’s left of me, that there isn’t a shred of money at the scene.” He softened his expression and looked at him quizzically. “You’re not seeing it, are you?” He smiled somewhat patronisingly at him. “Simon Grant took the money. Frank Holman tipped him off. I thought it was too good to be true, him setting up his old mate to take the fall, but I trusted him all the same. The bastards were in it together from the start, there is no other explanation. Grant didn’t die at Kempton Park.”
“Then why stop at just Ross and Sean, why not blow us to kingdom come?”
“Who knows? Perhaps they didn’t have time? Perhaps they just wanted to scare us off, send us to ground? Either way, they’ve made a serious mistake crossing us!”
“What do we do then?” Neeson asked. “They’re hardly going to hang around and wait for us to catch up with them.”
O’Shea smiled wryly. “We know that Holman was planning to go to France, I doubt that he’d expect us to follow, he probably thinks we will be running back home with our tails between our legs. Stupid bastard!” He looked coldly at his fellow Irishman, his teeth clenched tightly together. “We’re going to take a little trip, teach that fat bastard a lesson that he’ll never forget.”
“And what about Grant? I doubt he’ll be hanging around for us to find him. I still don’t see how Grant got away from the racetrack.”
“Grant is not the immediate issue. We can c
atch up with him later. Right now, I want Holman’s balls on a platter.”
Neeson chuckled out loud. “And how do you suggest we find him?”
O’Shea grinned through clenched teeth “Oh, there are ways, my friend,” he mused, somewhat cryptically. “There are ways.”
***
Alex King reached for the ringing telephone as he pulled the BMW into the side of the car park at Folkestone station, loading depot for Le Shuttle. He eased the vehicle to a halt, then slipped the automatic gearbox into park before pressing the receive button. “Hello.”
“Alex, this is Ian. Just thought I’d try catching up with you before you boarded the train,” Forsyth paused. “Where are you now?”
“Folkestone,” King answered. “We should be boarding the next train in around twenty-five minutes.”
“Excellent,” Forsyth said, then hesitated. “I thought I’d inform you, the Irish have swallowed the bait. Hook, line and sinker. They suspect that Holman tipped Grant off about the bombing, and that he’s still alive.”
King glanced across at Grant, then turned his eyes back to the array of buildings ahead of him. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said quietly. “I take it you saw their reaction to the empty safe?”
“Absolutely, old boy. Quite satisfying really.”
“What about Holman? If he doesn’t leave today, they could catch up with him too soon. He might be able to plead his case.”
“Leave that to me, old boy. I’ll see what I can do, try and keep them at bay for a while. What you have to bear in mind, is that they might not be far behind you from now on. I suggest that you get down there as quickly as possible.”
“That is the plan.” King watched a row of vehicles move slowly forward, then slipped the gearbox into drive and started to edge his way forwards. “Listen, we have to go now. You will not be able to contact me for at least another hour, so try updating me later.”
“Very well, old boy. Safe journey, to both of you. Cheerio.”
King slipped the telephone back into his pocket, then looked across at Grant as they slowly crawled forwards into the line of waiting traffic. “That was just an update, seems your Irish friends have fallen for it.” He turned back to the line of crawling vehicles, omitting to inform Grant that they now suspected that he was alive. The last thing that he wanted to do was to put Grant under further pressure. “The only problem we could have at the moment, is if Holman doesn’t leave for France today.”
“Suits me, either way.” Grant smiled, the thought of what the Irishmen might do to Holman obviously agreed with him.
“No. It might not.” King brought the BMW to a halt as the line of vehicles came to a standstill. “If they don’t find the money with Holman, he might just be able to dissuade them from harming him. He has worked with them in the past. If that’s the case, they will be on an all-out search for you. And believe me, their reach is very long indeed. This time, they might just harm your family,” he paused, then cut Grant off before he could protest. “Regardless of their working relationship with Keith Parker.”
Grant looked away, turning his eyes towards a team of customs officers who were walking towards a stationary camper van. “You bastards,” he said quietly, then turned and stared contemptuously at King. “You bastards knew that this might happen, that Holman may not leave before they catch up with him. But still you chanced it. My family’s lives are at risk and there is nothing that I can do about it.”
King nodded. “There was always the chance, yes. But we were giving you the chance to go free as well. You’re up to your eyeballs in this, you took part in their operation. You should be doing some serious time for your involvement.”
“I was threatened! My family were threatened!” Grant protested vehemently. “Their lives were at stake. I didn’t have a choice.”
King shook his head. “That’s what you say. But you agreed to the job before they threatened you. You had already caved in to the money Holman offered you. Any threat made by them afterwards was to keep you on track.”
“I was coerced!”
“I’m not sure it would look like that if it went to court,” King ventured. “Where’s your evidence? And now you’re here to inflict some payback on Frank Holman. It’s your big chance to set things right.”
Grant slumped back in his seat. “We all know whose big chance this is,” Grant sneered. “Your friend Forsyth’s chance to sweep his mistake under the carpet. In the name of protecting sporadic peace in Northern Ireland. Your mission veered off course and people died because of your lack of direction, lack of action. Getting this money out of the hands of the IRA and letting them run amok in a personal vendetta. Perhaps they’ll clear all of your loose ends up and both you and Forsyth come out with a clean pair of hands,” he said. “Or maybe it will all go south and you’ll get further and deeper in the shit. You can count on one thing though. None of it will stick to that man Forsyth. I hope you’re aware he’ll stick it all on you.”
***
Neeson pulled himself out from under the vehicle, stood up slowly, then tentatively slipped the key into the lock and opened the driver’s door. He released the bonnet catch, then walked around to the front of the car and cautiously lifted the bonnet.
O’Shea stared into the distance, where the steady plume of dark bluish smoke was still rising from the scene of the recent explosion. He could hear the sound of approaching sirens in the distance, and promptly turned to Neeson. “How long will it take? The police are on the scene now; they might come round here looking for witnesses.”
Neeson closed the bonnet of the Saab, satisfied that there were no more devices attached to the vehicle. “I’m done now. Have you got everything?” O’Shea walked over from where he had been taking refuge behind the wall of the garden, then dropped two bags onto the ground in front of Neeson. “Here, take these, I’ll go and get the rest of the gear.”
Neeson picked up both bags and carried them around to the back of the Saab and opened the rear hatch. He dropped the bags into the boot space, then waited for O’Shea to reappear with two large travel bags. “Have we got travelling money?”
O’Shea placed the two bags carefully on the ground and grinned. “Aye, you leave the details to me. Have you got a weapon?”
Neeson lifted both travel bags into the boot and smiled. He unfastened the zip on one of them, reached into the bottom and retrieved a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum snub-nose revolver. He opened the cylinder, checking that all six wad-cutter rounds were in place, then snapped it shut and slipped the weapon into the waistband of his trousers. “Why don’t you leave that little detail to me?” he said coldly as he closed the rear hatch, and walked around to the driver’s door. “If we don’t catch up with Holman before he leaves the country, I can always stash the gun somewhere in the car before we go through customs.”
O’Shea opened his door and shook his head. “No. We won’t risk it. Not with our accents. Ditch it, you can always pick up something over there.” He dropped down into the passenger seat and turned to Neeson as he fastened his seat belt. “Come on, I want that bastard dead. The sooner the better.”
Neeson started the engine and spoke through gritted teeth. “I might just strangle the life out of the fat bastard instead.”
***
Frank Holman heaved his heavy suitcase into the boot of the Mercedes and nestled it firmly against his set of Ping golf clubs, in the saloon’s cavernous storage space. He was not particularly skilled at the game; nor did he profess to like it, though he liked the idea of it. Moreover, he had struck many a business deal in the infamous nineteenth hole, with many a tall tale to match.
He slammed the boot down then walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. Easing his considerable bulk behind the steering wheel, he closed the door and reached behind for the seat belt. He panted with the effort, stretching as far as he could, then pulled the belt triumphantly across his bloated stomach, which nestled snugly against the leather steering wheel. He sta
rted the quiet, refined engine, slipped the automatic gearbox into drive, then drove out towards the open gates, gliding smoothly over the loose gravel, before hesitating briefly to check the oncoming traffic. He pulled out and pressed down hard on the accelerator, swiftly waking the idling engine, then in the same instant, he slammed his foot down on the brake. “Bloody idiot!” he shouted, then as an afterthought, he slammed his fist against the horn and held up his middle finger in an obscene gesture. He swerved around the stationary vehicle, then stared vehemently into his rear-view mirror. “What an arsehole!” he muttered. “Stopping to use his bloody mobile phone!”
***
Forsyth kept his head down and pressed the re-dial button on his mobile telephone. He allowed Holman to reach the end of the quiet street, then pulled smoothly out into the main road. The lady on the other end of the line politely informed him, albeit through a somewhat nauseating recording, that the number he was calling was in fact unobtainable. He pressed the off button with his thumb and dropped the telephone disdainfully onto the passenger seat. Instead, Forsyth returned his concentration to Frank Holman’s Mercedes, which was approximately two-hundred and fifty metres in front of him. He glanced down at the laptop, resting on the seat beside him. He had fitted the tracker soon after he arrived. A simple magnetic affair that emitted a beacon to a distance of around one-thousand metres. Once Holman was out of sight, Forsyth eased out into the road and followed the red dot on the screen.
37
Neeson swung the Saab erratically off the quiet tree-lined street and into Holman’s driveway, the vehicle drifting sideways on the layer of loose gravel, then skidding to a halt.
O’Shea clenched his teeth, as he noticed the empty parking bay. “Bastard!” He turned towards Neeson, his face contorted in anger. “We can get the information we want from his slut of a wife. She’ll not put up much of a fight.” He reached for the door handle but was stopped in his tracks as Neeson grabbed him by the shoulder.
