Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  “That’s better, isn’t it?” he spoke quietly, almost a soft whisper. “Just relax and let me make love to you.”

  Her only comfort came from the knowledge that it would not last long. It was brutal and savage, but predictably quick.

  ***

  From his vantage point, high in the boughs of an oak tree, near the conservatory and overlooking the glass vaulted ceiling of the kitchen, little David Grant could not bear to watch any longer. He jumped down onto the grass and ran along the well-kept lawn to his secret hiding place amongst the row of conifer bushes. The ground was often dry here, a bed of fallen fronds and dried twigs. He sat down on the ground, tucked his legs to his chest and rested his head in his hands and started to sob uncontrollably. He rocked a little to and fro. The sob gradually turned into a mournful wail and then a sudden cry of anger. “Daddy, Daddy, please come back!” He wiped the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. “Please come home!”

  18

  He kept the newspaper at arm’s length, turning the pages methodically, shaking the crease out as he did so. The newspaper was purely for show, a cover to hide him from suspicion while his eyes remained fixed firmly on the pocket-sized display monitor resting in his lap. There was no need to worry about looking conspicuous now, for his back was to the target, as he sat casually in plain sight on the secluded park bench.

  It was only a small park, a village green really. A few oak trees lining the fringe of a small pond, a scattering of willows here and there and in the infrequent clearings the occasional bench-seat.

  The target house had been rented from a large property agency based in Reigate under the alias of Peter Harrison. A substantial cash deposit had been put down, and three monthly payments made in advance. The tenancy was for a period of one year and was now entering its second month.

  King paid no attention to the long tenancy agreement; anything less than a year in these parts would have seemed suspicious to any reputable property letting agency. As was proving all too true, PIRA, or the Provisional Irish Republican Army, was becoming most adept at counter-surveillance techniques, attracting little attention to their operations on the mainland and elsewhere.

  The video camera was safely secured beneath the passenger seat in King’s Ford Escort van. It was equipped with a detachable lens and a fibre-optic cable, currently out of view on the vehicle’s dashboard. King could now observe the front entrance of the house from a safe distance, picking up the picture on a hand-held monitor, which received the signal on a dedicated microwave frequency. To any casual observer, he was a faceless man taking his lunch break in the tranquillity of a quiet park.

  The light blue Saab came into view, drove steadily to the entrance of the Mock-Tudor style house and came to a halt. Danny Neeson stepped out of the vehicle, glanced cautiously around, then climbed the six granite steps to the large oak door. He pressed a small, ornate brass doorbell and stood back, patiently waiting to be greeted. After about thirty seconds, the large, oak door opened, somewhat hesitantly, and Neeson stepped inside.

  With the monitor’s five-second-relay delay, King wasted no time. He knew that the Irishman was well inside the building. He folded his paper, slipped the monitor inside his jacket pocket and strolled casually back towards the tatty-looking van, which was parked just past Mark O’Shea’s house.

  King reached into his other pocket and took out a small black box, approximately the size of a cigarette packet. He ambled casually, apparently unhurried, as he walked past the bonnet of the blue Saab. He turned the device over in the palm of his hand, so that the magnetic strip was on top, then took a cursory glance towards the front of the house. Satisfied that he was not being observed, he quickly bent down and slipped the box under the vehicle’s rear wheel arch and continued on his way.

  The lay-by was situated some three-hundred metres from the quiet park, and the house that was the subject of his attention. In the short time in which he had been parked, no vehicles had driven past him, and he was satisfied it was an inconspicuous location. King reached up under the passenger seat and retrieved the IBM laptop. He uncoiled the lead, then plugged it into the specially adapted cigarette lighter in the dashboard. The computer was now linked to the dedicated frequency of the tracking device, gaining the signal through the vehicle’s high-frequency antenna. He switched on the laptop, then typed a command that brought up the menu, from which he selected the relevant file. A detailed road map of Epsom and a three-mile radius appeared on the screen, with a stationary red dot in the centre of the display. King sat back in his seat and relaxed a little as he realised that the Saab was still stationary. At present there was no sound, but if the Saab moved its speed would be indicated by an intermittent ‘bleep’ which would rise in both tone and volume, according to its distance from the receiver. If the tracking device reached its maximum range of two-thousand metres, the laptop would sound an alarm.

  King settled back in his seat and kept his eyes on the display. The only thing left to do now, was wait. He took out a sandwich he had made earlier and unwrapped the foil package. King had two rules when he was inactive: sleep or eat. When he wasn’t doing one, he was usually doing the other.

  ***

  Simon Grant walked across Holman’s gravelled driveway and stood in the gateway. He turned around and looked back at the house. It was impressive. Holman had grown up on the same council estate as himself. The man had come far, that was for sure. He watched the man as he paced to and fro in front of the house. He was talking animatedly into his mobile phone. It was no bigger than his hand. Grant had never owned one, but he remembered the sheer size of Holman’s portable phone before the last job. It had been too large to put in his pocket and had a large pull out metal antenna, and he wore it on a holster on his belt. Now his phone was no bigger than a TV remote. Progress. They would have games or cameras on them next.

  “Moved up in the world?”

  Grant spun around. The man was as big as an outhouse door. “Sorry?” he said.

  “My ex-colleague had a word with you,” the man said. “When you left the nick. He told you what he expected you to do. Our friend, the security guard on your last job, he’s in dire straits. And I don’t mean the fucking band.”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  The man looked over at Holman, who was still talking on his phone. He stepped closer and punched Grant in the face. Grant reeled backwards and tripped, slamming down onto his backside on the gravel. He looked down at him. “We’ll be in touch,” he said, then turned around and walked on down the quiet street.

  Grant held his hand up to his nose, then stared at the blood. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at Holman as he walked over.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “And yours.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, offering him a hand.

  Grant took it and got up easily. “A friend of the security guard your bloke shot on that job,” he paused. “Now I’m out, they want a payday for him. They want my share.”

  Holman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We can arrange something. I don’t want them getting in the way and ruining this thing for us,” he said. He caught Grant by the shoulder and guided him across the drive. “How do you get in touch with them?”

  “I don’t,” Grant replied. “I think they plan to shadow me. That bastard prison guard, McGivney. He laid down the law pretty thick yesterday.”

  Holman nodded. “Leave it to me.” He opened the driver’s door of the Mercedes and waited for Grant to walk around the other side of the vehicle. “Now, let’s take a little drive,” he said.

  Grant got in and sunk down into the comfortable leather seat and closed his eyes, feeling the warm sun on his face through the tinted windscreen. His nose ached, but it had been the shock which had shaken him more.

  The day was bright and mild, his first full day of freedom. He savoured it, wanting it to last. His greed had taken him into the unknown, a destination he had always been wary of, yet so often f
ound himself visiting.

  “Thinking of what you can do with two big ones?” Holman asked, as he swung the Mercedes around a parked car, then pulled to a sudden halt at a busy crossroads. “The world’s your oyster with that amount of money,” he paused. “Ever had oysters, Simon?”

  Grant shook his head, his knowledge of seafood ending at paper-wrapped fish and chips, smothered with salt, vinegar and perhaps a dab of curry sauce.

  “Most places serve them raw, in their shells,” Holman informed him, his face screwed tightly in distaste. “Don’t bother, just sniff hard when you’ve got a cold and swallow, you get the same effect!”

  Grant tensed as the car almost collided with a cyclist. Holman swung the Mercedes out into the crown of the road and cursed loudly. “Bloody pansy! Fancy wearing shorts like that?” He shook his head, then broke into a wry smile. “They were so fucking tight, I could damn near see what religion he was!”

  “Where are we going?” Grant asked, not wishing to pursue either the topic of raw shellfish, nor male cyclists in tight shorts.

  “Time to get things moving,” Holman stated, matter-of-factly. “New accommodation for you.”

  “What do you mean, I thought that I was staying with you? What about my bag?”

  “Forget it. I’ve arranged for some clothes to fit you, as well as everything else that you might need for the next few days,” Holman smiled wryly, a sign that sarcasm would soon be flowing. “For the duration of the operation, subject to the occasional reconnaissance, you’ll be living in the countryside. Won’t that be nice?”

  “What about my possessions? I need to see Lisa and pick up my things.”

  “All gone, her new man dumped the lot. I spoke to her about it before you were released. Seems that all you own, is on your back.”

  “You saw her?” Grant asked. “How was she?”

  “No, I said I spoke to her. On the telephone, a few days before you were released. I thought I’d test the water for you at the same time.” Holman shrugged. “Like I said; forget the life you had before, just look ahead,” he paused. “Two-million quid will help you to do that.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  Holman smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Do you know just how much pussy can be bought with that amount of money?” He looked at the road ahead and started to laugh. “There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t sell herself for that! Go into any night-club in the country, drop five-grand on the table and ask a single girl for a suck and a fuck, two minutes and you’ll be out the door and into something else.”

  “I don’t buy it, never have,” Grant paused, staring at him coldly. “You’re not a happy man, deep down, are you Frank?”

  Holman scoffed. “Don’t start that amateur, prison psychology bullshit with me!” He broke into a grin. “Men always buy it! You go out for a drink, meet a woman and start chatting. You buy her drinks all night; she doesn’t put her hand in her purse once. You take her for something to eat, and it’s the same deal. Then, if you’re extremely lucky, you get to fuck her. You’ve already paid for it; you were paying all bloody night!” He shook his head despairingly. “Say you get married? You work all damn day, you bring home your pay packet at the end of the week, and she takes the bloody lot! You pay for everything; you clothe her, feed her, and buy her everything she needs. Once in a while, she repays you with sex. It’s only in her best interest, otherwise you’d go elsewhere for it and she loses her meal ticket. And to top it all, when the courtship is out of the way, when the novelty has worn off, the sex isn’t so damned spectacular either! No, men pay for it from puberty onwards, the sooner men wake up and realise that, the better.”

  “It’s not always like that Frank. You can’t base everybody’s relationship on your own experiences,” Grant said. “There is such a thing as love, or haven’t you heard of that yet?”

  “Like you for instance?” Holman spat at him venomously. “Don’t make me laugh! You went to prison; your wife went straight to another man’s bed. That’s love, is it? Her income went, so it was simply time for another punter. Wives? Live-in whores if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Holman smiled. “Just letting you see it as it is, sonny. There’s an awful lot at stake. You keep yourself a clear mind in that head of yours, don’t go chasing rainbows. In my experience, there’s bugger all at the end of them anyway.”

  Holman slowed the car suddenly and turned left without indicating. The driver in the vehicle behind them sounded his horn then overtook, leaving them with a familiar hand-gesture.

  “Bloody idiot!” Holman raged. “Couldn’t he see I was going to turn?” The road ahead narrowed dramatically and the hedges seemed to close in on them from both sides.

  Grant looked at the tree-lined hedgerows, then turned back to Holman. “A bit out in the sticks, aren’t we?” he commented, hoping to divert the conversation away from Holman’s apercus on the virtues of monogamy.

  “Best place for us. Eyes and ears everywhere in town,” Holman paused, a visible scowl on his face. “You never know who’s watching you these days.”

  ***

  King kept his distance. He was entirely out of sight, so there was no point in risking a visual. The electronic tracking device was already doing the work for him. He watched the signal slow, and the detailed road map told him that the Saab had turned into a narrow residential street, which eventually led to a network of cul-de-sacs. He accelerated for a few seconds to reduce the Saab’s lead on him, then turned into a quiet street, which was signposted as Holben Drive.

  Neeson parked the Saab in front of the yellow works van, then stepped onto the pavement. He casually surveyed the surroundings, before giving a quick nod to O’Shea, who was sitting patiently in the passenger seat. Satisfied that his personal bodyguard regarded it as safe, O’Shea stepped out and crossed to the row of terraced houses. Neeson followed close behind, his eyes darting everywhere, constantly wary of the security forces. He glanced across at the workmen’s weather cover, heard a sudden raucous burst of laughter come from inside, then turned and climbed the flight of steps, just a few paces behind O’Shea.

  King swung the van around the corner in time to see the two Irishmen climb the short flight of steps. He hesitated for a second, wondering what action to take then reversed a few metres until he was safely out of sight. Secure in the knowledge that the enemy could not observe his presence, he switched off the vehicle’s engine and took the secure link cellular phone out from his jacket pocket.

  ***

  “Hello, Control, this is X-ray Delta One, message, over.”

  “Control, send, over.”

  “X-ray Delta One, two subjects, ID unknown, just entered target building, over.”

  “Control, are you recording? Over.”

  “X-ray Delta One, Roger that, will send, stay advised, wait-out.” The larger of the two men turned to his slightly built companion and pointed to the display monitor. “Get the tape ready, we’re sending the footage of those two guys who just entered.” He waited patiently, turning the handset over between his fingers. The smaller man held up his thumb, then bent over the satellite transmitter, his finger hovering over the Send button. The larger of the two men pressed the pressel button on his handset, then started to report. “Hello, Control, this is X-ray Delta One, message, over.”

  “Control, send, over.”

  “X-ray Delta One, goods ready to be delivered, over.”

  “Control, send, over.”

  The smaller of the two men dutifully pressed send, then stood back and watched the clock counter begin its rapid countdown. The images of the two Irishmen entering the house were on the way to Control in an instant. The images would be received with virtually no delay, much like a telephone conversation, but travelling via Secure Satellite Linkup (SSLU), using one of the many sophisticated military satellites orbiting the globe and constantly ready for such traffic.

  “X-ray Delta One, delivery process complete, over.”

  “Con
trol, goods received, stay advised, over.”

  “X-ray Delta One, Roger, out.”

  The smaller of the two men poured some hot tea from his flask, then sipped a mouthful before looking seriously at his colleague. “All right, here goes: A prostitute, a paedophile and a politician walk into a church...”

  “Heard it.”

  “Bastard!”

  ***

  King had dialled the telephone number from memory and now sat patiently as he waited for the line to be answered.

  “Hello?” Forsyth inquired cautiously.

  “Forsyth, this is Alex.”

  “On secure?”

  “Of course.”

  Forsyth hesitated for a moment. “All right, old boy, go ahead.”

  King had a feeling the man was not alone, most probably in one of his many daily meetings. “I followed our two friends to Holben Drive. Does that ring any bells?”

  “Holben?” Forsyth asked quietly as if muffling the telephone. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “In Epsom?”

  “Yes,” King answered tersely. “What’s the problem?”

  “Oh for god’s sake, get out of there now!” Forsyth spoke quietly, but his agitation was obvious. “Don’t get yourself seen or you’ll bugger up things for sure. Go on, man, get moving!”

  King switched off his mobile phone without further question and dropped it carelessly onto the passenger seat. He looked around cautiously as he started the vehicle’s engine then, drove away, maintaining a moderate speed to avoid suspicion.

  ***

  Simon Grant stepped out of the car, stretching his legs awkwardly over the large puddle, that Holman had managed to park in the middle of.