Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  King stared at the pistol in Forsyth’s hands, recognising it as a Heckler and Koch USP, complete with a large bulbous suppressor. That explained the silenced shots, he thought.

  Forsyth bent down and picked up the Browning. He ejected the magazine, then threw the weapon out into the hallway, and smiled wryly. “That thing is positively archaic, you should have got yourself one of these,” he said, rather proudly as he inhaled more smoke and blew it out in a thin plume. “That way, you could have taken Danny Neeson out silently outside, and not have to hold off in case O’Shea heard. Put you in a bit of a quandary, didn’t it?”

  “Well, some prick didn’t get me my kit list.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “How did you get here so quickly?” King stared at him hoping that Forsyth would be willing to divulge, which in turn might just buy him enough time to think of something.

  “Oh, I see!” Forsyth exclaimed dramatically. “Keep me talking, get me off guard, then make your move. Sorry old boy, too bloody good for you!” he paused, moving out of the doorway, but keeping the pistol stock-still. “But now that we know that you can do nothing, I don’t see any harm in playing along with your little ruse.”

  King glanced down at Holman, startled by the sudden movement. He looked back at Forsyth, who was already taking aim. The MI6 officer fired two shots in quick succession then smiled as Holman rolled over, exhaling his last breath. He took aim again and Holman’s head disappeared in a puff of crimson.

  “Sorry, old boy, slight oversight,” he said casually. He turned the pistol back to King and frowned. “You really should have equipped yourself with one of these. No recoil, or very little anyway. Makes for perfect accuracy. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I flew down old boy, just hopped on a plane and flew straight into Bordeaux Airport. Much more civilised than that God-forsaken drive. Even got here in time to set myself up and watch both you and Grant enter the house,” he added, smiling superciliously. “Jolly close shave with Holman arriving like that. For a minute, I didn’t think you two were going to make it.”

  King shook his head. “I thought that you were alright. Sure, you dressed like an old fart and acted like a pompous prick, but I thought it was an act. Your idiosyncrasy that made you stand out in a department of grey yes men. I was convinced that you were okay, in your own way.”

  Forsyth’s face dropped. “An awfully big word in that sentence. Have you been reading a dictionary in lieu of an education?”

  “I’m not stupid, Ian.”

  “Funny, you’re stupid enough to be standing at the wrong end of a gun.” He smiled. Don’t tell me you hadn’t given the money some thought. You could do with it more than myself. No fixed abode, other than service accommodation. No assets to speak of. What do you do with your pay check?”

  There was a brother and sister from another life, who thought he was dead. There were the families of two dead marines. Money found its way by various means into their lives.

  Penance.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” King said and moved a pace and a half to where Neeson was lying on the floor. He shrugged as he eased his foot under the body’s chin, then lifted the man’s face off the floor and looked at the exit wound. “Thanks... you saved me the job.”

  “Oh, my pleasure. Nothing to it, is there?”

  King nodded in agreement. “No. It’s so easy, anybody can do it. It’s choosing when to do it, and when not to do it. That’s what takes a real man.”

  “Hah! Nice try! Insult my sexual prowess, and then give me the chance to redeem myself. Frankly, Alex, I don’t give a hoot what people like you think about me.” He nodded towards the large suitcase. “I’ve always been different. At boarding school, I had few friends. The same with university and the service. But who cares? I’m a rich man now, in my own right, with the know-how to remain undetected. No more dirty little jobs for me, no more pittance of a salary and a hearty slap on the back. Oh jolly well done, Ian, good show, I’m through, once and for all.”

  King stared at Forsyth, who had become extremely agitated. He was reddening in the face and starting to perspire. King knew that he had nothing to lose now, so he decided to take his chance. If he could succeed in making the man become more emotional, he might still be able to distract him. “What’s your problem? I don’t get any more than that. Special forces soldiers die in dirty wars all over the world and they don’t get any recognition, not even in death. It’s called duty.”

  “Don’t give me that! At least if a soldier performs an act of bravery they get a bloody medal! The things I’ve done for Queen and country...” he trailed off, shaking his head disdainfully. You just wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  “Bollocks! What did your department contract me to do? It wasn’t all that long ago, Ian, surely you can remember? I had to kill him!” King kicked O’Shea’s corpse, rocking the head. Part of all that was left inside seeped out onto the floor. “What did you think I would get for that? I’ll tell you what I would have got for that... two things… Jack and shit! Sound familiar?”

  Forsyth nodded. “Yes. But believe me, I’ve done so much more. I was only a boy when I...” he trailed off suddenly, a distant sadness in his eyes.

  “We were all boys once, Ian. We grow up quickly when we serve the country. Some of us grew up quickly before all of this.”

  Forsyth aimed the pistol across to where Grant lay motionless, but kept his eyes on King. He lined up the sights on the man’s head. “It will be quite clean and painless; I can assure you of that.”

  “Well it had better be a cleaner death than Danny Neeson’s,” King said as he bent down and felt the man’s carotid artery with his fingertips. “You’re pretty sloppy, Ian, he’s still alive...” He reached out towards the fireplace and grabbed the handle of the fire poker and then threw it across the room at the MI6 officer.

  The poker spun in the air, glowing-tip over handle, directly in line with him. Forsyth tried to evade the weapon, but there was no time. He raised both his hands, but the glowing tip caught him on the shoulder, searing the fabric of his jacket and catching the side of his neck, searing the skin. He screeched and dropped the pistol to the floor, then frantically dodged the poker as it bounced on the floor, threatening to burn his legs.

  King was already up and moving, knowing full well that the only way to win a confrontation is to give it everything that you have. He powered into Forsyth, taking him to the ground and landing on top of him. Forsyth reached up and gripped King tightly around the throat, his overly-long, well-manicured nails digging deep into the flesh like claws. King countered the attack by pressing his chin down towards his neck, squashing Forsyth’s thumb against his collarbone. He then grabbed hold of Forsyth’s left ear and pulled. Forsyth screamed, and brought his knee up into King’s groin. King fell forward and rolled over him, but managed to keep a grip on the man’s ear, forcing it to part company with the rest of his head. The scream was demonic. Forsyth held the side of his head in a desperate bid to quell the savage pain, then scrabbled to his feet and bolted out of the room to the front door. King got to his feet and threw the useless piece of flesh down onto the floor. The red-hot fire poker had set fire to the corner of the sofa, and the room had already started to fill with a thick, pungent smoke. He leapt across the room, and followed the sound of Forsyth’s screams out into the night.

  Outside seemed darker for losing his night vision in the house. King jumped down the steps of the veranda and sprinted across the short area of over-gown lawn, then vaulted cleanly over the front gate. Forsyth was fast, he already had fifty-metres on King. As he landed, he could see Forsyth heading across the road, towards the sandy walkway that led to the beach. He quickened his pace, watching the ground carefully for obstructions. Forsyth slowed in front of him, then stopped beside a small Citroen, which had been discreetly parked under the nearby canopy of pine trees. The vehicle was obviously Forsyth’s car; no doubt hired at Bordeaux Airport. Forsyth looked up as King approached, running at a
frantic pace. He was obviously surprised to see him so close, there was no way that he could unlock the vehicle and get inside in time. Instead, he decided to give up all hopes of escaping by car and started to run up the steep sand dune which separated the road from the beach.

  King kept up his pace, well accustomed to running from his training with the special operations wing, who trained alongside the SAS. He soon gained even more distance on Forsyth, who was struggling to reach the top of the steep dune. As King reached the top, he lost sight of Forsyth and hesitated momentarily, waiting to catch sight of him amongst the maze of dunes and waist-high sand grass.

  Forsyth dived from where he crouched at the edge of the path. He caught King around the knees, tackling him to the ground. He had caught him off guard a second time and now, he was determined to make good use of the situation. He raised his hands and beat down a heavy rain of blows into King’s face. Catching him in the mouth, nose and eyes with clenched fists.

  King clenched his teeth together and closed his eyes until he found himself something to hold onto. He caught hold of a handful of skin on Forsyth’s face, slipped his thumb inside the man’s mouth to catch a good hold on the flap of cheek, then swung a savage punch. He felt it connect with something solid, felt the cheek tear and he lost his grip. He opened his eyes and started to punch the man in the face. He caught hold of Forsyth around the neck then pulled him closer, as the two men started to slip over the dune’s summit and down to the beach.

  There was no such thing as a clean fight. King new this, but so did Forsyth. King had the height and weight advantage, and a decade in youth, but the man was a frenzy of motion - punching, blocking and clawing at him. He felt a heavy blow to his face, that rocked him, dulled his senses for a moment, but he kept a tight hold on Forsyth’s neck and kept him close, until they had stopped moving down the sand dune. He felt another painful blow, this time to his ribs.

  It’s only pain! King thought. I can take anything that you can give and more besides… He groped at the man’s face, then suddenly felt elated when he found what he had so desperately been searching for. His finger slipped in easily, but he pushed even harder despite the sickening, agonising scream. He kept pushing, slipped his other hand around Forsyth’s head and gripped the nape of his neck. He pulled and pushed together, then suddenly, there was no more resistance. His finger went as deep as it could go, until the knuckle rested against the hard bone of the eye socket. He felt the warm, sticky wetness ooze over his finger and trickle across the back of his hand. Forsyth’s legs kicked wildly and the man’s whole body convulsed, erupting violently into a series of spine-breaking spasms. King pushed even harder, his knuckles grating against the hard texture of the bone as he twisted his finger around inside, probing and ripping the optic nerve. Forsyth went into shock. King pushed the man off him, and rolled with him until Forsyth was face down in the sand. He reached his left arm around the man’s throat, cupped his fist in his right hand, and pulled backwards as hard as he could. As the neck broke, Forsyth’s limbs went still. King rolled off and lay on his back, his chest heaving for breath. He looked up at the night sky, clear and starlit. Calm and silent.

  He knew he had not laid there long. But he felt the adrenalin leaving him, replaced with a feeling of pure exhaustion. Almost willing him to roll over and go to sleep. It was imperative to keep moving - to keep thinking. He forced himself off, looked briefly at Forsyth’s body, before wiping his bloody hand clean on the man’s tweed jacket. As he stood, he brushed the sand off his clothes, checked he still had his wallet and car keys in his jeans pockets.

  Smoke was in the air, a heady smell of paint and fabrics, or dry wood and roasting meat. He knew what it was without having to see it, and as King trudged up to the top of the sand dune, he noticed the great orange glow in the direction of Holman’s property. He felt light-headed, the adrenalin subsiding too quickly. He could hear the voices of his instructors in his ears. They were telling him to evaluate and prioritise. From his vantage point on top the dune, he could see flashing red lights in the distance. They were heading towards him, from Lacanau. King broke into a run down the sand dune and across the stretch of rough ground which led to the road.

  44

  November, 1998

  Stockholm, Sweden

  The sun was an opaque ball, omitting as little light as was possible against the dark sky. Vast banks of rain-heavy stratus cloud hung lazily in the sky, threatening to unburden themselves and release their heavy loads upon the unsuspecting, or unprepared, below. It was cold enough for snow and the light had that golden hue to it that so often precedes snowfall. If it did, it would be the first of many flurries before the big snowfall that marked winter.

  The breeze had increased dramatically to a sharp, crisp wind, and was now blowing the treetops, forcing them to sway from side to side, high above the deserted parkland. Huge drifts of fallen leaves had piled high against the series of knee-high barriers around the empty flower borders, catching the park-keepers unprepared.

  Lisa Grant watched the boy kick his football into the oncoming wind, taking full advantage of watching his ball curve dramatically, as if he had just taken a goal-scoring corner kick to save the match. She smiled and wiped a lonely tear from her windblown cheek. The boy needed a man in his life - someone with whom he could kick a football and not become embarrassed, as he so often had with her. Someone to look-up to and admire, someone to aspire to. She brushed a lock of her natural brunette hair aside. The wind was picking up. The red hair was gone, it had been Parker’s choice and now she made her own.

  It had been seven months since Keith Parker’s death. And even if she could admit it only to herself, they had been seven wonderful months. Every day seemed like a breath of fresh air, for herself, and for her son. David’s new-found confidence was unbounded, and even though he was still only in his first term at his new school, in a new country, she had noted a vast improvement with his academic studies. He now had focus, contentment and confidence.

  She had sold the house; Parker had actually left her provision in his will. It was as she had thought, the man had loved her, but he had been sick. It hadn’t always been a violent relationship. But it had escalated.

  The price of the house had been dropped, it seemed that people were not so keen to buy houses that had once been the scene of a brutal murder.

  She looked at her watch; the evenings were becoming much darker now, summer was almost a distant memory. But it had been a wonderful summer, with forests and lakes, and a host of new experiences in a new country. Lisa loved Sweden, and so did David. It had been a wonderful few months to rediscover themselves. It was cold now, and winter in Scandinavia was an unknown, but they were looking forward to the new experiences that a frozen winter would bring as well. She looked up and watched, smiling to herself as the man jogged towards the ball and chipped it gently towards her son. She smiled. It was lovely to see.

  Simon Grant turned around and walked towards her. She felt a shiver run down her spine, then looked back excitedly at him. It had been a wonderful few months, and they had fallen in love again, like teenagers. There were things they didn’t talk about, would never talk about. And that was fine, because life had started for them all over again. They were a couple in love, and a family who loved each other and would never be apart again.

  They hugged and kissed. The kiss lingered, became more passionate. Simon broke first, his eyes seeming to ask a question. Snowflakes started to flurry and a large one stuck on the end of his nose. She wiped it away and smiled. “Go on then,” she said, and watched as he jogged back over to David and they kicked the ball to each other. The mad English, now playing football in the snow. The snow was sticking and building quickly. David had never seen snow for real, he was whooping with delight.

  Lisa had grieved Simon’s death. Grieved, and ached and longed for him. A man from the foreign office had visited, along with a plain-clothes police officer. The detective sergeant who had investigated Keith Parker’s
murder. He was a detective inspector now. They had delivered the news. Simon had been killed in a fire in south-west France. His long-time friend, Frank Holman had died too. The fire had taken hold, even starting a forest fire, and there had been little left to identify the bodies, including a third unknown male. A new process of DNA profiling, still in its infancy, had found traces of Simon Grant at the house. The men hadn’t said much more, but the detective had given her a strange look when he had left. A knowing look. She had sold the house soon afterwards.

  Simon had contacted her after months of trying, and when they met, it had been in Spain. The Costa-del-Sol, or the Costa-del-Crime as it was known for its high population of British criminals and no extradition. This was soon to change under forthcoming EU laws, and the introduction of the Euro next year. They had spent two wonderful weeks together as a family, but she knew before she had even landed in Malaga that she wanted to be with him for the rest of her life. They had decided that Sweden would be a good place to start that new life. As it turned out, it was ideal.

  She watched the two play. Life was perfect.

  ***

  Watching the man and the boy kick the ball to each other, however briefly, had suddenly struck a chord with Alex King. He had never experienced the feeling for himself. He had never known his father – in truth, nor had his mother – and he had not had that sort of relationship with the other men in his life. He was the true definition of a bastard. The bastard son of a prostitute, no less. It had given him baggage to carry his whole life. However, it was his mentor, Peter Stewart who had told him to forget what he never knew. Not to mourn something he never had. It made him a blank canvas. No baggage of having to constantly live up to another man, no benchmark for either success or failure. He had told King that he was lucky. Fathers only created imperfect expectation, nothing more. It had been enough to leave the baggage at the door of MI6.