The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Not that I know about,’ said Terry. ‘Why?’

  ‘Word is there’s someone gunning for you.’

  ‘You know who?’

  Dunne shook his head and started to walk away. ‘Just watch your back, yeah?’ he whispered. ‘A death on the wing’s going to look pretty shitty on my CV.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam looked at her watch. It was a Cartier, a gold one that Terry had bought for her after Trisha had been born. ‘Mum, we’re going to have to go in,’ said Jamie, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I know. I just thought . . .’

  ‘It’s not likely they’d let him out, Mum. Even for this.’

  Sam nodded.

  Trisha linked her arm through Sam’s. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

  ‘I’m fine, love. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.’

  They were standing outside a church in West London, a modern church with a squat spire and wire mesh over the stained-glass windows to protect them from vandals. It wasn’t an especially pretty church, but Grace’s husband, Terry’s father, was buried in the graveyard next to it, and before Alzheimer’s had robbed her of her mind, Grace had always insisted that she wanted to be buried next to him.

  Andy McKinley was close by in a black suit and a black overcoat, his hands clasped in front of his groin as though he were standing guard outside a nightclub, shoulders squared and chin up.

  Sam, Jamie and Trisha were also dressed in black, and all wore thick coats to protect themselves from the cold. The sky was almost white overhead, and a chill wind blew across the churchyard, swirling dead leaves and empty crisp packets and faded confetti.

  The vicar appeared at the door to the church. He was in his sixties with a mane of white hair. The flecks of red in his cheeks and nose suggested to Sam that he had more than a passing acquaintance with strong drink. Sam nodded at him. ‘Okay,’ she said to her children. ‘In we go.’

  Barely had she finished speaking than a black van with darkened windows came screeching around the corner and pulled up in front of the church. The back door opened and half a dozen armed policemen wearing bulletproof vests piled out and took up positions around the churchyard.

  Sam smiled. ‘That’ll be your father,’ she said. ‘Always liked a grand entrance.’

  A second, larger, van arrived, this one white, with ‘Securicor’ written on the side. The rear door opened and a uniformed prison guard stepped out, followed by Terry, blinking in the light. Terry tried to lift his hand to shield his eyes, but he was handcuffed to the guard and there wasn’t enough chain to get his arm up. As Terry got out of the van, a second guard followed him, handcuffed to Terry’s other wrist. Terry was wearing the same clothes he’d had on in court: the dark blue Armani suit, a white shirt, and the dark blue tie with yellow stripes.

  The three men walked towards the church. Trisha muttered something but Sam couldn’t hear what it was.

  ‘Hiya, love,’ said Terry, grinning at Sam.

  ‘Thought you weren’t going to make it,’ said Sam.

  ‘Couldn’t keep me away from my mum’s send-off. Hiya, Jamie.’

  ‘Hiya, Dad.’ Jamie went over and hugged Terry.

  Terry winked at Trisha over Jamie’s shoulder. ‘How’s it going, Trish? Got a hug for your old dad?’

  Trisha tutted and looked away. ‘We’re holding everybody up,’ she said to Sam.

  Jamie let go of his father. Terry saw McKinley and nodded at him, then he took a step towards Sam. He reached for her, but the handcuffs held him back. Terry raised his eyes. ‘How about it, Mr Dunne?’ he said to the prison officer on his right. ‘Let me give the missus a hug?’

  ‘No can do, Terry,’ said Dunne.

  Terry nodded over at the armed police who were scanning the surrounding buildings. Sam wondered what they were looking for. Snipers? A crack team of mercenaries waiting to rescue her husband? The stupidity of it made Sam smile. ‘It’s not as if I’m going to make a run for it, is it?’ said Terry.

  ‘Regulations, Terry,’ said Dunne. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘More than your job’s worth, is it?’ said Sam, bitterly.

  ‘He’s okay, love. If it wasn’t for Mr Dunne I wouldn’t be here. Come on, let’s go in. Vicar’s looking a bit testy as it is.’

  They headed as a group towards the entrance to the church, with McKinley bringing up the rear. As they reached the threshold, a car pulled up in a squeal of brakes. They all looked over to see who it was. Terry sighed as he recognised the man in the front passenger seat. Frank Welch.

  ‘The vultures are gathering,’ said Terry. ‘Come on, let’s get inside. I heard he can’t enter holy ground.’

  ‘That’s vampires,’ said Sam, smiling and shaking her head.

  They walked into the church. The vicar had taken up position behind a large wooden lectern and was wearing the same sort of fixed smile that Sam had last seen on the face of the administrator of Grace’s nursing home.

  There were about a dozen people scattered along the varnished pine pews. George Kay was there, sucking on his asthma inhaler. He put the medication away and gave Terry a thumbs-up. The nurse who’d looked after Grace was there, and she flashed Sam a tight smile. Sam gave her a small wave, grateful that she’d come. Three women in their early eighties whom Sam vaguely recognised were deep in conversation at the back of the church. They were old schoolfriends of Grace, and before her illness they’d played bridge together every Sunday evening. That had been one of the first signs that there had been something wrong with Grace: she began to lose her concentration and couldn’t remember the order of bidding. A year after she’d given up playing bridge, she was in Oakwood House.

  Sam heard rapid footsteps behind her and she turned to see Frank Welch and his sidekick Simpson tearing down the aisle towards them.

  Welch rushed up to Dunne. ‘What the hell is he doing here?’ shouted Welch, stabbing a finger at Terry.

  Dunne stared back at Welch from under his black peaked cap, unfazed by the detective’s outburst. ‘Who are you?’ asked Dunne quietly.

  Welch took out his warrant card and held it inches from Dunne’s nose. ‘You can read, can you?’

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector Welch. I can read.’

  Welch put his warrant card back in his pocket. ‘So let me repeat the question. What the hell is he doing here?’

  ‘The governor approved his pass.’

  ‘He’s a convicted murderer, he’s only just been sent down, for God’s sake.’

  ‘It’s his mother’s funeral,’ said Dunne firmly.

  Terry took a step forward, his arms held back by the handcuffs. ‘Yeah, so why don’t you respect the sanctity of the church and fuck off, Raquel,’ he said.

  Welch looked like he might explode. He stared at Terry for what seemed a lifetime, then glared at Dunne. Dunne stared back at the detective, refusing to back down. Welch turned and walked away. Simpson followed.

  Dunne turned to look at Terry, his face a blank mask. ‘Cops,’ he said, ‘what can you do with them, huh?’

  The service was mercifully brief. Terry had to sit with a prison officer on each side, but Dunne let Sam reach across him to hold Terry’s hand. Dunne stared straight ahead as if trying to make himself invisible.

  Afterwards, Dunne and the other prison officer stopped by the rear of the van so that Terry could say goodbye to Sam.

  Terry leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thanks for today,’ he said. ‘For taking care of everything.’

  ‘I wish I could have made it more . . . you know . . . special.’

  ‘This is what she wanted,’ said Terry. ‘She wanted to be buried next to him. God knows why, the way he treated her.’

  ‘Married for life. That’s how it was back then.’

  ‘Till death us do part.’

  ‘That’s the point, Terry. I don’t think they believed that even death would part them. In spite of everything, it was for ever. For eternity.’

  Terry looked around. ‘Laura could
n’t make it?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘I’m sorry, love. For everything.’

  Sam shrugged, not sure what to say.

  ‘We’re going to have to go, Terry,’ said Dunne.

  ‘Just a minute, yeah?’

  Dunne nodded.

  Terry leaned closer to Sam. ‘It won’t be much longer, love.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I mean, hang on in there. It’s going to work out.’

  ‘That’s easy to say, Terry.’

  ‘I’m serious, love,’ he said. ‘There’s light at the end of the tunnel. Keep your chin up. I’m expecting good news.’

  Sam laughed. ‘Christ, Terry, you sound like a cheap horoscope.’

  ‘Just wait and see.’ Terry reached for her but the handcuffs held him back. He turned to look at Dunne. ‘Come on, Mr Dunne. Can the cuffs come off for a second? I just want to hold my wife, that’s all. I’m not going to be seeing her for weeks.’

  Dunne gave Terry a long stare, then he slowly nodded and reached for his keys. ‘Just the one wrist, Terry.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Dunne.’

  Dunne was inserting the key into the handcuff lock when Welch hurried over, his face contorted with anger. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing!’ he shouted.

  ‘He’s just saying goodbye,’ said Dunne.

  ‘Which is what you’ll be saying to your pension if you touch those locks!’ shouted Welch, flecks of saliva peppering the prison officer’s uniform. ‘Get him in the van, now!’

  Dunne’s cheeks reddened and he put the key away. The other prison officer opened the back of the van.

  George Kay waddled over, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief. ‘Don’t you worry, Terry, we’ll get you out of there,’ he said.

  Welch pointed his finger at Sam’s face. ‘You’re next. I know you put that drug deal together for him.’

  ‘Yeah?’ sneered Sam. ‘Prove it.’

  Jamie glared at Welch. ‘Can’t you leave us alone?’ he said. ‘This is a funeral, for God’s sake.’

  ‘What about Preston Snow’s funeral? I didn’t see you there.’

  The two prison officers stood with Terry at the back of the van, watching the altercation.

  ‘Just piss off, Raquel,’ said Sam vehemently. ‘This is private grief, it’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Welch glared at Sam, his face only inches away from hers.

  Trisha pushed the detective. ‘Leave her alone, you!’ she shouted.

  Welch took a step back. ‘I’ll have you for assault,’ he said to Trisha.

  ‘It’s our grandmother’s funeral!’ protested Jamie.

  Welch ignored Jamie and tried to grab Trisha, but Sam pushed his arm away. ‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ she shouted.

  Terry struggled to get to his wife, but the two prison officers held him back. ‘Sam! Leave it!’ he shouted. ‘He’s not worth it!’

  Welch pointed a finger at Dunne. ‘Get him in the van! Now!’ Before the prison officers could react, mud splattered across Welch’s face. He whirled around and saw Trisha standing with a muddy hand held high. ‘Right, that’s it!’ Welch shouted.

  He lunged forward to grab Trisha but Sam stepped in front of him. ‘I told you, leave her alone,’ said Sam. ‘You shouldn’t be here. Not at a funeral.’

  Jamie stepped forward to stand next to his mother. ‘You’re out of order and you know you are,’ said Jamie, putting an arm around Sam. ‘If we complain to the police complaints authority, it’ll stay on your record, proven or not.’

  Welch looked at Jamie scornfully. ‘Boy lawyer, huh?’

  ‘Or we could go to the papers. Either way, your superiors are going to wonder why you didn’t handle the situation better.’

  Welch glared at Jamie, who stared back, and Sam was suddenly immensely proud of her son. Welch gritted his teeth, then turned to look at the prison officers. They were grinning at Welch’s discomfort, as was Terry. ‘What are you looking at!’ he snapped. ‘Get him in the van. Now!’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped the mud off his face.

  The prison officers ushered Terry into the back of the van. ‘Chin up, love!’ Terry shouted as the doors slammed shut.

  The armed police piled back into their van and Welch and Simpson went over to their car, Welch continuing to wipe his face with the handkerchief.

  Trisha turned her back on the van and walked off to the Lexus where McKinley was waiting with the door open.

  Jamie and Sam stood together watching the van drive away. She ruffled his hair. ‘Thanks, Jamie,’ she said.

  ‘Bastards,’ said Jamie.

  ‘Hey,’ said Sam. ‘Watch your language.’

  Jamie laughed and hugged her. ‘Can’t wait until I’m a barrister,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine how much fun I’m going to have with them in the witness box?’

  They walked together to the Lexus, Jamie’s arm still around her.

  Sam had decided against any sort of reception. It hadn’t seemed right, not with Terry having to go straight back to prison. Besides, she’d known that very few mourners would turn up, though she hadn’t expected that what mourners there were would be outnumbered by the police.

  McKinley drove them home, but Sam stayed in the car when Trisha and Jamie got out.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Trisha asked sullenly.

  ‘Something I’ve got to take care of, love,’ said Sam. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Trisha stomped away, and Jamie shrugged at Sam. ‘I’ll talk to her,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t you do what you used to do when you were kids?’ said Sam. ‘Put her head in the toilet and flush it.’ She patted her son on the back. ‘I won’t be long. What time are you going?’

  ‘I’ll leave at five. I’d stay but I’ve got a stack of revision to get through.’

  Sam blew him a kiss and McKinley drove off. Sam told McKinley to drive to Laura’s house, then sat back in her seat and lit a cigarette.

  The curtains were drawn on the ground-floor windows, but Sam kept ringing the doorbell until she heard footsteps. The door opened on its security chain.

  ‘Laura? What are you playing at?’

  ‘Mum, you can’t come in,’ said Laura, her voice subdued as if she were close to tears.

  ‘You should have been there,’ said Sam.

  ‘I know,’ said Laura. She began to cry. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Let me in, love. Come on.’

  ‘I can’t, Mum. I’m sorry. Please go.’

  Laura started to close the door but McKinley moved quickly, jamming a foot in the gap. He pressed the flat of his hand against the door. ‘Do as your mother says,’ he said quietly.

  Laura turned and hurried down the hall. McKinley looked at Sam and she nodded. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed, hard. The wood around the security chain splintered and the door flew open. McKinley stood to the side to let Sam in first.

  Laura was sprawled on a sofa in the sitting room, crying her eyes out. Sam sat down next to her and stroked the back of her neck. ‘What is it, love?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I wanted to go, Mum, really I did,’ sobbed Laura.

  ‘I know you did,’ soothed Sam.

  ‘He said I couldn’t. He said if I did . . . he’d . . .’ She mumbled incoherently as her body was wracked by sobs. Sam rolled Laura over. Laura looked up at her, her face wet with tears. There was a cut on her nose and a bruise on her neck.

  Sam gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh God, Laura.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it, Mum. He was really sorry afterwards.’

  Sam looked at McKinley, who was standing in the doorway, his arms folded. ‘Do you want me to take care of this, Mrs Greene?’ he asked.

  Laura looked at McKinley in horror as she realised what he meant. ‘Mum, no!’

  Sam stroked Laura’s neck. The bruise was fresh, the skin still red in places. ‘You can’t let him do t
his to you, Laura.’

  ‘I can handle it, Mum. Honest. I can.’

  ‘Mrs Greene?’ said McKinley.

  Sam smiled gratefully at McKinley but shook her head. Laura started to cry again and Sam cradled her in her arms.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  ‘This is a waste of my fucking time,’ said Frank Welch as he got out of the car and walked to the prison gate.

  ‘Frank, I’m just telling you what he told me,’ said Welch’s companion, a detective chief inspector in his late fifties with close-cropped snow-white hair and a slight stoop.

  Welch turned up his collar against the drizzling rain that was blowing from behind them. ‘Does it always rain in Manchester? Last time I was here it was pissing down as well.’

  ‘This? This is a good day.’ The man pressed a small button and a couple of seconds later there was a buzzing noise and he pushed open the metal door, allowing Welch through first.

  ‘It’s bollocks,’ said Welch.

  ‘Don’t get angry at the messenger, Frank. If I hadn’t passed on the information, what would that make me?’

  Welch snorted as he showed his warrant card to the prison officer manning the reception desk.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Frank Welch and Detective Chief Inspector Bradley Caine to see prisoner Sean Kelly,’ said Caine, showing his warrant card to the prison officer. ‘We’re expected.’

  ‘We’re wasting our time is what we’re doing.’

  ‘Jesus, Frank, you’re like a stuck record. Listen to the man then piss off back to London, why don’t you?’

  Welch said nothing else until they were standing in the interview room, facing a tough-looking man in his early thirties. He had receding sandy hair and a boxer’s nose, a square chin and a cracked front tooth. He looked at the two detectives without a trace of apprehension. ‘Got any fags?’ he asked in a Birmingham accent.

  Caine tossed a pack of Silk Cut on to the table in front of the prisoner. ‘Sean, this is Detective Chief Inspector Frank Welch from the Met. He’s had a long drive and he doesn’t like the weather here, so let’s keep it short and sweet, shall we? Just tell him what you told me.’