The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘How’s he taking it, Andy?’

  ‘He’s not one for showing his feelings, Mrs Greene. But it’s hit him hard.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s not the only one.’ She took out her door key. ‘Come on in, Andy, we could both do with a drink.

  McKinley held out a business card. ‘A WPC was here a while back. Came to tell you about Mrs Greene. I said I’d be talking to you but she gave me this and said if there were any questions, you could call her.’

  ‘You keep it, Andy,’ she said. ‘I know all I need to know.’

  The message light on the answer machine was flashing accusingly. The digital read-out showed two messages. Sam pressed ‘play’. It was Mrs Hancock from the nursing home. Sam deleted both messages without listening to them.

  They went through to the sitting room and Sam poured them both brandies.

  ‘Were you close?’ asked McKinley. ‘You and your mother-in-law?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Yeah, since my own mum died. That was about fifteen years ago. Car crash.’ She smiled. ‘Which is why I’m so picky about seatbelts, I guess.’ She took a sip of brandy. ‘Grace was always there for me. When I needed someone to talk to, you know?’

  McKinley nodded. He was a great listener, looking at her with his pale blue eyes as if he were hanging on her every word. It would be very easy for a girl to get romantically involved with Andy McKinley, Sam realised. He was attentive, thoughtful and kind, but he was tough, too. Sam never felt anything other than completely protected when she was with him. If she’d been twenty years younger, she’d probably have been tempted, but the age difference being what it was, she felt more like his elder sister. Or worse. His mother.

  ‘Even when the Alzheimer’s kicked in, I still used to enjoy talking to her. There was a stillness about her. I used to feel so much better getting things off my chest, you know?’

  McKinley nodded. ‘It’s good to have someone to talk to,’ he agreed.

  ‘What about you, Andy? Who do you talk to?’

  McKinley shrugged but didn’t answer. Sam didn’t press it. She had known McKinley long enough to know that he didn’t like personal questions, and she respected his desire for privacy.

  ‘Do you know what Terry wants me to do about the currency thing?’ she asked.

  ‘He mentioned it. Just the basics.’

  ‘You don’t mind helping me?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  Sam sipped her brandy. ‘Thanks, Andy. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Really.’

  McKinley leaned forward and clinked glasses with her. ‘It’s a pleasure, Mrs Greene.’

  Sam held his look. He was a good-looking man, was Andy McKinley. Tall and strong with a confident air, the sort of man you knew you could rely on, who’d never let you down. Sam wondered again if he had anyone special in his life. He’d never mentioned being in a relationship and he seemed to be on call twenty-four hours a day.

  ‘How old are you, Andy?’ she asked.

  ‘Old enough, Mrs Greene,’ he said with a smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was just wondering if I’m old enough to be your mother, that’s all. You can’t be much older than Laura.’

  McKinley grinned. ‘I’ve had a rough life, Mrs Greene,’ he joked.

  ‘Really?’

  McKinley shrugged, then he became serious. ‘I’ve had my moments, but it’s worked out all right.’

  ‘You an only child?’

  McKinley flashed her a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘Five sisters,’ he said.

  ‘My God! Older or younger?’

  ‘I was the youngest.’

  Sam started laughing, and McKinley looked hurt. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Andy,’ she said, reaching out and patting him on the back of the hand. ‘It was just the thought of you and five older sisters. I can just imagine them dressing you up, treating you like a little doll, you know.’

  McKinley’s face reddened. ‘That was pretty much what it was like.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.’

  He took a long drink of his brandy then put down the glass. ‘Our dad disappeared when I was about eight. He had some pretty heavy debts and no way of covering them. One night he packed a suitcase and legged it. Left my mother to bring up six kids.’

  Sam sipped her brandy, not sure what to say. She knew that any words of commiseration would sound trite.

  McKinley settled back in his chair. ‘It was too much for her. Burned her out before her time. She had a heart attack. Died in the kitchen while I was at school. Got back home and she’d gone.’

  ‘Andy . . . that’s terrible,’ said Sam.

  McKinley shrugged again. ‘It was a long time ago. It was hard at the time, I guess, but my sisters shielded me from the worst of it. They wanted to put me and two of my sisters into care but my older sisters wouldn’t have it. They insisted the family stayed together and they got their way.’ He picked up his brandy and took another drink. ‘Tough cookies, my sisters.’

  ‘Like their brother.’

  ‘Aye, maybe. Certainly toughened me up. We were always short of money. I left school first chance I got and became the breadwinner.’

  ‘You still in touch with them?’

  ‘Sure. They never left Glasgow, but I try to get back whenever I can. They’re all married now.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve got more than a dozen nephews and nieces, can you believe that?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Yeah, Andy, I can.’

  They sat in silence for a while, then McKinley looked at his watch. ‘Okay if I push off, Mrs Greene? I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Sure. Can you pick me up tomorrow? About ten? There’s something I’ve got to take care of.’

  ‘I’ll be here, Mrs Greene. It’s okay, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink.’ He hesitated as if he were about to say something else, but then he shook his head.

  Sam reached up and touched his hand as he walked by. She’d had a sudden urge to give him a hug, but knew that to do so could easily be misinterpreted. She made do with a gentle brushing of the back of his hand with her fingertips. McKinley didn’t react and Sam wondered if he’d even noticed the brief physical contact.

  Trisha was walking up the drive as McKinley drove away.

  She stormed into the sitting room and gave Sam’s brandy glass a disparaging look. ‘What was he doing here again?’ asked Trisha.

  ‘Business.’

  Trisha rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen, Trish.’

  ‘I’ve got homework.’

  ‘We’ve got to talk.’

  Trisha sighed. ‘Now what?’

  Sam took a deep breath and told Trisha about Grace.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  McKinley brought the Lexus to a stop outside the modern glass and steel tower that housed the offices of the merchant bank where Jonathon Nichols worked.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Mrs Greene?’ he asked.

  ‘Good idea or not, I’m doing it, Andy. You wait here.’

  A security guard in a uniform more befitting a rear admiral told Sam that Nichols worked on the twelfth floor. She went up in the lift and walked up to a sour-faced receptionist. ‘I’m looking for Jonathon Nichols,’ she said.

  ‘He’s in a meeting,’ said the woman. ‘Can you tell me what it’s in connection with?’

  ‘It’s in connection with him beating the shit out of my daughter,’ said Sam. ‘Now where is he?’

  The receptionist looked to her left, down a corridor. ‘He’s busy,’ she said. She turned to look back at Sam, but she was already walking purposefully down the corridor.

  Through a panel of glass next to one of the doors, Sam could see Jonathon Nichols on his feet, talking to a group of half a dozen suits. A blonde woman in a short skirt was taking notes.

  Sam threw open the door and stormed in.

  Nichols stopped mid-sentence. ‘Sam?’ he said, confusion written all over his face. He was standing next
to an overhead projector, and on the wall was a series of financial calculations.

  ‘Don’t fucking “Sam” me,’ she shouted, walking up to him. ‘If you ever lay a finger on my daughter again, I’ll kill you. As sure as I’m standing here, I’ll kill you.’

  Nichols took a step back and bumped into the projector.

  ‘I don’t know where you get the nerve to think it’s okay to hit a woman!’ continued Sam, pointing her finger at his face. ‘Any woman! But to beat your wife black and blue, to have her living in fear of you, that’s not being a man.’

  Sam took another step towards Nichols, and he raised his hand as if to push her away.

  ‘You want to hit me?’ she shouted. ‘Go on. I fucking dare you.’ She glared at him, her face contorted with rage.

  Nichols lowered his hand.

  Sam turned to look at the suits sitting around a rosewood table, their mouths wide open. ‘How does it feel, doing business with a wife-beater?’ she said. Several of them looked embarrassed. ‘He knocks my daughter around. His own wife. Beats her up and he’s twice her size. She’s wearing dark glasses to hide the black eye he’s given her. Think about that, yeah. Think about the sort of man you’re dealing with.’ Sam walked out, her head held high.

  The receptionist was waiting in the corridor. ‘Security are on their way,’ she said, but Sam ignored her and carried on walking.

  McKinley had the door of the Lexus open for her. ‘How did it go, Mrs Greene?’ he asked.

  ‘Just fine, Andy,’ said Sam. ‘I feel much better now.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Terry sat on the one chair in the cell, staring at the wall, while Charlie Hoyle lay on his bunk. Ever since the death of Terry’s mother had become public knowledge, Hoyle had barely said a word to him. Prison was a pressure cooker, and inmates who received bad news were generally left alone in case they exploded. Not that Terry was in danger of lashing out. His mother’s death had been an accident, but he’d known for some time that she didn’t have long to live. In many ways the accident had been a godsend: at least it had been quick compared with the gradual deterioration that the Alzheimer’s had caused.

  It was almost time for lock-up. Terry heard booted footsteps coming along the landing, and looked up as the door opened. It was Riggs, carrying a clipboard, with another prison officer behind him.

  ‘On your feet, Greene,’ he said.

  The springs of Hoyle’s bed springs squealed as he sat up.

  ‘You stay where you are, Hoyle. Don’t want your bunk collapsing, do we?’

  Hoyle settled back in his bunk with another squeal of springs.

  Terry stood up.

  Riggs made a play of looking at his clipboard, even though he obviously knew what he was going to say. ‘Your request to attend your mother’s funeral . . .’ he kept Terry in suspense for several seconds, a sly smile on his face . . .‘has been denied.’ Riggs drew himself up to his full height and sneered.

  Terry had his hands clasped behind his back, and he dug his nails into his palms so hard that he could feel the flesh tear. He gritted his teeth, refusing to show Riggs his pain and anger. He forced himself to smile. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘there’s always next year.’

  Riggs glared at Terry, hatred pouring out of him. The atmosphere was so charged that Terry felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, but he continued to smile as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Riggs turned on his heel and marched out of the cell. The other prison officer closed the door and locked it.

  Terry turned and slammed his fist against the wall. ‘Bastard!’ he hissed, refusing to shout because he didn’t want anyone on the landing to hear him. He hit the wall again and again until his knuckles were bruised and bloody.

  Hoyle said nothing, just turned over and lay facing the wall, leaving Terry alone with his grief.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The taxi office stood in a row of rundown shops near Kilburn High Street, a yellow light flashing above the door, which was propped open with a rolled-up newspaper. The windows of the first-floor office had been whitewashed so that no one could see in, and ‘Murphy’s Cabs’ had been stencilled in black paint.

  McKinley squinted up at the windows. ‘I think I should come up with you, Mrs Greene.’

  ‘What, and leave the Lexus on the street? It’d be stripped in minutes.’

  ‘Aye, but even so . . .’

  ‘Andy, I’ll be fine.’

  She climbed out of the back of the Lexus and up the bare wooden stairs to the first floor. An anorexically thin man with a mop of red hair was talking into a radio mike and eating a cheeseburger at the same time. On the wall behind him was a chart of drivers and their call signs next to a large-scale map of London.

  ‘Where do you want to go, love?’ he asked.

  ‘Brian Murphy?’

  The redhead jerked his thumb towards a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor as he took a large bite out of his cheeseburger.

  Sam went up the stairs, which led on to a small landing. One door was open, revealing a foul-smelling toilet, the other, with a frosted-glass window, was shut. Sam knocked, and a gruff Northern Irish voice told her that the cab office was downstairs.

  Sam opened the door. A large man with a receding hairline sat behind a desk, reading the racing pages of the Daily Telegraph, pen in hand. ‘Brian Murphy?’ she asked.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Sam Greene. My husband’s Terry Greene.’

  ‘So?’

  Sam closed the door behind her. ‘So I’d appreciate a word.’

  Murphy waved her to a chair. Sam took an envelope from her handbag and put it down in front of Murphy before sitting down. She crossed her legs and waited while Murphy picked up the envelope and opened it.

  Murphy raised his eyebrows when he saw the thick wad of fifty-pound notes.

  ‘A donation,’ said Sam. ‘For the Cause.’

  Murphy smiled thinly. ‘Haven’t you heard? There’s no cause any more.’

  Sam held out her hand for the envelope. Murphy held her look for several seconds, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk, dropped the envelope in and took out a bottle of Bushmills whiskey and two glasses.

  He showed the bottle to Sam and she nodded. ‘Might I ask where you got my name from, Mrs Greene?’ said Murphy as he poured two large measures.

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ said Sam, ‘but it’s not public knowledge, I can tell you that.’

  Murphy offered her one of the glasses and she took it. ‘Slainte,’ he said.

  ‘Slainte,’ said Sam. They both drank, then Murphy waited for Sam to speak.

  ‘My husband’s doing life for a murder he says he didn’t do,’ she explained. ‘He says that on the night of the murder, he was doing business with some of your people. Laundry business. But your people being the way they are, Terry says he couldn’t tell the cops.’

  Murphy topped up their glasses. ‘Sounds a bit fanciful, truth be told.’

  ‘Can you check?’

  Murphy looked at her for several seconds, then held out his hand. Sam assumed he wanted more money and she fumbled for her purse. Murphy shook his head. ‘Your handbag, Mrs Greene.’

  Sam gave him the bag. Murphy opened it and took out her purse. He went through it, examining her credit cards and identification, then took her driving licence out of its wallet and copied down the details on a notepad. He didn’t have to explain to Sam the significance of what he was doing: he knew where she lived. He put everything back in the purse, put the purse back in the handbag, and gave it to her. ‘I’ll ask around, but hackles might be raised.’

  ‘I’ll have to risk that,’ said Sam.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Terry walked down the landing towards the phone. He had six phone cards in his pocket that he’d bought from various inmates on the wing, men who valued tobacco or drugs more than contact with the outside world.

  Prison Officer Dunne was standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the ground f
loor, his face impassive as he watched two prisoners playing chess. Terry stood next to him and Dunne acknowledged his presence with a slight nod of his head.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Dunne. ‘The bishop, yeah? Mate in three for white?’

  Terry shrugged. ‘Not my game, Mr Dunne.’

  ‘Strategy,’ said Dunne. ‘It’s all about planning ahead.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if I was a bit better at planning ahead, I wouldn’t be in here, would I?’ said Terry.

  Dunne smiled.

  ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile, Mr Dunne,’ said Terry. ‘You wouldn’t want to make a habit of that. People might think you’re human.’

  ‘We’re all human, Terry.’

  ‘Even Riggs?’

  ‘Yeah, well maybe there’s the odd exception. About the only time he cracks a smile is when he talks about his Morris.’

  ‘What, he’s got a gay lover, has he?’

  Dunne’s jaw tensed as he tried not to grin. ‘A Morris Traveller. One of those cars with wooden bits on the side. It’s his pride and joy. Rebuilt it from scratch. Spent thousands on it. Bores us rigid in the canteen showing us photographs. Relates more to the car than he does to people, if you ask me.’

  They stood watching the game for a while. The prisoner playing white put his finger on his queen and Dunne tutted.

  ‘Do you know if the governor got my request for a pass to my mum’s funeral, Mr Dunne?’

  Dunne pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Between you and me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I think Riggs blocked it.’

  Terry cursed under his breath.

  The prisoner took his finger off the queen and scratched his head.

  ‘The bishop, you twat,’ Dunne muttered.

  ‘Could you put in an application for me?’ Terry asked quietly. ‘Direct. Go around Riggs.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be easy,’ said Dunne, out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘There’s a monkey in it for you on the outside.’

  Dunne’s face hardened, and for a moment Terry wondered if he’d crossed the line, if he’d managed to misjudge the prison officer. Eventually Dunne slowly nodded. Down below the prisoner moved the queen and Dunne hissed softly. ‘Moron,’ he said. He turned to look at Terry as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Have you put any noses out of joint on the wing?’ he asked.