The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘His handler came around when he didn’t check in. Forced the door.’

  ‘Where is he now, the handler?’

  ‘Went to talk to his boss.’ Clarke gave Welch a card with the name and phone number of a police sergeant working with Paddington Green’s drug squad. ‘Morrison was supposed to be giving evidence in a drugs case tomorrow.’

  ‘This was supposed to be a fucking witness protection scheme,’ said Welch. ‘They shouldn’t have left him on his own.’

  Simpson came up behind him. ‘One of the SOCOs said it might be an auto-erotic thing,’ he said. ‘Cutting off his air supply and playing with himself.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Welch.

  ‘There were no signs of a struggle,’ said Simpson. ‘Dirty magazines on the floor.’

  ‘And no note, so it doesn’t look like he killed himself,’ said Clarke.

  ‘He was murdered,’ said Welch emphatically.

  ‘Come on, guv, we don’t know that for sure,’ said Simpson.

  ‘I do,’ said Welch. ‘Somebody murdered the little shit. Question is, who? And how did they know where to find him?’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam was on her hands and knees cleaning the oven when the phone rang. She cursed and stood up, stripping off her rubber gloves. It was Blackie. ‘Remember the park near the office?’ he snapped. ‘Be there in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Just be there.’

  The line went dead. Sam frowned and put the phone back. Wondered whether or not to call McKinley, but decided against it and drove the Saab to the park.

  Blackie was already at the lake, pacing up and down, his face set like stone. ‘Have you heard what happened?’ he said.

  ‘What? Is it Terry? Has something happened to Terry?’

  ‘No, it’s not Terry. It’s Morrison. He’s dead.’

  Sam’s jaw dropped. ‘Dead? How?’

  ‘They found him hanging on the back of a door.’

  ‘He didn’t look suicidal when I saw him,’ said Sam.

  ‘It wasn’t suicide,’ said Blackie. ‘That’s what it looked like, but a lowlife like Morrison isn’t going to kill himself. Jesus H. Christ. Twenty-four hours after he talks to you, he’s dead. That strike you as a coincidence?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think I mean? Christ, if they ever find out that I gave you Morrison, I’ll be in so much shit they’ll need a submarine to find me.’

  ‘You’re a big boy, Blackie. I’m sure you covered your tracks.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone else where Morrison was?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What about Terry?’

  Sam shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to Terry for a week.’

  Blackie put a hand up to his forehead. ‘This is the last time I put myself in the firing line for you. Or Terry.’

  Sam walked up close to Blackie so that her face was only inches away from his. ‘It’s the last time when I say it’s the last time,’ she said, her voice ice cold. ‘You’ve been on Terry’s firm since you were a woodentop pounding the beat. You do as you’re told or your career’s over and you’ll be spending your retirement on Rule 43 with the rest of the bent coppers behind bars.’

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ hissed Blackie.

  ‘I think I’m the woman who’s got photographs of you taking bungs from my husband. And I think I’m the woman who can walk into your boss’s office and tell him that you took me to see Morrison.’

  ‘Then you’d go down with me.’

  Sam smiled thinly. ‘Really? You don’t think I could cut myself a deal, Blackie? Who do you think they’d rather put behind bars? A housewife and mother, or a detective superintendent? I mean, think of the pension money they’d save for a start.’

  Blackie stared at her in near disbelief, his jaw set tight as the colour visibly drained from his face. ‘You’re a bitch,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I’m having to be, Blackie. I’m fighting for my life here.’

  Blackie shook his head and walked away, keeping to the edge of the lake.

  ‘Look, Terry tells me that when he gets out, he’s going legit,’ said Sam.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘I think he means it. He’s had a taste of prison and he won’t want to go back. Once he’s out, he won’t need you any more. You’ll be home free.’

  ‘Terry Greene isn’t ever going to go straight. Take my word on that.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what Terry told me. And I believe him.’

  Blackie shook his head. He kept his eyes on the ground as he followed the path around the lake. Two well-dressed women with prams were walking their way, so they stopped talking until they’d gone by.

  ‘Terry said he was with some Irish heavyweights the night Snow was shot,’ said Sam.

  Blackie frowned, then realisation dawned. ‘Paramilitaries? For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘That’s why he couldn’t say where he was. That’s why I had to lie for him.’

  ‘Have you any idea how dangerous those people are? What was Terry doing?’

  ‘Best you don’t know, Blackie.’

  Blackie continued to shake his head.

  ‘Look, I need a name,’ said Sam. ‘Someone I can talk to.’

  ‘Talk to? Why?’

  ‘Seems to me that the more you know, the more you worry. Just give me the name of someone in London I can speak to. Then you can leave the worrying to me.’

  Blackie looked at her as if she were mad, then he took a small black notebook out of his jacket pocket and scribbled a name and address. He ripped out the page and handed it to her. ‘For fuck’s sake don’t mention my name,’ he said, and walked away, still shaking his head.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam drove from the park to Oakwood House. She made her way to Grace’s room, but was surprised to find it empty, the bed freshly made. Sam frowned. Grace had been in the same room since her arrival at the home – it didn’t make sense that they’d move her after three years. She noticed that the framed photographs that Grace kept on her bedside table had gone, as had all her personal belongings. Sam rushed over to the wardrobe and opened it. All her clothes were missing. A sudden chill gripped her heart.

  ‘Mrs Greene?’

  Sam whirled around. It was the friendly nurse who’d tipped her off about Mrs Hancock on her last visit. The nurse stood in the open doorway, her hands clutched in front of her. Her lower lip was trembling.

  ‘Where’s Grace?’ snapped Sam. ‘What’ve they done with her?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Greene.’

  ‘Sorry? What for?’

  The nurse took a couple of steps into the room. ‘Grace is dead, Mrs Greene. I’m so sorry.’

  Sam felt as is she’d been kicked in the stomach. The strength drained from her legs and she sat down heavily on the bed. ‘She didn’t look too bad last time I saw her.’

  The nurse looked away, still wringing her hands, and Sam sensed that there was something wrong. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘You really should speak to Mrs Hancock,’ said the nurse.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Sam.

  The nurse shook her head. ‘I can’t, Mrs Greene. Really, I can’t.’

  Sam looked up at the nurse. ‘Did something happen to her?’

  The nurse closed the door and went down to sit on the bed next to Sam. ‘She went out. She went out and there was an accident.’

  Sam took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her eyes. ‘What do you mean she went out? Grace hasn’t been out for two years.’

  ‘She walked out,’ said the nurse. ‘No one seems to know when, no one saw her go. She went across the field and onto the road. Oh God, Mrs Greene, I’m so, so sorry.’ The nurse started to cry. Sam gave her the handkerchief and the nurse dabbed at her eyes. ‘She was run over. They said she died right away.’

  The strength drained from Sam’s legs and she sat down on the bed. ‘When?’ she
gasped. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘This morning.’ The nurse blew her nose and wiped her eyes again. ‘I brought her lunch and she wasn’t here.’

  Sam closed her eyes. She’d always known that Grace would never be going home, that she would be in Oakwood House until the day she died, and that there was no cure for her illness. But death, death was something in the far-off future. She’d never expected Grace to be snatched away suddenly, the life smashed out of her on a lonely country road.

  The nurse gave her back the handkerchief. ‘She was a real lady, Mrs Greene. Always gentle, always kind. I’ll miss her.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ll miss her, too.’

  On the way out, Sam went to the administrator’s office, brushing past the secretary’s desk and opening the door unannounced. Mrs Hancock was tapping on her computer keyboard, and the look of annoyance which flashed across her face when she saw Sam was quickly replaced by a professional smile. ‘Mrs Greene, I am so sorry about what happened.’ She spoke slowly and the smile never left her lips, but Sam could see the insincerity in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘What the hell was Grace doing outside?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Mrs Hancock, icily.

  ‘I said, what the hell was my mother-in-law doing outside?’

  ‘This isn’t a prison, Mrs Greene. There are no bars on the windows, we don’t have armed guards on the gate. Residents are free to come and go as they please.’

  ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me what had happened?’

  ‘We tried to contact you, Mrs Greene, but there was no one home. I left two messages on your answering machine myself. And we asked the police if they would send someone round to leave a written message.’

  ‘I wasn’t home,’ said Sam quietly. ‘I had to see someone.’

  ‘There you are then,’ said Mrs Hancock. ‘It’s not as if we didn’t try.’

  ‘Didn’t try!’ echoed Sam. ‘It was a bit bloody late to be trying, wasn’t it? Why was nobody trying when she walked out?’

  ‘I don’t think I like your tone, Mrs Greene,’ said the administrator, sitting back in her chair.

  Sam walked up to the desk and glared down at the woman. ‘And I don’t think I like the fact that you let an eighty-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s go walkabout.’

  ‘Mrs Greene . . .’ protested the administrator, but Sam cut her short by pointing her finger at her face.

  ‘She needed looking after,’ shouted Sam. ‘Twenty-four hours a day. That’s why she was here. That’s what we were paying for.’

  Mrs Hancock sneered at Sam. ‘Actually, you weren’t,’ she said.

  Sam frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Mrs Hancock stood up. ‘You haven’t paid your mother-in-law’s account for more than three months.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you can whistle for your money now.’

  Mrs Hancock reached for the phone on her desk. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mrs Greene. Or you’ll force me to call security.’

  ‘Security? If you had any security, Grace wouldn’t have got out in the first place.’

  Mrs Hancock started to dial, and Sam turned her back on the woman and stormed out of the office.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Terry was whispering into one of the landing telephones when he saw Chief Prison Officer Riggs flanked by Dunne and another guard walking up the metal stairway. Riggs paused at the top of the stairway, looked around, then headed towards Terry.

  Terry hung up as soon as Riggs came within earshot. ‘Your missus sends her regards, Mr Riggs,’ Terry said.

  Terry moved to get past Riggs and the two other guards, but Riggs stepped to the side, blocking his way. ‘I’ll miss your sense of humour when you leave, Greene,’ said Riggs. He smiled coldly. ‘In about thirty years.’

  Terry could sense something was wrong. He looked at Dunne, but the guard looked away quickly, unwilling to meet his gaze.

  Riggs had a triumphant look in his eyes. ‘Your mother’s dead,’ he said quietly. Riggs stared at Terry, wanting to see how he’d react.

  Terry felt as if his stomach had turned to ice. He couldn’t breathe and his heart was racing, but he forced himself to keep looking at Riggs.

  Riggs’s eyes hardened. ‘She was hit by a fucking ice cream van,’ he said. ‘Had to scrape her off the road with a wafer.’

  Terry took a step towards Riggs and the three guards tensed. Terry took a deep breath. Losing his temper wouldn’t get him anything other than a period in solitary. Or worse. He kept his hands at his sides and clenched his jaw as he stared at Riggs. Riggs stared back, a smile flickering across his lips, wanting Terry to lash out. Terry refused to give him the satisfaction.

  When Riggs realised that Terry wasn’t going to react, he turned and walked away, his shoes squeaking.

  Dunne pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Sorry, Terry,’ he said, his voice a soft whisper so that Riggs wouldn’t hear.

  Terry didn’t say anything, but he acknowledged Dunne with a curt nod as he glared at the back of Chief Prison Officer Riggs.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam parked the Saab outside Laura’s house and walked slowly to the front door. She rang the doorbell several times but there was no answer, so she went around the side of the house and opened the wooden gate that led to the rear garden. Laura was at the far end of the lawn, clipping roses. Sam walked across the grass towards her daughter. ‘Laura?’

  Laura flinched and turned around. She was wearing sunglasses even though the sky was overcast and threatening rain. ‘Mum, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Thanks for making me feel so welcome,’ said Sam.

  Laura smiled but Sam could see that she was far from happy to see her. ‘You should have called, Mum.’

  ‘I did call. Lots of times. But I keep getting your machine.’

  Sam went to kiss Laura on the cheek but Laura backed away as if she didn’t want to be touched. Sam frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’ There was a small cut on Laura’s chin and a bruise on her left cheek.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Laura, too quickly.

  ‘Laura . . .’

  ‘Mum, it’s nothing. I’m just busy, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re pruning roses, Laura. It’s not brain surgery.’

  ‘Please, Mum, just go. I’ve got a headache.’

  Sam reached out and slowly took off her daughter’s sunglasses. She gasped as she saw the black eye.

  ‘I fell,’ said Laura. She saw the look of disbelief on Sam’s face. ‘Honestly. I fell.’

  Sam folded up the sunglasses, shaking her head sadly.

  ‘It’s not his fault. He’s under a lot of pressure. At work.’

  Sam put an arm around her daughter and guided her towards the house. ‘Come on, I’ll make you a coffee.’

  They walked to the house as tears began to run down Laura’s face.

  ‘Maybe hot chocolate’ll be better,’ said Sam. ‘Like we used to, yeah? Hot chocolate and EastEnders. Remember?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum,’ sniffed Laura. ‘I remember.’

  Sam sat Laura down in the kitchen and made two mugs of hot chocolate while Laura dabbed gently at her eyes with a piece of kitchen roll.

  ‘How long has this being going on?’ asked Sam as she poured boiling milk on to the chocolate powder. Laura shook her head but didn’t reply. ‘Laura . . .’ insisted Sam.

  ‘They’re giving him a tough time at work.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘Because of Dad.’

  Sam handed Laura her mug and sat down opposite her. ‘What do you mean, because of Dad?’

  ‘They wind him up,’ sniffed Laura. ‘Father-in-law’s a drug dealer and a murderer. Not the normal sort of pedigree of a merchant banker, is it?’

  ‘Hitters always hit, Laura. There’s no changing them.’

  ‘I love him, Mum. He loses his temper, that’s all. He’s always sorry afterwards.’

  ‘Oh, that makes it all right, then.’ Sam leaned over and brushed a lo
ck of Laura’s hair behind her ear.

  Laura kept her head down as if trying to hide her bruises. ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ she whispered. ‘If he didn’t love me so much, he wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘That’s what he says, is it?’

  Laura looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘Laura, in all the time I was with your father, no matter how much we argued, no matter how we rowed, he never, ever, laid a finger on me.’

  ‘I know,’ said Laura quietly. She put her hands around her mug of hot chocolate.

  ‘Real men don’t hit women,’ said Sam. ‘They can make your life a misery in a million different ways, but they don’t hit.’ Laura started crying again and Sam hurried around the table to sit next to her. She put her arm around Laura’s shoulders and tried to comfort her. ‘It’s all right, Laura. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.’

  Laura wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. You don’t have to apologise for anything. Drink your chocolate.’

  Laura sipped her hot chocolate. ‘Did you see Gran today?’ she asked.

  Sam’s face fell and Laura stiffened. ‘What? What’s happened?’

  Sam cupped her hand around her daughter’s cheek. ‘She’s had an accident. I’m sorry, love. That’s why I came around. Your gran’s . . . your gran’s dead.’

  ‘Oh God, Mum! No!’

  Laura’s look of disbelief turned to one of horror and Sam hugged her.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  McKinley was waiting for Sam as she drove up to the house in her Saab. He’d parked the Lexus in front of the double garage and stood by the front door, his gloved hands clasped in front of him, his face a sombre mask. He walked over to her as she got out of the car and closed the door for her.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your loss, Mrs Greene,’ he said.

  ‘How did you . . .’

  ‘Terry phoned me,’ McKinley said, before she could finish. ‘Called me from the landing. He’s been trying to call you on the mobile.’

  Sam frowned and took her mobile phone out of her handbag. The battery was dead. She showed it to McKinley.

  ‘Aye, he’s been trying to get through for hours, he said. Prison authorities notified him about his mother.’