The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (13 page)

He drove carefully into the field and parked close to a stunted tree. Down below they could see a strip of beach.

‘That’s it?’ asked Sam.

‘Any moment now,’ said McKinley, checking the dashboard clock. ‘You can set your watch by Reg.’

Sam settled back in the seat. She lit a cigarette but couldn’t wind down the window because McKinley had switched the engine off.

‘You don’t mind the smoke, do you, Andy?’ she asked.

‘Nah, not at all, Mrs Greene. My mum used to smoke forty a day. I think I can remember her smoking while she breastfed me, but I guess that could be one of those false memories.’

Sam bit down on her bottom lip to stop herself laughing out loud. She inhaled smoke and blew it out slowly, enjoying the warmth of it as it flowed through her lungs.

‘Who chose the place?’ she asked.

‘Terry. We used to spend hours driving up and down the coast, from Dover all the way up to Scotland practically.’

‘That’d explain the nights he was away, I suppose.’

Sam caught McKinley looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Only joking, Andy.’ She took another long pull on her cigarette and exhaled thoughtfully. ‘The night Preston Snow was killed, Terry wasn’t with you, was he?’

McKinley shook his head.

‘Why not?’

‘Said he had something to do on his own.’

‘And he didn’t say what?’

Another shake of his head.

‘You know what he told me he was doing?’

‘No, Mrs Greene. I don’t.’ It sounded from McKinley’s tone as if he didn’t want to know, either.

‘You know he asked me to lie for him, to give him an alibi? Said there wasn’t anyone else he could trust to come through for him.’

McKinley didn’t answer.

‘He said he was doing some work for some Irish guys. Money laundering. He was taking cash for them and running it through the clubs, returning it to them clean, paying them for goods and services never received, that sort ofthing. He said that on the night Snow was shot, he was in Kilburn, picking up cash.’

‘We’d be talking paramilitaries, do you think?’

‘That’s what he said, Andy.’

‘Dangerous people.’

‘Terry said that, too. Said they’d told him that if he told the police where he was, what he was doing, they’d terminate his contract. With prejudice. Which means that Terry couldn’t give the police an alibi for that night. So I lied for him.’ She blew smoke and sighed. ‘Not that it did him any good, at the end of the day.’

McKinley jerked his thumb towards the beach down below. ‘There’s Reg, now,’ he said. ‘Sit back and enjoy the show.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Reg Salmon switched off the engine and climbed out of the Transit van, carrying a waterproof duffel bag under one arm. His three passengers joined him at the back of the vehicle and helped him unload the inflatable off its trailer. Three other vans with inflatable dinghies on trailers drove up and parked alongside. More men piled out. Like Salmon and his team, they were all dressed in black and they moved like clockwork. Within minutes all four dinghies were being carried towards the water.

They paddled out a hundred feet or so into the swell before starting their outboards and roaring out to sea. Salmon took the portable GPS computer from his duffel bag and switched it on. It hissed and flickered and then glowed with its orange light. He checked the readout against a compass he had strapped to his right wrist and then pointed off to his left. The man on the outboard reacted immediately and turned to the new heading, and the three other boats followed behind.

The sea became markedly rougher as they got away from shore, and the men in black held on tightly to ropes as the inflatables bucked like angry bulls. Salmon kept checking the GPS and pointing out the correct course.

By the time they reached the rendezvous point, they were almost four miles from land and the waves were as high as a man. Salmon signalled for the boats to stop and the engines were cut back to idle. Salmon made one final check on the GPS, then took a transmitter from his duffel bag. There was an extendible aerial on it and he pulled it out as far as it would go. Set into the front of the transmitter were eight switches, with a light to show when the switch was activated. The transmitter was Terry’s design, built by an electronics expert in Madrid, and Salmon had used it half a dozen times without fail.

One by one he flicked the eight switches. Down below, on the sea bed, relays clicked and compressed air hissed out of steel tanks into inflatable buoys. The buoys swelled and headed for the surface, pulling the plastic-covered bales and their sleds with them.

The first buoy burst through the waves over to their left and one of the inflatables buzzed over to it. The men on board grappled it and hauled it in. A second bale bobbed up just behind Salmon’s boat. Within a minute all eight had surfaced.

One by one the bales were hauled in and the buoys deflated and fastened to the sleds and thrown back overboard. Five minutes later the inflatables were heading for the shore, Salmon’s eyes narrowed against the wind, the GPS and transmitter back in the waterproof duffel bag.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

McKinley flipped open the glove compartment and took out a pair of binoculars. He scanned the ocean, then checked his wristwatch. Sam spotted movement out at sea and she pointed. ‘Andy, over there.’

McKinley put the binoculars to his eyes and looked where she was pointing. The four inflatables were charging towards the beach, the men in black barely visible against the night sky. ‘Aye, that’s them, Mrs Greene.’

The inflatables surged up on to the beach and the men began unloading the bales. They hauled them towards the Transit vans, four men to each bale, and even then it was a struggle to carry them.

‘Sweet as a nut,’ said McKinley.

Before McKinley had finished speaking, searchlights cut through the night, picking out the men on the beach. Six Land Rovers roared on to the beach, kicking up plumes of sand behind them, and along the coast road a dozen police cars and vans appeared, sirens wailing and blue lights flashing.

Sam slumped back in her seat. ‘Shit.’

McKinley put the binoculars down. ‘We were set up. They knew we were coming.’

The men in black had dropped the bales and started running, but dog handlers had released Alsatians, and policemen in overalls were already piling out of the Land Rovers. A massive searchlight beam cut down from the sky, and even up at their vantage point, Sam and McKinley could feel the vibrations of the helicopter’s turbine.

McKinley twisted around in his seat. ‘We should be going, Mrs Greene.’

Sam nodded. McKinley started the car and drove back across the field, slowly because he didn’t want to use the lights. He nudged through the open gate and out on to the road, and only switched on his lights when he was well away from the coast.

Sam lit another cigarette.

‘Where do you want to go, Mrs Greene?’ asked McKinley.

‘Home,’ said Sam quietly. ‘Home, sweet home.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Frank Welch popped a couple of breath-freshening mints into his mouth and sucked as he watched two men in black being locked in the back of a police van.

‘Great night’s work, boss,’ said Simpson.

‘Gotta be a commendation in this for you,’ said Duggan, scratching his neck. ‘Minimum. This is a promotion-getter, guaranteed. How much do you think there is?’

‘Four tons,’ said Welch emphatically. He walked down toward the shore, the downdraft of the helicopter tugging at his hair. Simpson and Duggan followed. Two of the men in black had tried to drag one of the inflatables back into the water, and had almost made it before half a dozen police reached them. The men had put up a fight and now the police were getting their own back, laying into them with boots and truncheons as the men tried in vain to protect themselves from the blows. A dog savaged the leg of one of the men in black while the handler stood over him, laughing. The man begged the handler to call the dog off, but the handler just laughed even louder. Most of the men had given up immediately when they’d seen how many police there were on the beach, dropping their bales and standing with their hands held high over their heads.

Clarke walked over, grinning, holding a waterproof duffel bag. ‘Reg Salmon’s in the van, boss,’ he said, handing over the bag. ‘We’ve ruined his day, I can tell you.’

‘Ruined the next ten years of his life,’ said Welch. He opened the bag and examined the transmitter and GPS computer.

A member of the Customs National Investigation Service walked over from the inflatables and Welch gave him the equipment.

‘It’s all hi tech these days, isn’t it?’ said the Customs officer, a stocky grey-haired man in his late forties and an old contact of Welch’s. ‘I remember when they used to wrap the bales in salt before they dumped them overboard. The salt would dissolve slowly, and twelve hours later they’d float to the surface. Nowadays it’s all computers and satellites. They’re better equipped than we are.’ He hefted the transmitter in his hand. ‘Okay if I keep hold of this for a while? And the GPS? Might get some clue as to who’s behind it.’

‘I know who’s behind it,’ said Welch. ‘Terry fucking Greene.’

‘He’s banged up, isn’t he?’

‘Since when has that stopped them, Stuart? They use their cells like offices these days. But, yeah, keep the equipment. Doubt anyone here’s going to be pleading not guilty.’

Welch gave the Customs officer the duffel bag and walked down the beach towards the police van. Clarke hurried after him and showed Welch the van, where Salmon was sitting with his head in his hands. As Welch climbed into the van, the helicopter veered away and flew off down the coast.

Clarke attempted to follow Welch into the back of the van but Welch shook his head. Clarke backed out and closed the van door.

‘Nice night for it, Reg,’ said Welch cheerfully as he sat on the bench seat opposite the prisoner. ‘Smooth seas, hardly any wind to speak of, the devil himself couldn’t have planned it better.’

There was no reaction from Salmon.

‘Third time unlucky, I’d say,’ Welch continued. ‘This time they’ll throw away the key.’ Welch leaned forward so that his mouth was only inches from Salmon’s ear. ‘Where is she, Reg?’ he whispered conspiratorially.

Salmon said nothing, he continued to stare at the floor, his head in his hands.

‘Come on, Reg. Do yourself a favour. You’ve got a family. Two kids, right? You’ll be an old man by the time you get out. You help me and I’ll pull a few strings, put in a good word for you. You’ll be out in nine months.’

Salmon still didn’t react. Welch slapped him across the top of the head, hard. ‘Where the fuck is she?’ he yelled. ‘Where the fuck is Sam Greene?’ He started punching Salmon in the face, but still Salmon made no sound.

Outside the van, the Customs officer and Simpson walked up to Clarke. The van was bouncing on its suspension and they could hear muffled blows as Welch laid into Salmon.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked the Customs officer.

‘Just questioning a suspect,’ said Clarke laconically.

‘Your boss doesn’t seem over-thrilled about the bust.’

‘That’s because his date didn’t turn up,’ said Simpson.

‘His date?’

There was a loud bang from inside the van, the sound of something – or someone – hitting the floor hard.

‘The love of his life,’ said Simpson.

‘Yeah, unrequited love,’ said Clarke. He exchanged a high-five with Simpson while the Customs officer looked at them, bemused.

Inside the van, Welch continued to lay into Salmon.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Dawn was breaking as Sam and McKinley drove down the road towards Sam’s house. The Isuzu Trooper was still parked outside. The driver was pouring himself a cup of coffee from a flask and he raised it in salute as the Lexus went by. McKinley turned into Sam’s driveway and pulled up in front of the house. Sam rubbed her eyes and stared blearily at the front door.

‘Shall I come in with you, Mrs Greene?’ he asked.

‘No, you go home, Andy. I’m sure you need your sleep as much as I do.’

McKinley smiled and nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Try not to worry too much, okay?’

Sam pulled a face.

‘I know, I know, things look the blackest just before the train hits you, but Reg and the boys won’t say a word, you can trust me on that. They’re pros. They won’t drop you in it.’

‘It’s not just that, it’s . . .’ Sam left the sentence hanging. It wouldn’t be fair to dump her financial worries on Andy, it wasn’t his problem. She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Go home, get some kip. I’ll call you if I need you.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Greene. Sleep well.’

As she got out of the car, McKinley yawned, showing a mouthful of perfect teeth. Sam knocked on the window. ‘Come on, Andy, the least I can do is make you a coffee. You’re gonna fall asleep at the wheel.’

McKinley nodded as he stifled another massive yawn. ‘Aye, thanks, Mrs Greene. Wouldn’t want to damage the Lexus.’

Sam fumbled in her bag for her keys, opened the front door and went down the hall to the kitchen. She stopped as she saw a teenager standing by the fridge wearing nothing but purple underpants and drinking from a bottle of milk.

‘Who the hell are you?’ she shouted. He spluttered and started to choke, spraying milk across the terracotta tiled floor. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?’

He bent double and coughed, and more milk peppered the tiles. ‘I’m . . . I’m a . . . It’s . . .’ He couldn’t catch his breath, and every time he tried to speak he started choking again.

‘What’s up, Mrs Greene?’ McKinley came hurrying down the hall. ‘Who’s he?’ he asked, as he saw the choking teenager.

Trisha came down the stairs wearing a T-shirt down to her knees, her blonde hair tousled. ‘He’s with me.’