Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  “Stop it! For Christ’s sake stop this madness!” Lisa rolled David off her lap. “Stay there, my boy. Don’t turn around. Everything is going to be fine…” She stood up and hurried across to a small teak writing bureau in the opposite corner of the room. She opened the lid, then rummaged quickly through a pile of papers, before holding up a palm-sized address book. “Here, it’s in here. All Holman’s businesses and his addresses both here and in France.” She flicked through the book, found the page she was looking for and tore it out. She then held it out for O’Shea. He took the page from her and read it, before tucking it into his pocket. Lisa looked across at Parker, who rested limply in the chair. He was moaning quietly, battling unconsciousness. His knee had practically disappeared, the great power of the .357 magnum bullet had simply disintegrated the cartilage and shattered the surrounding structure of bone, which in turn, had ripped the flesh clean away. It was still bleeding heavily.

  O’Shea nodded to Neeson. “Come on Danny, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Neeson looked at Lisa. She had returned to the sofa and was hugging David tightly to her. “Listen sweetie pie, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t go calling the police for a while. If you’re sensible, you will give us a few minutes to get clear, and if I were you, I would forget our faces pretty damn quickly,” he paused as he caught hold of the door handle. “Better get something on that knee, or he’ll bleed himself dry.”

  Neeson closed the door behind him and moments later Lisa heard the sound of a vehicle pulling out of the drive. She started to relax a little, relieved that she had not been harmed.

  “Help me.” The voice was faint, as Parker spoke through the bundled handkerchief. He had managed to force most of it out of his mouth, which by now had become soaked in a sticky mass of congealed blood and saliva.

  Lisa snapped to her senses. She bent down and looked at the state of his knee, not knowing what to do or how best to help him. She picked up the tattered cushion and pressed it tightly against his wound, then started to unfasten his makeshift bindings. “It will be all right, just hang on,” she said quietly, attempting to put him more at ease.

  “Call me a bloody ambulance, you stupid bloody bitch!” Parker clenched his teeth together, as he felt a sudden shock of pain surge through him. “Do it now or I’ll bleed to death. Go on do it! Are you stupid or what?”

  Lisa pulled her hands back from the knotted shoelaces and looked at David. “Honey, go upstairs and get your coat.” David promptly did as he was told. Lisa looked back at Keith. “You tried to have him killed. My husband, the father of my child,” she paused, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Why would you do that?”

  “For Christ’s sake, you stupid slut! I’m bleeding to death here, get me an ambulance!”

  Unperturbed, she continued, “And those people killed in the robbery, your employees. You agreed for them to be killed as part of your heist?”

  Parker grimaced in pain, then stared up at her. “Yes! I did everything that they said. For you… for us.” He squinted at her, losing focus as his consciousness started to ebb away. “Now go and get me some help, you stupid cow! What the hell are you waiting for?”

  She looked towards the door, then back at him, her face suddenly decisive, determined. She reached down and picked up the blood-soaked handkerchief, then stuffed it into his open mouth, so far back he started to gag. She turned round and walked to the door, wavering with her hand resting on the door handle. “Goodbye, Keith,” she said quietly, almost to herself. She opened the door, then turned again and smiled at him as he moaned loudly. “There’s no point in struggling. Why don’t you just try and be submissive for change?” She closed the door gently, then turned and smiled at David as he came down stairs, carrying his coat. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said, her eyes moist, but this time from tears of joy, not pain or shame. “Let’s go and get you a McDonald’s breakfast. You’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes please, mummy.”

  “And then there’s that remote controlled car you wanted. How about we get that for you? We can go to the park and use it.”

  “Brilliant!” he smiled. “What about school?”

  “I think the Easter holidays can start early,” she smiled, wiping tears from her eyes. “We can go to the zoo this afternoon too.”

  “Yes!” His expression changed, suddenly unsure. “What about Keith?” he asked glumly.

  “Keith won’t be coming with us,” she said. “He won’t be going anywhere.”

  38

  It was a gloriously sunny morning in north-eastern France. The sun had risen behind them, and was beaming its rays from a clear, azure blue sky. The sun was bright and Alex King was glad he would not be driving towards it. They had passed through customs trouble-free, and were now making good time as they headed towards Paris.

  “How long will it take us to get there?” Grant asked, as he looked at the road signs for Paris, Le Mans and Bordeaux.

  King nodded towards the road atlas in Grant’s foot-well. “Check it out for yourself,” he said amiably. “All I know, is that we stay on the A10 until we hit Bordeaux, after that, I’m not sure,” he lied smoothly. In fact, he had planned the route thoroughly on the train journey through the tunnel, whilst Grant had slept in his seat. He was still keen to keep the man’s mind active, and allow him to think of more than just the risks involved.

  Grant flicked through the road atlas until he found a full map of France, indicating its motorways and major routes. “Ah, it’s bloody miles!” He pointed at the page, then tapped his finger on their approximate position. “How big is France? We’re here, about a quarter of the way.”

  King glanced at his watch. “We’d better stop off somewhere and stock up on some provisions, that way, we should be able to drive straight through. With any luck, we should be there by around six o’clock tonight.” He looked at the road sign indicating the next exit. “This will do, Senlis. Looks like a small town. Besides, I’d rather make a stop before we reach Paris.”

  “What about Forsyth? I thought that he was going to update you, let you know if Holman was following or not. This might just be a bloody waste of time.” Grant slumped back in his seat as King indicated right and entered the slip road. “And we still don’t know if O’Shea and his mob are following, or whether they’ve already caught up with Holman.”

  King shook his head and grinned devilishly. “It’s not a mob with O’Shea anymore, just Danny Neeson. The other two should be out of action by now, if all went well.”

  Grant frowned but King added nothing to enlighten him, just turned onto the road for the small town of Senlis and increased his speed.

  As they entered the small town, Grant pointed across to the other side of the road. “That looks like a shop, I think it’s a bakery.”

  King looked at the shop front and nodded. The sign simply read: Epicer, Boulanger, Boucher. Which simply translated as: Grocer, Baker, and Butcher.

  King pulled across the road and eased the BMW to a halt outside the front entrance. He switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys. “You wait here. I’ll get us some provisions. You’re not a fussy eater, are you?” Grant nodded but King had not bothered to wait for a reply, he jogged towards the shop, then leapt up the four steps and into the foyer. It was three little shops in one, four if you counted the tiny dairy section to the rear of the building. King’s French was not good, but most of the produce was spread out for self-service. He picked up a small wire basket and quickly helped himself to a few easy-to-eat essentials: crisps, chocolate bars, and a bottle of orange juice from the chilled cabinet. He glanced out of the window, saw Grant sitting in the car. He wondered if the career criminal could hot-wire a BMW. He suspected he could. He contemplated going out for him, but decided against it. He walked over to the cash register, dropped the basket on top of the counter, and then pointed at the savoury cabinet. With a combination of gestures and poorly spoken French, and plus an overlay of English spoken with wha
t he imagined to be a French accent, he managed to obtain two quiches, two ham and cheese croissants and a small, cooked French bread pizza.

  As he paid for the goods, and the young woman behind the counter filled two paper bags with his provisions, King wished that he had taken a course in French. At the MI6 Training Wing in Norfolk, he had been assigned Arabic. He thought it a waste of time, but it had come in handy in Iraq when he had been part of an intelligence gathering operation. Now that little lot appeared to have been sorted out, human resources had told him it would be a waste of time to continue and he was to learn Spanish to aid anti-drug enforcement in Columbia. He couldn’t help thinking the middle east would be more significant in the future. That extremists would choose somewhere like Afghanistan or The Yemen to get a foothold. But he was a simple foot soldier within the intelligence world, and the brains were looking away from the middle east and watching south America and the growing drug problem. He couldn’t help thinking they were looking the wrong way. He thought he’d continue with the Arabic on his own time.

  He thanked the shop assistant as she handed him the bags, then walked back to the vehicle. He froze when he saw the car was empty. He dropped the bags on the ground, looked around and cursed. Grant stepped out from between the shop and another building zipping his fly.

  “No bogs around here, so when in Rome…” he smiled. “What’s for breakfast?”

  King picked up the bags and opened his door. He handed Grant the bags as he sat in his seat. “See what you fancy,” he was relieved, felt foolish for leaving him in the car in the first place. And with the money in the boot. He was used to working with team mates, not coerced criminals that would sooner jump ship if they got the chance.

  Grant glanced briefly into the bag containing the quiches and turned up his nose in distaste, before looking at King. “Do you think O’Shea and Neeson will go for it? I mean, cut the bullshit. Seriously?”

  King started the vehicle’s quiet engine and looked at him sincerely. “If they don’t catch up with Holman before he has a chance to leave, and if they are as tough and resourceful as they have previously proven themselves to be, then yes. I am positive that they will want to get hold of Holman right away.” He slipped the automatic gearbox into drive and executed a three-point turn. “Now, let’s get some serious miles under our belts.” He glanced down at the ringing telephone, which rested on top of the centre console. He waited until he had finished the manoeuvre, then picked it up as he cruised slowly back towards the motorway. “Hello?”

  “Bonjour!”

  “Forsyth?” King paused. “You seem in unusually high spirits.”

  “Alex, it’s working! Holman is on board Le Shuttle and should be on French soil any moment.”

  King pulled the vehicle into a lay-by on the side of the road and slipped the gearbox into neutral. “That’s good news. Was it a confirmed visual?”

  “Saw him with my own eyes, old chum,” Forsyth said jubilantly. “The news just gets better and better, old boy. Our Irish friends arrived not ten minutes ago, and Danny Neeson has just stepped out of the ticket office.”

  King tensed. “They’re on their way?”

  “It would appear so, old boy. Watching them as we speak. They’re heading for the boarding lanes. Looks like they’ll be aboard the next train.”

  “Okay, if that’s the case, we had better get a move on. Can you let me know if they definitely board?”

  “Will try old boy, but I think you can take it for granted though; the route to France is pretty light this morning.” There was a brief silence, in which King could tell that the man had paused to inhale his cigarette. The exhalation was clearly audible over the line, and King envisioned a perfect smoke ring drifting through the stale air inside Forsyth’s vehicle. “I have a few details to take care of, must dash, bye for now.”

  The line went dead and King placed the mobile telephone back onto the centre console and smiled to himself. They had the lead, but only marginally. Holman had clearly been unnerved by Danny Neeson, and had decided to leave the country straight away. Planting the explosive device under Ross and Sean’s vehicle had not only levelled the playing field, but prompted O’Shea and Neeson to check the money. They were now convinced that Holman had double-crossed them, and was partnered by an elusive Simon Grant. It was clear that neither Holman or Parker would have been able to empty their safe, it had to be Grant.

  Everything was slotting neatly into place. What’s more, eliminating O’Shea in France while travelling under a false name would enable King to slip back into Britain and simply disappear. The government had always denied shoot to kill policies, which made assassination jobs extremely difficult within the United Kingdom, even when they were officially sanctioned by the higher echelons within the intelligence services. No amount of cajoling would make the British police halt investigations, as they remain one of the most incorruptible and unanswerable police forces in the world.

  King slipped the BMW’s gearbox into drive and pulled out onto the quiet road. They had a mere hour’s head start on Holman so there was precious little time to spare.

  39

  Holman pulled into the slip road, exiting the N10 from Bordeaux and taking the lesser D1 north which would take him through the town of Castelnau-de-Mėdoc. It was a little off route, but he had time to spare. He remembered Castelnau-de-Mėdoc as having a wonderful bistro on the bank of a river, where he had once ordered a Coq-au-vin so good that he had requested another portion, instead of dessert - much to the surprise of the manager, and much to the delight of the chef.

  He drove along the narrow road through the thick pine forest with its wonderfully fresh, scented aroma. The sun hung bright and low in the sky, glimmering through the trees as he headed towards the town.

  After a further fifteen-kilometres of quiet, near-empty road, he entered the sleepy town of Castelnau-de-Mėdoc with its shops and old hotels, painted fifty years ago, and never touched up since. He had not ventured into the town at this time of year before and nor, it would seem, did anyone else. The town was virtually deserted but for a few workmen who were putting the finishing touches to the shop fronts, obviously working late to get the maintenance work completed in time for the start of the summer season. He thought that the town would not have been so seasonal, but he had been mistaken.

  Holman drove the Mercedes around the corner, then cursed as he realised that his favourite restaurant had closed for the winter months. Either that, or had closed down completely. The sign-written facia board that hung above the bay window was dull, with large flakes of paint peeling at the corners. The whole facade had obviously taken a violent beating from the Atlantic’s unrelenting winds, even this far inland, which had encrusted the building in a thick layer of salty residue. Inside the building, the chairs were stacked haphazardly on top of the tables and the chef’s specials billboards had been propped up against the empty coffee machine.

  Holman kept the Mercedes moving slowly then conceded that he would find an intermarche for some snacks and a few groceries, and wait for the town of Lacanau Ocean, where he would eat in one of the decent seafront restaurants. He made his way back onto the D1 and headed north-west.

  ***

  “Which way now? And this time, don’t send me the wrong way down a bloody one-way street,” King paused as he brought the BMW to a halt at the crossroads. “Come on Grant, we probably don’t have any more time to waste!”

  “Okay! Okay!” Grant studied the map in the fading light, then pointed his hand in front of King’s face. “That way. I mean right.”

  The atmosphere inside the vehicle was tense. King was extremely tired, having driven the whole way. Then had come their second hitch. Instead of skirting the city of Bordeaux by its ring road; an error on Grant’s behalf had seen them enter the city, which had proved to be a nightmare. After spending almost an hour in the rush hour traffic, and more than one erratic manoeuvre, they had finally managed to exit the rundown city, with its myriad of back streets a
nd one way systems, but emerged onto the N10 having wasted time they did not have.

  King swung the BMW erratically out of the crossroads, following Grant’s directions. “Are you sure?”

  “Goddamn it! I’ve apologised more than once! Do you want me to navigate or not?”

  King ignored the outburst and looked anxiously at his watch, then returned his eyes to the winding road as it joined a bridge over a wide canal. “Just tell me where to go next.” He glanced over the side of the bridge and looked down onto the banks of the river. “Seems like fishing is the national past time,” he mused quietly to himself, more to ease the tension than anything else. Hordes of fishermen, young and old, were seated on the grass, fishing with long poles and talking to one another as they pulled up their lines having hooked tiny silver-coloured fish, no larger than a finger. He’d never fished before, something he’d longed to do as a child with one of his many father figures. But they were not the type to fish. Nor, do anything other than ask him to keep an eye on their car while they were with his mother. It was years later that he realised what and who they were, and why they visited his home at all hours.

  Grant leaned forward, studying the road map intently, as he tried to keep his place on the page. “We want...” he looked intently at the map, “To head left, towards the beach.” He looked up and saw the sign for La Plage. “There! Follow the sign!”

  The town was rather pretty, a mixture of old and modern France. Areas of trees and neat gardens punctuated the rows of shops and houses, separating the growth of the town with small boundaries of foliage. The town seemed fresh and new, yet had a feeling of dormancy about it, as if it were waking from a deep sleep, ready for the new season to breathe precious life back into it. In many ways, it reminded King of the many coastal towns and villages of Cornwall and Devon, only coming to life upon the arrival of spring. He had once spent a spring and summer in the west country jobbing around. He aimed to buy a cottage there one day. Now his life looked to finally be on track, it was no longer merely a daydream.