Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  “He doesn’t mean to, it’s just his way, he’s very sorry now.” Lisa looked away, barely able to keep her tears back. She stroked his brow then reached under the covers and held his hand gently.

  “I saw him hit you mummy, yesterday, in the kitchen,” David paused, as he watched a single tear trickle down his mother’s cheek then drip off the point of her chin and onto the clean duvet cover. “Why was he so nasty to you?”

  Lisa hung her head. She knew what her son had seen. He had not been himself all day, and now she knew why. He had seen his own mother violated, raped. Now, he would carry that image around with him for the rest of his life. She nudged him over and lay back down beside him, holding him tightly in her comforting arms. They both stared at the ceiling. The arrangement of model airplanes hanging from fishing line. “Hush now, sweetheart, go to sleep.” She rubbed the tears from her eyes, then squeezed him reassuringly. “You must never tell a soul what you saw. Please David, do it for mummy.”

  Her son nodded meekly, then cuddled into her. “Did daddy ever hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Lisa paused, almost losing herself in her own montage of memories. “Because he was a different person to Keith.”

  “Why did you leave daddy?”

  She bit her lip in a desperate effort not to sob out loud. “I’ve told you, daddy had to go away. Mummy was so scared that she wouldn’t have coped on her own.”

  “You wouldn’t have been alone, mummy. You would have had me. We would have coped together.”

  She started to cry. “I’m sorry, David. Mummy is so very sorry.”

  “Keith said that daddy went to prison, he said that daddy will always be in prison. He says that I will end up in prison as well. Is that true, mummy?”

  For an instant she had an image of her son, grown up and killing Keith with a machine gun, standing over him and desecrating the corpse with bullet after bullet, cutting the man into viscous lumps of flesh, innards and bone. She snapped the thought from her mind, sickened, scared. “Of course not,” she said with conviction, then soothed her hand over her son’s face. “Don’t listen to him, your daddy will come and see us soon, he loves you dearly.”

  “Does he love you?”

  Lisa closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  David remained silent, his mind working overtime, with the simple, innocent logic that only children are blessed with, but inevitably lose with time. “Do you love him, mummy?”

  Lisa rolled onto her side and stared, tearfully at the wall. She did not want her son to see her tears. “Yes. Yes, I do.” There was a quiver to her voice, as she struggled not to be overcome with emotion. “I always have, and I’m sure that I always will.”

  ***

  Frank Holman swung the Mercedes into his gravel driveway and parked next to his wife’s sports car. The outside security light came on, its motion sensor triggered by the movement of the vehicle. It would stay lit for another minute, giving him enough time to walk his considerable bulk across the drive and up the granite steps to the front door.

  He heard the car before he saw it. It slowed rapidly, using both brakes, and an excessive amount of engine braking. It swung erratically into the driveway, throwing up a cloud of gravel in its wake. Holman realised that he was in its path and leapt out of the way in a less than graceful fashion. He squinted, blinded by the lights then bashfully realised that his leap had been prematurely judged, as the car stopped just short of his original position.

  The driver switched off the vehicle’s lights, finally allowing Holman to regain some composure and at the same time, recognise the intruder's identity.

  The man behind the wheel of the gold BMW 740i made no attempt to leave his car, he merely lowered the electric window as Holman walked hesitantly around the bonnet. “I trust that all is well?” the man paused. “I have more than just money at stake in this, I will not accept failure.”

  “Everything is going according to plan, Mr Parker.” Holman smiled nervously. “All aspects have been looked at and countered accordingly.”

  The man was tall, slim and gaunt, and had the eyes of a hawk. He nodded thoughtfully then stared coldly, directly into Holman’s eyes. “And the Irish contingent are happy with the split?”

  “Exceedingly. It seems that both sides will get the result that they want,” Holman reassured him. “In a few days, we shall all be extremely wealthy men indeed.”

  Parker looked at Holman with distaste. “Only you are solely interested in wealth. Both the Irish and myself have an interest in this deal that is not merely financial. Just see that my interest is taken care of Holman, or your life will not be worth living.” He raised the window three-quarters of the way without waiting for a reply, then started the engine. “Here,” he said and held out an envelope, poking it through the six-inch gap. “That’s the details of the safe. And there’s more. Read it tonight and pass it on.”

  Holman took the envelope and stood back as the man accelerated out of the driveway as quickly as he had entered. Some of the gravel showered both of the cars, but Holman didn’t care. There were more important things to worry about.

  ***

  Forsyth sipped from his cup then replaced it to the saucer. He slipped another cigarette between his thin lips and fixed his eyes on King. “Tomorrow, I would suggest that you take another look at that barn.” He casually flicked the wheel of his lighter, gazed dreamily into the flickering flame, then brought it to the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply then rested his head against the back of his chair and blew a long, thin plume of the pungent smoke to the ceiling. “It would be jolly handy indeed, if we could have the place bugged. You have the equipment, don’t you?”

  King nodded cautiously. “Yes, but if it’s to be done, it had best be done tonight. Preferably, it is a two-man job.”

  Forsyth nodded. “I am quite aware of that, old boy. However, I have other matters to attend to, so I’m afraid that you will be on your own.” He smiled. “They’re serving roast rib of beef at the club. I try never to miss it. So the business I have to take care of will be conducted there,” he said casually. “Do you have dinner arrangements?”

  “Looks like a corned beef sandwich in the van,” King said sardonically. He knew Forsyth’s problem, the underlying abrasiveness. The man was a graduate with a first class degree, and had let it be known that he had been recruited from Cambridge University in his final year. He most likely had an uncle in politics who had rubbed shoulders with the intelligence community, held the door open for him. Meanwhile, Alex King was born Mark Jeffries. He was the son of a prostitute from a council estate in south London and been expelled from school at fifteen with a list of qualifications that could have been written on a cigarette paper. After his mother had died from an overdose, King had gone into a string of care homes and eventually lost contact with his brothers and sisters. He was sent to prison for a string of offences from theft to assault, then finally for two counts of manslaughter when he was in his early twenties. King was a handy boxer. The two Royal Marines were abusive and drunk. King’s fists were fast, the slate floors of the Portsmouth pub were hard and unforgiving. He had a temper which didn’t stop when the two men were down. That wasn’t the man he was now. He had been shown how to be more, to be a better man, to serve his country and he had vowed to as penance. He didn’t have much in common with Forsyth, and Forsyth didn’t have much time for the new influx of people being recruited into the service. But with the world getting tougher, MI6 had to get dirtier.

  “Why the change of heart?” King asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, earlier you just wanted them dead. Now you want more surveillance done.”

  “Bigger picture, old boy.” Forsyth stared at his cigarette, which burnt lazily between his fingers. The smoke wafted through the air, creating an eerie haze in between them. “Perhaps you were right, old boy. Let’s see what these buggers are up to. But I want them both dead before the peace
agreement is signed.”

  “Both? Neeson is only sanctioned if he is a danger to civilians or stands in the way of O’Shea.”

  “Well, just see that he does,” Forsyth said. “You know Alex; you need to learn to read between the lines in this sort of work. Danny Neeson has no right being a part of a peaceful solution to the troubles. He’s killed too many people, ruined too many lives. And he’ll be scheming and killing whether the peace agreement is signed or not.”

  King nodded. “And we’ll hand our findings over to the police?”

  “Of course,” Forsyth nodded. “Now, tell me what equipment you have? One would hate for them to pick up their own conversations whilst they listened to breakfast radio.”

  King smiled at the thought. That sort of mistake had been known to have happened in the past. Many private investigators invest, foolishly so, in cheap, throwaway transmitters and receivers. These not only succeed in throwing television and radio reception out of sync, but all too often, the targets get to hear their own conversations as they listen to the radio. “No, it’s the latest equipment, produced by a private firm in Switzerland. As you know, the private sector produces the best quality gear.”

  “Oh, I know that, old boy. It just costs a bloody fortune though.”

  King nodded. “Only the best will do. Most transmitters put out a signal at around 375MHZ and most scanners can only reach 485MHZ. But these can put out at over twice that, and are on a dedicated frequency.”

  “Jolly good, old boy,” Forsyth replied, apparently uninterested and equally unimpressed. “See if you can get close enough to plant some visual equipment. Eyes and ears. Remember that O’Shea goes down in two days. Don’t lose sight of that,” he paused, somewhat ponderously. “By the way, what equipment do you want for the take-down?”

  Take-down. That was a new one. Now King had heard it all. It sounded more like a lion killing a gazelle on the plains of the Serengeti. He couldn’t help wondering where the likes of Forsyth, the men who called the shots within the very fabric of Britain’s intelligence services, got their phrases from. Did they go to special classes where they would be taught a hundred different dispassionate ways to refer to a man’s execution? Did they take special training to become so dangerously out of touch with the rest of the world? Or were they simply born that way? Sheltered by money and influence, shaped at public boarding schools from the age of three, socially educated in the holidays by a governess, and finely chiselled at either of the two universities. The only two universities that seemed to matter to the supposedly well-bred; so much so that they hold their own exclusive boat race every year, comfortable in the knowledge that the off-spring of the working class cannot beat them by default. The cliques that shadowed the corridors of power are not so far removed from the men raised in such a way, to them, it is perfectly normal.

  King studied the man curiously. The SIS officer sat almost regal in his immaculate appearance, pontificating on a man’s death, smoking his eastern-scented, hand-rolled cigarettes at around a pound each, and asking for the summary execution equipment as if it were a shopping list for the local supermarket. King suddenly snapped out of his thoughts. He was here for a job, albeit one he had been ordered to do, but a job all the same. It was what he agreed to sign up to. Do it, then get on to the next mission. “I want a machine pistol, or carbine, something with a suppressor.”

  “What about your pistol, can’t you do it with that?”

  King shook his head. This was his speciality; he would call the shots. “No, I want something that requires less precision. I’ll keep the Browning as a back-up weapon. A Heckler and Koch MP5 SD will do the job, four magazines and one hundred and twenty rounds of nine-millimetre ammunition.”

  “Somewhat excessive, is it not?” Forsyth looked doubtful as to the choice of weapon.

  King did his best to remain composed. Forsyth’s opinion on this matter was entirely unwanted. “No, I don’t consider that to be excessive at all. In fact, I haven’t finished yet. If Danny Neeson is to be killed as well, then I have to consider the odds. These are seasoned pros. And Neeson is hardly ever away from O’Shea’s side. I don’t want to be caught out when the time comes,” he paused, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Forsyth’s own. “And I want a shotgun. A pump action, .12 gauge of course. Remington or Winchester if possible, five shot minimum, with a box of twenty-five 00 buckshot, in three-inch magnum.”

  “What the hell for?” he asked, shaking his head. “It sounds like you’re planning a blood bath!”

  “It’s always a blood bath, Ian,” he said quietly. “For me, it’s simply a matter of how many and how often.”

  25

  King switched off the van’s headlights and crawled along the road, guided only by the light from the half-moon in the relatively cloud-free sky. He had decided to approach from the other direction. Not wanting to become a creature of habit, he would park further down the road and travel across the fields from the other side of the private lane into the property. Although he was now entering the unknown, it was never good practice to become complacent through familiarity.

  He pulled into a side turning then switched off the engine. The lights from the farmhouse were clearly visible from his distance of approximately half a mile. He would wait and watch, not making a move until he felt ready. The lights might well stay on all night, from this distance he had no way of telling what kind of light it was. It could well be that it was an outside light, permanently in operation to deter unwanted visitors. If that were the case, he would not know until he got close enough for a more thorough look.

  He glanced at the luminous dials of his watch. It was zero-one-thirty hundred hours. In the dark it could well take him an hour to cover the ground, avoiding obstacles or keeping alert for the opposition, should they have a roving patrol in operation.

  Next to him, resting on the passenger seat, was a small backpack containing all the equipment that he would need: a small tool-kit, consisting mainly of screwdrivers in various sizes, a hand-operated drill with a selection of drill-bits, a staple gun, a set of professional pick-locks, four voice-activated transmitters approximately the size of a small box of matches and a pinhole camera fitted with a fibre-optic lens.

  On his previous visit, King had gone to the farm unarmed. The heavy manpower present, and the broad daylight, had meant that if he had indeed been sighted he would most probably have been captured, and his weapon would have proven his hostile intentions. But on this occasion, he had the one thing on his side that should help him evade any force the enemy could deploy: The dark.

  He knew that if he was compromised at this hour, no amount of excuses would save him, his only option was to go in armed. He reached into the glove box and retrieved his 9 mm Browning HP-35 pistol. The design was over sixty years old, yet it remained a firm favourite with many professional marksmen and military forces around the world. He released the thirteen-round magazine, and checked the pistol’s action. Once satisfied that it was free and clear, he inserted the magazine and pulled back the slide, chambering the first round. With the safety applied, the weapon could be brought into use with just the flick of his thumb upon the safety catch. He placed the pistol on the passenger seat then clipped the soft leather holster to his belt, just above and in front of his left hip. King favoured the cross-draw. Next, he checked that his bootlaces were firmly fastened, with the ends tucked inside, before carefully opening the door and stepping onto the soft earth. He swung the backpack over his shoulders, then checked that nothing would rattle or flap with his movements. Finally, he slipped the luminous watch off his wrist and tucked it into his pocket. Only a small detail but they are the ones that let you down if ignored. The luminous dials could disclose his position to the well-trained eye.

  Once across the road and over the fence, he kept close to the hedge, taking the precaution to stop and crouch every thirty-metres or so. He would hold his breath, minimising background noise, then he would listen out for the slightest, misplaced sound. I
n early spring the countryside is alive at night. Rabbits or foxes bolting through the hedgerows, the call of an owl, the rustle of bats emerging to hunt, and probably a hundred other sounds, but to the trained or experienced ear, these sounds are all in their place, just nature doing what nature so noisily does. What he was checking for was any form of patrol. If the players were keeping it tight, it would not be out of character to mount a roving patrol; after all, it did happen in Ireland - both in the north and in the south.

  He preferred not to rely on night-vision aids although on some occasions they were necessary. In these conditions, relatively cloud-free, with a half moon, he favoured his instincts every time. At moments like this he felt at his most alive - as alive as anyone could be, thriving on the adrenaline rush. Some people sought the same feeling from such activities as skiing or skydiving, others obtain it directly from drugs, but all King ever needed was the primal source that came with the real chance of combat.

  He rose steadily to his feet, keeping his movements slow and purposeful. After a further thirty-metres he reached the brook. The wire fence was just a few steps beyond. He wanted to avoid getting his feet wet, as the sound of sodden boots is highly audible at night when sound is amplified five-fold because of the loss of ambient noise. He took a few steps backwards then ran, taking off at the last minute, clearing the brook but landing heavily on the other side. He crouched low, holding his breath for a moment, then breathed deeply but steadily, listening out for any signs of the opposition. Confident that he was alone, he rose slowly, advancing towards the wire fence.

  On this approach the fence was doubled, with a strand of barbed wire near the ground as well as one at waist level. He eased himself between the two lines of wire, careful not to snag his backpack on the top line. He was not worried about the chance of the fence being electrified, but more concerned that it might have been rigged to detect movement. Had he wanted to check for an electric current, he would have dabbed a length of grass on the wire and would only have felt a mild tingle, no matter how high the voltage. However, as he was sure that he could fit between the strands so there seemed little point in being over-cautious. Operating effectively always required a balance between sophisticated training and common sense: when to use the knowledge obtained, and when to choose to ignore it.