The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘What are you going to do, beat a confession out of him? That’s your style, isn’t it, Raquel? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’

  Welch leaned forward, still grinning. ‘Like you, hey, Terry? Yeah, we could arrange that. Why don’t you take a swing at me, here and now? Get rid of all the frustrations that are building up. You in here, the lovely Samantha out there. I guess you’ll be missing a lot. Decent food, drinks with the lads, the footie. And the sex. You’ve got to be missing the sex. Regular sex, anyway. Sex between a man and a woman.’

  Terry made a slow wanking gesture with his hand. ‘As opposed to the sort you enjoy.’

  Welch’s eyes hardened, but he kept grinning. ‘You’ll be wanting to talk to Samantha, of course. Get her side of the story. Find out what went wrong.’

  ‘Yap, yap, yap,’ said Terry softly.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be one to hide behind a woman’s skirts. Getting your wife to do the dirty work.’

  ‘Yap, yap, yap,’ said Terry. ‘Like a little dog bursting for a pee. Go cock your leg somewhere else.’

  The grin vanished from the detective’s face. ‘You think you’re so tough, don’t you, Greene? A big man.’

  ‘It’s all relative, Raquel.’

  ‘You’re nothing, Greene. You’re a fucking prisoner, slopping out like every other child molester, shoplifter and car thief in this place.’

  Terry smiled easily. ‘They’ve done away with slopping out, haven’t you heard?’

  ‘What are you now, Terry, fifty? Fifty-one? You’ll be due your pension in fifteen years, and you know what? You’ll still be banged up. By the time you get out you’ll have a mouthful of dentures and a stainless steel hip and you’ll be going to the loo half a dozen times a night.’

  Terry stood up so quickly that his chair fell over backwards, the sound echoing around the room like a gunshot. Welch threw up his hands and flinched, thinking that Terry was about to attack him.

  Terry smiled at Welch’s display of fear. ‘What do you think, Raquel, you think I’d give you a slap here with your man at the door and half a dozen screws outside waiting to drag me off to solitary?’ He took a step towards the detective and Welch took a step back. ‘When I slap you, it’ll be outside and you’ll stay slapped.’

  Welch recovered his composure and pointed a warning finger at Terry. ‘You threatened me.’ He looked at Simpson. ‘You heard him, he threatened me.’

  Terry sneered at Welch, then turned his back on him. Simpson moved away from the door without a word and Terry walked out.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Later that morning McKinley drove Sam to the garage which had cleaned the graffiti off her Saab. She was pleased to see they’d done a good job, there wasn’t a trace of the yellow paint. The mechanic who’d overseen the work was a small Irish guy with a limp, and he refused to let Sam pay, saying that he owed Terry a favour.

  Sam told McKinley that she would go straight on to see her mother-in-law, now that she had her car back, and arranged to see him the following day. It felt good to be behind the wheel again, she realised, as she drove herself to Oakwood House. Being chauffeured around was all well and good, but Sam liked to be in control of her own destiny.

  As usual, when Sam arrived Grace was sitting at the window, staring out, her hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘Good morning, Grace,’ said Sam, brightly.

  Grace didn’t react. On a side table was a tray with a plate of grilled fish and boiled new potatoes and a glass of orange juice.

  ‘Grace, you haven’t touched your lunch,’ chided Sam. She pulled up a chair and sat opposite her mother-in-law. She picked up a fork and stabbed a piece of fish. ‘This looks nice, Grace. Why don’t you try some?’

  Sam held the fork to Grace’s mouth. Grace’s lips parted and Sam pushed the fish in. Grace chewed mechanically, still looking out of the window.

  ‘So, did you have a good night, Grace?’

  There was no answer, and Sam hadn’t expected one. It had been several years since Grace Greene had been able to have a sensible conversation with anybody.

  ‘Didn’t get much sleep myself, as it happens,’ said Sam, putting another forkful of fish into Grace’s mouth. ‘Lost four tons of Terry’s cannabis and came this close to getting arrested myself. Hell of a night.’

  Grace smiled amiably as she looked out of the window, chewing slowly.

  ‘See, without that deal, we’re penniless, pretty much. The house, the car, this place. It’s all going to have to go. Unless I carry on playing your darling boy’s little games. Counterfeit money from Spain. All we’ve got to do is to get it into the country. What’s a girl to do, Grace?’

  Grace frowned. She turned to look at Sam and the frown deepened. ‘Are you Laura?’

  ‘No, Grace. Laura’s my daughter. I’m Samantha.’

  The door to Grace’s room opened. A nurse, in a starched white uniform, was surprised to see Sam. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Greene. I was just coming for Grace’s tray.’

  ‘We’re still working on it,’ said Sam, showing her the fork.

  ‘I’ll come back later, then,’ said the nurse. She started to leave, but hesitated and pushed the door closed. ‘It’s not really any of my business, Mrs Greene, but Mrs Hancock wanted to be told when you were on the premises. She said she wanted to talk to you about Grace’s account.’

  Sam’s face fell. After the debacle in Northumberland, she had no idea how she was going to be able to pay Grace’s bills. Or any bills for that matter.

  ‘She’ll be doing her rounds in about fifty minutes. Okay?’

  Sam smiled gratefully and thanked her. The nurse left and Sam continued to feed her mother-in-law.

  Grace swallowed, then turned to Sam, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘We had poached salmon, didn’t we? Salmon in a watercress sauce.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sam. ‘We did.’

  A huge smile spread across Grace’s face. ‘There was too much salt in the sauce,’ she said. ‘It was a lovely wedding, though. You and Terry looked so good together.’

  ‘We did, didn’t we? We did look good.’

  Grace frowned and the blankness returned to her eyes. She tilted her head on one side and peered closely at Sam. ‘Who are you?’

  Sam sighed and held up a forkful of fish. ‘I’m Samantha, Grace. Come on, chew your fish.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Richard Asher was talking on his telephone headset and pacing up and down like a caged panther as the secretary showed Sam into his office. Laurence Patterson, who had been sitting on the edge of Asher’s desk, came over and air-kissed Sam.

  Asher said goodbye to whoever he was talking to, and took off the headset. ‘Samantha, thanks for dropping by. I gather things went . . . awry.’

  ‘You could say that, Richard,’ said Sam. She sat down on one of the black sofas and lit a cigarette. Patterson hurried over with a crystal ashtray. ‘They were waiting for us with open arms. They knew exactly where and when the gear was coming ashore.’

  ‘You weren’t . . . you know . . . compromised?’ asked Asher.

  ‘You mean caught red-handed? No, Richard, I wasn’t. I’d hardly be here if I had been.’

  A look flashed between the two men and Sam realised what it signified.

  ‘You thought I’d come here to set you up? That I was working with the cops to cut myself a deal? Is that what you thought?’

  Asher and Patterson shook their heads. ‘Perish the thought,’ said Patterson.

  Asher went over to his desk and produced a small metal detector, the sort used by airline security people for personal checks. ‘But just to put our whatsits at rest, yeah?’

  ‘You have got to be joking,’ said Sam.

  ‘Samantha. Please,’ said Asher. ‘It’s a formality.’

  Sam sighed and stood up. She held her arms out to the side as Asher passed the metal detector over her body. ‘You’re not going to give me an internal, are you, Richard? Because I have to warn you, I’ve not had a
chance to shower yet.’

  Asher grimaced but didn’t say anything. He finished the sweep then stood back. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but, you know, the filth have no morals these days.’

  ‘Whatever happened to honour among thieves?’ she asked them.

  ‘Went out with AA salutes and beehive hairdos,’ said Patterson. He slid open a glass door that led to a large terrace bedecked with plants. ‘Let’s get some fresh air, yeah?’

  The terrace overlooked a large chunk of the city’s financial district. There was a small fountain with water spraying from a dolphin’s mouth and a white oval cast-iron table with six chairs. At one side of the patio was a small Japanese garden, its smooth rocks surrounded by perfectly raked sand, with more than a dozen bonsai trees on wooden benches. The perimeter of the terrace was lined with lush green plants connected to an automatic watering system.

  In the distance Sam could see the NatWest Tower, dwarfing the rest of the City skyscrapers which clustered around it like chicks around a mother hen. She walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the city. ‘Hell of a view, lads,’ she said.

  ‘You get what you pay for,’ said Asher, ‘and this costs an arm and a leg.’

  Sam turned to face them. Patterson had brought a briefcase with him, and he put it on the table. ‘What’s the financial position now, Richard . . . in view of last night’s hitch?’ asked Sam.

  ‘There’s money in two of the current accounts. Just about. And you’re three months behind with the mortgage. The bank’s not going to call in the mortgage straight away – they don’t like repossessing unless they absolutely have to. However, Laurence is going to need funds to keep the case going.’

  Sam turned to Patterson. ‘Have you made any headway yet?’

  ‘Samantha, there are basically two ways of getting Terry out of prison,’ said Patterson, leaning back in his chair as though about to start a lecture.

  ‘Not a helicopter, Laurence. I really can’t afford a helicopter.’

  Patterson smiled thinly, like an uncle humouring a favourite child. ‘No, Samantha, not a helicopter. Hopefully it won’t come to that. We need to discredit the forensic evidence, and we need to show that Ricky Morrison was lying when he said he saw Terry leaving Snow’s house after the shots were fired. If we assume the forensic evidence was planted by one of the investigating officers . . .’

  ‘Raquel . . .’ Sam interjected.

  Patterson nodded. ‘Raquel. Quite. If we assume that the evidence was indeed planted, the easiest way of showing that is first to demonstrate that Morrison is lying. If it was the police who encouraged Morrison to lie, it follows that they could also have planted the evidence. Or at least an appeal court is likely to see it that way. The first step is to find Ricky Morrison, though, and I have to say that so far we’ve drawn a blank. Apparently he’s under some sort of witness protection scheme. Finding him is going to cost, Samantha. It’s going to cost big time.’

  ‘I’ve got someone else working on that as we speak,’ said Sam. From down below came the wailing siren of a fire engine.

  ‘The more the merrier, obviously,’ said Patterson, ‘but the people I’ve got on the case are going to need paying. And as we stand right now, you don’t have the resources for that.’

  Sam lit a cigarette. ‘Warwick Locke said he’d give me five grand for Terry’s share of the modelling business. The cheque should arrive any day now.’

  Patterson looked pained. ‘Five thousand pounds is a drop in the proverbial, I’m afraid. Ten times that would just about cover what it’s going to cost to get Terry’s case reopened.’

  Sam’s face fell. Fifty thousand pounds? Where on earth was she going to get fifty thousand pounds from?

  ‘I know that’s a lot, Samantha. I’m sorry. But that’s what it costs. That’s not even including Richard’s fees or mine. We’re going to have to go over every court paper again, re-interview every witness, re-examine the forensics.’

  Sam looked at them in turn. She could see the pity in their eyes and she refused to show how upset she was. She forced a smile. ‘I’ll get the money,’ she said. ‘Come hell or high water, I’ll get it.’

  Patterson tapped the briefcase that he’d brought with him. ‘Terry’s spoken to you about the other thing?’

  ‘The counterfeit money? Yeah. I told him I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole, but that was before . . .’ She left the sentence hanging.

  ‘And now?’ asked Asher.

  ‘Now I don’t think I’ve got any choice. Do you know exactly what he’s got in mind?’

  ‘Arm’s length,’ said Asher. ‘Need-to-know basis.’

  Patterson opened the briefcase. ‘But he did say that we were to give you this if you did decide to go through with it.’ He took out a notebook and handed it to her.

  Sam took it and opened it. Asher walked over to the railing at the far end of the terrace as if wanting to distance himself as far as possible from the notebook and whatever was written in it. ‘Why do I get the feeling that my strings are being pulled?’ asked Sam.

  ‘It’s just Terry planning ahead, Samantha,’ said Patterson, closing the briefcase and clicking shut the two locks. ‘Anticipating problems before they arise.’

  ‘Yeah? Causing them, more like.’

  ‘Samantha, are you still driving the Saab?’ asked Asher, peering down over the railing.

  ‘Christ, now what?’ said Sam. ‘It’s not been vandalised again, has it?’

  ‘They’re towing it.’

  Sam cursed and rushed back into the office, shouting over her shoulder that she’d be in touch. She dashed to the lift and tapped the notebook impatiently against her leg all the way down.

  By the time she reached the Saab it was already being lifted on to the back of a flatbed truck. A West Indian traffic warden in a too-tight uniform was punching the keys of a handheld computer. Sam hurried up to him. ‘I’m sorry, I was in a meeting. I fed the meter, I guess I mustn’t have put enough in.’

  ‘Too late now, madam,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the computer.

  ‘I can’t have been more than ten minutes.’

  ‘Nothing I can do once the wheels have left the ground.’ He finished tapping on the computer keys and slotted it into a leather holster, like a sheriff putting away his six-shooter. ‘You can collect it from the pound in about an hour’s time.’

  ‘Can’t you just pretend I got here a bit earlier? I really am having one hell of a day.’

  ‘You and me both, madam.’

  ‘Will you stop calling me “madam”? You make me sound like a brothel-owner.’

  The Saab banged down on to the truck and two other West Indians in overalls began attaching chains to the wheels.

  ‘Look, I need the car. I really need the car. Please don’t do this to me.’

  The traffic warden folded his arms and looked at her dispassionately. ‘Madam, you’re wasting my time. I just issue the tickets. Once the car is collected, it’s out of my hands.’

  Sam felt a surge of rage at the unfairness of it. ‘Your mother must be proud of you. Her son in uniform. Must warm the cockles . . .’ She could see from the look of smug indifference on his face that there was nothing she could say that would have any effect on the man. She figured that doing the job he did, he probably had the hide of a rhinoceros and had heard every possible insult there was. She turned and walked away, fuming.

  She called Andy McKinley on her mobile. He said he’d be with her in thirty minutes, so Sam sat in a coffee bar with an espresso and read through the notebook while she waited.

  Most of the notebook was blank: Terry’s cramped handwriting filled only the first six pages. It was written in a chatty style and she could imagine him saying the words. It was peppered with loves and darlings and apologies, but the gist of it was that Terry had paid a quarter of a million pounds to a syndicate in Malaga who had access to top-quality counterfeit twenty-pound notes. Terry was getting a ten-fold return on the investment – a total
of two and a half million pounds was being delivered to him in Malaga. Once the counterfeit money was ready, someone would have to go over to Spain, collect the notes, and bring them back to the United Kingdom. ‘And with me banged up, love, I’m sorry to say it’s going to have to be you,’ Terry had written.

  Sam shook her head. ‘You bastard, Terry,’ she whispered, and sipped her coffee. There was a phone number to call in Spain to confirm that the money was ready, and details of how Sam was supposed to bring the cash back, along with a list of possible drivers and their contact numbers. Sam looked around nervously. What she had in her hands was a do-it-yourself guide to counterfeit currency smuggling, and she could only imagine what would happen to her if the police found it in her possession. She slid it into her handbag.

  She smoked a cigarette and drank another coffee as she wondered what she should do next. Getting Terry out had to be her first priority. If Terry was out, he’d be able to do his own dirty work and she could go back to having some semblance of a normal life. It was, however, a huge ‘if’, one that depended on her getting fifty thousand pounds, and the only way to get the fifty thousand pounds was to go and collect the counterfeit money. It was a vicious circle, and the more Sam tried to come up with a way out, the more her head began to swim.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Frank Welch signalled that he was leaving the motorway and drove to the car park behind the service station. Welch hated informers. Hated them with a vengeance. And he hated even more having to give them money. Welch knew that they were a necessary evil, but he felt soiled by having to deal with them. He was late, although he knew that the man he was there to meet would wait. He drove slowly around the car park until he saw the Rover, and pulled up next to it.

  George Kay wound down the window as Welch got out of his car. ‘I thought we said two-thirty,’ said Kay, holding out his hand.

  Welch ignored the outstretched hand and got into the passenger seat. ‘And I thought you said she was going to be there,’ said Welch.