Poskovic shrugged. ‘I did not expect to see you again,’ he said.
Sam smiled thinly. She looked around the warehouse. ‘This is bigger than the other place. Every cloud, hey?’
Poskovic frowned. ‘What?’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining. It’s an expression. It means something good can come out of something bad.’
‘So you are saying I should be grateful that your husband burnt me out?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant, Zoran.’
Poskovic glared at her. ‘Do you think I had insurance, Mrs Greene?’
Sam shook her head. ‘No, I don’t suppose you did,’ she said. ‘Have you got any booze, Zoran? I’ve got a terrible thirst. What about that vodka we had last time?’
‘That went up in the fire,’ he said.
‘Pity,’ said Sam.
Poskovic slowly smiled. ‘But I had more sent over from St Petersburg.’ He waved towards a metal desk against one wall. ‘Bottom drawer,’ he said.
Sam went over to the drawer and took out the bottle of vodka.
Poskovic picked up two large glasses off a shelf and took them over to her.
‘What do you want, Mrs Greene?’ he asked as she poured two large measures of the clear spirit.
∗ ∗ ∗
Laura and Trisha were in the kitchen when Sam got back to the house, loaded down with supermarket carrier bags.
‘Come on, give me a hand,’ chided Sam. Laura and Trisha took the bags off Sam and started putting the provisions away. ‘Do you think you two can take care of yourselves for a couple of days?’ asked Sam.
‘Why?’ asked Trisha.
‘Your dad and I want to go away for a bit, that’s all.’
‘What, like a second honeymoon?’ asked Laura.
‘Sort of.’
Laura hugged Sam. ‘Mum, that’s great. Where’s he taking you?’
‘Spain. Just a few days in the sun.’
‘You should go for longer. Go for a couple of weeks. Trisha and I will be fine. Won’t we, Trisha?’
‘I don’t care either way,’ said Trisha.
‘No wild parties,’ cautioned Sam.
‘As if we would,’ laughed Laura. ‘When are you going?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘I’ll take you to the airport,’ offered Laura.
‘That’s okay. We’re going to drive.’
‘To Spain?’ said Trisha. ‘It’ll take you for ever.’
‘That’s what your dad wants. Who am I to argue?’
∗ ∗ ∗
McKinley slotted the packs of money behind the door panels of the BMW. Sam and Terry stood at the back of the car, watching him.
‘It’s not illegal is it?’ said Sam. ‘Taking money out of the country? I went to Spain with the last lot in a briefcase.’
‘This is two million quid, Sam. Customs would sit up and take notice if they spotted it. They’d be all over us like a rash. We’ll go over in the car and fly back. McKinley can drive the BMW back, the drugs’ll come in the vans.’
‘It’s got to be the most expensive BMW in the world,’ said Sam as McKinley eased more packs of banknotes into the doors. She smiled slyly. ‘I’ve just had a thought.’
Terry raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’
‘Let’s just get in and drive. Take the money and run. Two million quid, we’d be set up for life.’ Terry looked at her incredulously and Sam smiled. ‘Joke,’ she said.
Terry shook his head. ‘You had me going there, Sam. You really had me going.’ He looked at his Rolex. ‘Come on, McKinley, get a move on. We’ve got to meet up with Fletcher and the boys at the ferry terminal.’
‘Nearly done,’ said McKinley.
Terry hugged Sam. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
Sam nodded. ‘Butterflies, that’s all.’
‘You don’t have to come. I can handle it.’
‘Think I’d let you drive away with the money?’ said Sam.
Terry looked hurt. ‘What do you mean?’
Sam lightly slapped his cheek. ‘Joke,’ she said. ‘No, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
∗ ∗ ∗
Frank Welch squinted through the viewfinder of his camera and clicked away from the driver’s seat of his Rover. The motordrive whirred and he focused the long lens on the three white vans as they headed towards the ferry. He recognised the drivers. Roger Pike. Kim Fletcher. Steve Ryser. All of them on Terry Greene’s payroll. And following them in his BMW, the man himself. Terry Greene. And with him in the back, his wife.
Welch knew that he couldn’t follow Greene and his team on to the ferry. He hadn’t brought his passport with him and Superintendent Edwards had his warrant card. All he could do was to photograph them and find out when they were due back.
He focused the long lens on McKinley and snapped several shots of him, then photographed the registration plate of the BMW.
As he took the camera away from his face, a large black and white photograph was held up against the driver’s side window. Welch flinched, then stared in amazement at the photograph. It was of Roger Pike pushing a piece of wood under the rear tyre of Welch’s Rover on the day he was on surveillance outside the offices of Greene’s accountant. It was a good picture, clearly showing the look of delight on Pike’s face and the nails studded in the slab of wood.
The picture was whipped away, revealing a large man in a dark overcoat standing next to the car. Welch wound down the window.
‘You haven’t a clue what they’re up to, have you?’ said the man.
‘Who are you?’ said Welch.
The man opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. The Rover wasn’t a small car, but the man’s bulk made Welch feel suddenly claustrophobic.
‘You’re in the job?’ asked Welch. The man had the confident air acquired by policemen and career criminals, a sense that they were better than the general population, a cut above the rest.
The man tossed an envelope into Welch’s lap. Welch opened it gingerly. Inside were more surveillance photographs showing Welch on Greene’s tail.
‘Piss-poor surveillance, it has to be said,’ the man sneered. ‘Every time he needs some privacy, he sells you a dummy.’
‘I’m on my own, you know,’ protested Welch.
The man nodded at the white vans. ‘Do you want to talk about this or not, soon to be former Detective Chief Inspector Welch?’
Welch took a pack of breath mints from his pocket and popped one into his mouth. He nodded. ‘Okay. What have you got?’
The man took another photograph from his pocket and handed it to Welch. Welch looked at it and felt a surge of excitement. It was a black and white photograph, slightly grainy as if it had been blown up. Terry Greene shaking hands with a familiar face. Geoff Donovan, a high-profile North London gangster.
‘The reason that Terry Greene is on his way to Spain with his missus and Andy McKinley and the rest of the seven dwarves is that they’re putting together the mother of all heroin deals. Ten million quid’s worth.’
Welch frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘I read tea leaves. How the hell do you think? I’ve a man on the inside.’
‘So why don’t you take this to the Drugs Squad yourself? It’d be a feather in your cap.’
‘I’m starting to wonder how you made chief inspector.’
Welch’s frown deepened, until realisation dawned and a knowing smile spread across his face. ‘You’re on his payroll,’ he said. ‘He’s got his claws into you and you want out.’
The man stared at Welch, his eyes hardening. ‘Some things are better left unsaid.’
‘I get rid of Greene, and you’re off the hook,’ said Welch triumphantly.
‘Maybe I’m talking to the wrong cop,’ said the man. He held out his hand for the photographs but Welch moved them out of his reach.
‘No way,’ said Welch.
‘Okay, then. But we handle this my way or not at all.’
Welch nodded slowl
y. ‘Okay.’
‘First thing, you keep well away from Greene and his associates. You carry on the way you’re going, you’ll spook him. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Welch.
‘You wait for my say-so, then you can come down on him like the proverbial.’
Welch looked down at the photograph of Greene and Donovan. If he could catch two of London’s biggest villains red-handed, he’d be able to write his own ticket. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
The man patted Welch on the shoulder with a shovel-sized hand. ‘You can call me Blackie,’ he said.
∗ ∗ ∗
Superintendent Edwards dipped his digestive biscuit into his cup of tea as he studied the overtime sheets in front of him. The door to his office burst open and Edwards jumped. His biscuit broke into two and the wet half disappeared into his cup.
Frank Welch stood in the doorway, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide like a child desperate to open his Christmas presents. Behind him was Edwards’ secretary. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘I told him you were busy.’
Edwards waved her away and pushed his cup and saucer to the side. ‘Exactly what part of suspension don’t you understand, Frank?’ he said.
Welch closed the door and walked up to the superintendent’s desk. ‘The part where Terry Greene puts together a ten-million-pound heroin deal,’ he said. He dropped a stack of photographs on to the desk.
‘Holiday snaps, Frank?’
Edwards looked through the surveillance photographs. Pictures of the BMW and the three vans driving on to the ferry.
‘There’s two million pounds hidden in the panels of the BMW. Greene’s using it to fund a heroin deal in Spain. Street value of ten million. He’s planning to drive it back into the UK through France.’
Edwards looked up, frowning. ‘Says who?’
‘I’ve a man on the inside,’ said Welch.
Edwards flicked through the photographs. He raised his eyebrows as he got to the picture of Greene and Donovan. ‘Geoff Donovan, gangster of this parish?’
Welch nodded eagerly. ‘That’s right. Greene’s fixed up to sell the heroin to him.’
Edwards flicked through to the next photograph. It was of Pike sabotaging Welch’s tyre on surveillance. The superintendent frowned at the picture. Welch saw what he was looking at and scooped all the photographs off the desk.
‘You’re on suspension, Frank.’
‘So get me unsuspended.’ He waved the photographs in the air. ‘This is major, but without me it’ll turn to shit.’
Superintendent Edwards thought about it, then reached for his phone. ‘Let me make a call,’ he said.
Welch beamed triumphantly.
∗ ∗ ∗
McKinley drove the BMW down the driveway to Micky Fox’s villa. Terry nodded appreciatively. ‘Nice place,’ he said. ‘I could go for a gaff like this. How about it, Sam? Fancy moving to Marbella? We’d certainly be among friends.’
‘Until they get extradited,’ said Sam. She got out of the BMW and walked towards the front door, where Fox was waiting for her with outstretched arms.
‘Sam, you’re becoming a regular here,’ he boomed and gave her a bone-crushing hug.
‘Looking that way, Micky,’ she gasped.
Fox released her and went over to shake hands with Terry. ‘You’re putting on weight, my son,’ he said, patting Terry’s stomach.
‘What can I say? It’s Sam’s cooking,’ said Terry, putting an arm around Fox and walking into the villa with him. McKinley and Sam followed.
‘You’ll like Oskar,’ said Fox. ‘He’s an all-right geezer for a Russian.’
Oskar, a large bearlike man with a grey ponytail, was standing over a barbecue at the poolside, stabbing chunks of steak with a large fork. He had stripped to the waist, showing a scarred chest and an old bullet wound in his flabby stomach. He was sweating profusely and he wiped his arm across his forehead as Terry and Fox walked out on to the terrace.
Two young Spanish boys were swimming in the pool, and another was lying naked on a lounger.
‘Bit bohemian this, Micky,’ said Terry.
Fox laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Oskar, this is Terry!’ he called.
‘You have my money?’ Oskar shouted.
‘Doesn’t believe in small talk, does he?’ Terry said to Fox. He gestured with his chin at Oskar. ‘When do we get the gear?’ he shouted.
‘When I get the money!’ shouted Oskar.
‘This is like a fucking pantomime,’ Terry muttered.
‘Oh no it isn’t,’ said Fox, and he burst out laughing.
‘Carry on like this and you’ll be in the pool with your fancy boys,’ said Terry.
‘That’s the plan,’ said Fox.
Oskar walked over, the fork in his hand, and shook hands with Terry. ‘You like steak?’ he asked.
‘Love it,’ said Terry.
‘We are barbecuing,’ said Oskar.
‘Yeah, do you want to stay for a bite?’ asked Fox.
Terry nodded over at Sam, who was standing on the terrace with McKinley, shading her eyes against the bright Mediterranean sun. ‘Thanks, Micky, but I’m going to take Sam out for dinner.’
‘Good idea,’ said Fox. ‘Where are the vans?’
‘They’ve gone straight to the garage. You can get the compartments welded tonight?’
‘Sure.’
‘What about my money?’ asked Oscar.
‘McKinley’ll get it for you now,’ said Terry. He pointed at the barbecue, which was smoking furiously. ‘I think your steak’s burning.’
‘I like it burnt,’ said Oskar. He grinned, showing a mouthful of blackened teeth.
∗ ∗ ∗
A waitress with jet-black hair and a swimsuit model’s figure opened a bottle of Dom Perignon and filled two fluted glasses. Terry waited until the waitress had walked away before raising his glass to Sam.
‘To us, yeah?’ he said.
Sam smiled and they clinked glasses. The restaurant was on the side of a hill with breathtaking views of the sea. The tables were covered with crisp white cloths and each had a silver candelabra and a rose in a crystal vase. Sam looked around, soaking up the atmosphere. Most of the tables were occupied by couples, and there was a lot of whispering and hand-holding. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Yeah, Micky says the food’s good, too.’
Sam sipped her champagne. ‘Nice to be away from the kids for a while.’
‘They’re hardly kids any more,’ said Terry. ‘Laura and Jamie have flown the coop, and Trisha’ll be off to university soon.’
Sam sighed. ‘Where’d the years go, Terry?’
‘Hey, don’t sound so despondent, we had our good times.’
Sam smiled. ‘Yeah, we had our moments, didn’t we?’
A waiter arrived at the table with their food. Sam had ordered sole, and Terry had lamb chops.
‘So when are you going to retire, Terry?’ asked Sam.
‘I’m too young to retire,’ said Terry, cutting into one of his chops. ‘I’ve a few years to go before I get my bus pass.’
Sam put down her knife and fork.
Terry could see that she was building up for an argument, so he put up his hands to quieten her. ‘The rough stuff, that’s over,’ he said quickly. ‘Whiter than white, I promise.’
‘How white?’ said Sam. ‘What about the clubs, for instance?’
Terry winced. ‘The clubs are a problem. Kay’s sold me his share.’
‘What?’
‘He wanted out. I got it for a song.’
Sam looked at him suspiciously.
‘Come on, Sam, try your fish,’ cajoled Terry.
‘Last I heard, George Kay wanted to buy you out.’
‘People change.’
Sam looked at him suspiciously. ‘Do they now?’
∗ ∗ ∗
Laura knocked on the door to Trisha’s bedroom. ‘Yeah?’ called Trisha.
Laura pushed open the door. �
�Cocoa?’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ said Trisha. She was lying face down on her bed in T-shirt and jeans and leafing through a plastic folder.
Laura was holding two mugs of steaming cocoa. She put one down on the floor next to Trisha and sat down on the bed next to her. She reached out to touch the folder. ‘What’s this?’ She opened it. It was full of newspaper clippings. All of them about their father.
‘What does it look like?’ said Trisha, rolling over and staring up at the ceiling.
‘You kept all these?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ said Trisha. She looked at her sister, and brushed Laura’s hair away from her eyes. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘A bit.’
‘Because of Jonathon, yeah?’
Laura sighed. ‘This thing about him going to Canada just doesn’t make any sense,’ she said. ‘He’s never talked about Toronto before. I think Dad’s scared him off.’
Trisha took the file and flicked through it. ‘When did you first know what Dad did for a living?’ she asked.
Laura shrugged. ‘God, I don’t know. There were always some pretty strange people around the house. And Dad was always coming and going at all hours.’
‘Mum never said, did she?’
‘She was probably in denial,’ said Laura. ‘I didn’t know about the drugs, not until the tabloids turned him over. That was a bit of shock. Jonathon hit the roof.’ She took a sip of her cocoa. ‘Wasn’t all he hit,’ she added quietly.
‘He hit you?’ asked Trisha. ‘Jonathon hit you?’
Laura didn’t say anything but she pulled a face.
‘He did, didn’t he? Bastard.’ Trisha’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s why you were in hospital, wasn’t it? That bastard hit you. God. Dad should have killed him.’
‘Trisha!’
‘I hope Dad did run him out of town. He could have killed you, Laura.’
‘It wasn’t that bad, Trish. It was the glass coffee table that did the damage.’
‘I’d never let a man hit me. Ever.’
‘That’s easy to say,’ said Laura. She smiled at a photograph of her father on the front page of the Evening Standard along with the headline ‘LONDON’S TOP DRUGS BARON?’ ‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘Jonathon was born with a silver spoon, pretty much. Public school, Oxford. Straight into the City. But he’s got a real hard side to him.’ She tapped the cutting from the Standard. ‘Dad, after all he’s been through, after all this, he’s still a softie really. Never laid a finger on any of us.’
The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 31
