by A P Bateman
Grant worked quickly and confidently. He inserted the titanium picklock into the lock, then eased a smaller, diamond-tipped key underneath and started to feel for the tumblers. After a little less than a minute, he turned to King and beamed a triumphant grin. “It’s unlocked, get ready to move.” He gathered up the rest of his tools and placed them into various pockets. He switched on the torch and quickly pushed the door inwards and rushed inside. There was no sign of a control panel. “Shit!” Grant was perplexed. He quickly stared around then noticed the wires from the sensor in the doorframe. He traced the wires away from the door, where they disappeared into the wall. He realised that they must have led to a coat-cupboard in the hallway.
“What’s the problem?” King peered around the door and watched as Grant frantically opened the cupboard door.
Grant studied the control panel, ignoring his question. Two wires fed into the panel but only one fed out. This wire would go directly to the telephone line, but could not be cut because disconnection would halt the minor electrical current and activate the alarm via its rechargeable battery. Grant quickly reached up to the control panel and hastily typed in a four-digit code. This would now give him an extra thirty seconds, as the system would allow one mistake as a miss-type. He then took the small, rechargeable electric screwdriver out of his pocket and removed the control panel’s facia. Next, he took the circuit diversion meter and held it out to King. “Quick, take this!”
He caught hold of the tiny black box and stared at the four wires that protruded from it, one from each corner. At the end of each wire was a small crocodile clip. He turned back to Grant, watching intently, as the man battled against the clock.
Grant started to cut into the wires with a small scalpel, cutting just deep enough to peel back the plastic coating and expose the bare wires. He turned around to King and held out his hand expectantly. “Quick, give it to me!” King complied, passing him the black box. Grant hastily attached a crocodile clip to both wires, then pulled the black box across the control panel and attached two more wires further along. The electrical current would now pass through the system, unaffected while Grant cut the necessary wires.
Grant turned around and smiled. “Done deal. I will have to reconnect this little lot later, but for now, we’re in the clear.”
***
Frank Holman had managed to pick up a few groceries and some much-needed bottles of lager at a roadside intermarche.
He pulled off the D6 and took the road which would skirt Lacanau’s popular resort lake. It was only another ten-kilometres or so to his property, and he was trying to decide whether to freshen up, have a beer and go out for dinner, or head straight to the seafront and eat.
***
O’Shea sat up in his seat and pointed at the road sign. “Only twenty-two kilometres to Lacanau and thirty-one to Lacanau Ocean.”
“So, what there’s two towns called Lacanau?” Neeson asked.
“Yes. One is by a lake, the other is by the sea.”
“Couldn’t they come up with another name?”
“It’s all in the vocabulary.”
“What?”
“Three-hundred thousand known French words and one and a half million words in the English language,” O’Shea said. “They must have to over-use the words they have.”
“Seriously?”
O’Shea laughed. “Fucked if I know! But it’s a theory.”
Neeson smiled, then glanced at his watch. “I think that we should get into the town, find a quiet bar and have a drink and a steak or something, then freshen up in the toilets. After that, we can head off and find Holman’s place and go in after dark, just as he’s starting to relax from the long drive. Or better still, when he’s asleep.”
“Aye, I’ll go along with that.” O’Shea grinned. “Catch him while he’s well and truly off guard.”
***
King stood in the centre of the sparsely furnished lounge and surveyed the disheartening scene. Upon inspection, there was nowhere to hide anything. The lounge was decorated in an extremely sparse fashion. The walls were merely whitewashed, and but for a few paintings of yachts crashing through spumes of white water on full-tack, the decor had been kept to an absolute minimum. The room was furnished in the same less is more psychology, with a three-piece suite in dark cane with thick, silk-covered cushions offering the only respite from minimalism. A coffee table with a small circular lace tablecloth, and a bowl of dried flowers in the middle, was placed within easy reach of the two-seater sofa. That, in turn, was situated in front of a home cinema television complete with a video cassette recorder, a new DVD system and satellite receiver.
“Doesn’t really look like Frank Holman’s sort of place,” King commented as Simon Grant walked into the room.
Grant shook his head. “This is Eileen’s effort, believe me.” He pointed at the lace tablecloth and the bowl of dried flowers. “Frank’s more of your beer mat and bowl of pork scratchings man. I bet they rent this out as a seasonal holiday let. Either that, or Eileen comes here more than he does. She’s cheated on him for years, most likely has a fella down here.”
“Come on, let’s check out the rooms upstairs.” He picked up the heavy suitcase and quickly bounded up the stairs, then waited at the top for Grant to catch him up.
“How about the spare bedroom?” Grant looked at King and smiled. “Holman will take the biggest, most comfortable room. He won’t give the second bedroom a glance.”
“Right, let’s have a look then.” King pushed open the first door then closed it almost instantly. “That’s the bathroom, not a hell of a lot of places to hide it in there.”
Grant opened the adjacent door and glanced around. It seemed quite promising, with a dresser next to the bed and a large wardrobe against the far wall.
“This looks like the place,” King called from across the landing. “Twin beds and a pine wardrobe. Pretty basic.”
Grant closed the door to the master bedroom and walked across the landing to where King was standing in the doorway. He peered around the doorframe and smiled. “Just the place,” he said, looking through the window at the dark sky. “If you stash it in here, I’ll go down and make a start on the alarm system.”
King smirked and shook his head. “Not a chance, sunshine. It’s dark outside, I wouldn’t want to lose you.” He reached up, opened the top cupboard above the wardrobe then heaved the suitcase inside.
“You don’t trust me?” Grant protested, somewhat dejectedly.
King closed the cupboard door then turned around and smiled. “Let’s just say, you’ve been through a lot. I don’t want you deciding to leg it at this late stage,” he paused looking urgently at his watch. “Christ! Is that the time? Even if Holman stopped off for an hour, he’ll be bloody close by now!” He made his way out of the room, followed closely by Grant who was already taking the necessary items of equipment out of his pockets.
They made their way cautiously down the stairs, making sure not slip in their new precarious footwear, which had a tendency to slide rather than grip on the highly polished wooden floorboards.
***
Holman had turned off from the ocean road and onto the track that accessed the properties in the dunes. With less than a kilometre to drive, he slowed the Mercedes suddenly at a gap in the forest and stared out across the beautifully calm, glassy ocean. The sun had gone down behind the sea, and only a trace of its burning trail could be seen, shining a dull orange glow, just a matter of inches above the distant horizon. He looked inland and marvelled at how the sky modulated from a light blue, through to a darker shade of blue with a purple hue, then finally a star-encrusted black. He eased his foot off the brake and continued on his way. The welcoming comfort of his much-loved holiday home was only a few hundred metres away.
***
Alex King waited impatiently in the front doorway as Grant set about rewiring the alarm system. He watched the road, listening intently for the sound of any approaching vehicles.
Grant worked quickly, but calmly. He reconnected the wires, then patched the plastic coating back into place with the aid of a tube of strong adhesive. He quickly placed the fascia over the control panel and screwed it back in place with the electric screwdriver, then removed the circuit diversion meter. A cursory glance to check that nothing had been left out of place, and he closed the cupboard door and walked calmly to the front door.
“Hurry up, I think I can hear a vehicle approaching!” King stood on the veranda with both bags of equipment over his shoulders, frantically beckoning Grant out of the house.
Grant gently closed the door then crouched down and slipped the titanium picklock into the lock. He turned around to King, nodding his head for him to come closer. “I can’t see, it’s too dark!” King dropped the bags down onto the wooden walkway and hastily rummaged through the loose equipment, desperately searching for the Mini-Maglite. “No, not that bag, the other one!”
King hastily delved into the other canvas bag, then triumphantly pulled out the tiny torch. Grant snatched the torch from his grasp, then twisted the aperture and slipped it between his teeth, playing the dull red beam onto the lock. He placed the diamond-tipped key underneath the titanium picklock and eased his way through the succession of tumblers and gates. He eased the tools out of the lock, then went to stand, when King caught hold of him roughly around the collar.
“Come on man, move your arse!” He pulled him unceremoniously to his feet and dragged him off the veranda and onto the paved patio. He released his grip, as Grant found his footing, then charged into a deep border of rhododendron bushes. Grant followed, but hesitated at the bushes, only to be pulled roughly into them. He fell to his knees, then struggled back to his feet, just in time to see the lights of a car sweep over the garden and illuminate the house.
King let out a deep sigh then smiled, baring his white teeth in the dark cover of the bushes. “That was too damn close…” He watched as Holman stepped out from his Mercedes and opened the gate to the drive, then walked stiffly back towards the bright headlights. “We’ll give him time to get inside, then we’ll make our way back to the car. I have a feeling that the Irishmen will not be far behind him.”
“Surely Forsyth would have rung with their status by now?”
The thought was troubling King, had done for the entire day. “I’m sure he has good reason,” he said.
41
“This looks alright,” Danny Neeson announced as he pulled the Saab into the side of the road, then eased to a halt outside a small real-estate office. There were no road markings so he had figured that parking would be ok. “There’s a bar over there.”
O’Shea followed Neeson’s gaze across the cobbled precinct towards the seawall. “Aye, looks okay.” He unfastened his seatbelt and gave his shoulders a stretch. “Come on, I could do with a bloody drink,” he paused. “And a piss.”
Neeson opened his door and stepped out onto the cobbles. “I just hope that fat bastard is down here, and hasn’t given us the bloody slip,” he said, staring towards the sea-wall and the beach beyond, where he could hear the gentle shore break on the sand. “Parker’s woman is a loose end. I’m starting to feel uneasy about letting her and that boy of hers live.”
O’Shea walked around the bonnet of the Saab and fixed him with a sober gaze. “Aye well, seeing that woman on the floor brought back a lot of memories for me. My old man used to knock my mother about every Saturday night,” he paused, staring distantly towards the sound of the ocean. “He used to come home after the pub, he could only drink the one night a week. My mam used to take his pay packet on a Friday and take out all the housekeeping, then go shopping on the Saturday. She gave him back what was left. That way the family got to eat. He would be full of resentment all day. Then he’d go out and get properly pissed. He’d drag himself back, there’d be an argument and he’d knock seven shades of shit out of her. Same thing every week. Week in, week out. My brother Mike, he just blew one night, he was about fifteen and built like a brick shithouse. He played a lot of rugby and boxed. He snapped and my old man ended up in hospital for about a week. He never laid a finger on her again.”
“Jesus.”
“I just felt sorry for her, that’s all.”
Neeson smiled sardonically. “Well, boss, I never knew you had a heart, until now.”
“Shut up you daft bastard!” He turned towards the quiet looking bar and tapped Neeson on the shoulder. “Come on I’ll buy you a Pernod.”
“You can buy me a cold beer and a Croque Monsieur.”
“What’s that?”
“Basically a cheese and ham toasted sandwich.”
“Well why don’t they just say that? Christ, three-hundred thousand words and they have a name for a cheese and ham sandwich, but can’t think of another sodding name for a town by the sea…”
***
The cordon of blue and white tape flapped in the gentle breeze, like bunting at a church fete, or village carnival. But behind this makeshift barrier of sticky plastic, lay a scene far less inviting to the general public than the prospect of tea and homemade cake. Not that the small, but growing crowd that had gathered behind the tape was in any way deterred by macabre thoughts of what lay behind the official obstruction. Far from it. The ambulance, which had pulled into the cul-de-sac with siren bellowing and lights flashing, had been stood down, and had parked unobtrusively to the side of the cordon to await further instructions. Those instructions came when the coroner’s vehicle arrived. This gave the crowd something to consider, especially when the ambulance left shortly afterwards. This aspect fascinated the growing mob of onlookers, who all had their opinions as to why the services of the ambulance crew were no longer needed.
The Detective was a sergeant called Hodges, and he was here in his capacity as acting inspector. He had passed the exams, he basically needed a detective inspector to retire. He frowned at the uniformed sergeant, who had secured the scene with a handful of constables. “Parker?” he asked somewhat surprised. “Keith Parker? Are you sure?”
“Yes,” the police officer reassured him. “Why, do you know him?”
“No,” he replied thoughtfully. “But it seems a bit too much for coincidence.”
The uniformed sergeant shook his head. “What does?”
“That robbery yesterday, out in the Hampshire countryside. The security firm that was hit had a manager called Keith Parker. I’ve just been pulled off it to look at this. The firm have a premises on our patch, and two of the three security guards that were killed lived here as well. As does Keith Parker.”
“I see what you mean,” the officer said. “That’s one big coincidence.”
“Is there a Mrs Parker?”
The uniformed sergeant nodded. “Yes, she’s inside with WPC Leith. In the kitchen.”
WPC Leith placed the steaming cup of sweet tea in front of Lisa Grant then pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down beside her. “Drink up, it will make you feel better.” She stared benignly at the cup of tea, realising how pathetic her words must sound. As if an infusion of hot water, leaves, milk and sugar could solve the world’s problems in an instant. She placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder and spoke softly. “Are you sure that you want to stay here tonight, Mrs Parker? I could make alternative arrangements for you.”
Lisa looked up at the policewoman tearfully and shook her head positively. “If I don’t stay tonight, I will never be able to stay. Can you understand that?” The policewoman nodded and gently squeezed her shoulder. Lisa smiled, wiping a tear from her eye. “Anyway, it’s not Mrs Parker, it’s Mrs Grant. Keith Parker is...” she suddenly looked aghast and corrected herself. “Was, my boyfriend. I’m separated from my husband, have been for some time.”
The policewoman nodded amiably, not wishing to hear a full and detailed account of this woman’s past. She wasn’t lacking in sympathy, but she had become accustomed to her job, and the situations that it placed her in over the past six years. She was a marrie
d woman living with another man. It wasn’t a Mills and Boon love story. It was a tainted and complicated affair, weaved with deception, infidelity and betrayal. For somebody, at least.
Detective Sergeant Hodges walked tentatively into the kitchen, glancing first at WPC Leith, and then turning his attention to Lisa Grant. “Mrs Parker?”
“Grant, it’s Mrs Grant.” The policewoman quickly interjected.
Hodges raised a hand to his mouth and coughed quietly. “I’m sorry Mrs Grant, silly mistake,” he paused as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her at the pine table. “I know that it may be difficult at this stage, but it is essential that I ask you a few questions, is that all right?”
Lisa nodded then accepted a tissue from the woman police officer and wiped her eyes thoroughly before turning her attention back to Detective Sergeant Hodges.
“Can you think of anyone who had a grievance with your husband? Anybody who might possibly resort to this?” WPC Leith sighed, then tried to suppress a smirk as Hodges suddenly realised his mistake. “I’m sorry, Mrs Grant,” he apologised, shifting uneasily in his chair. “Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill Keith?”
She shook her head and started to sob quietly. “No, no I can’t.”
“Only, we have details of a robbery which took place, concerning one of the security vans, subcontracted earlier by the company that he works for.”
Lisa looked up suddenly. “Works for?”
Hodges cringed. “Sorry, worked for.” He groaned inwardly. Speaking of Parker in the present tense was the least of his worries.
Lisa shook her head. “No, I don’t mean that. You said, the company that he works for. Keith was the managing director, he owned the company.”
