The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (15 page)

The officer on Terry’s left was called Dunne, a former paratrooper who seemed to Terry to be a reasonable guy. Unlike Riggs, who took every opportunity to make his life difficult, Dunne was relaxed at his job, firm but courteous with the prisoners, though he had the size and build to react physically if needed.

‘Who is it, Mr Dunne?’ asked Terry out of the side of his mouth. ‘Is it my brief?’

‘Cops,’ said Dunne.

‘Terrific,’ Terry muttered.

The door to the interview room was open, and two men in dark suits were waiting inside, standing with their backs to the corridor. They turned as they heard the booted footfall of the prison officers, and Terry saw that the shorter one was Welch, his companion Detective Inspector Simpson.

Welch grinned cruelly as Terry entered the room, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Terry knew immediately that something had gone wrong with the cannabis deal and he felt a cold chill in his stomach.

‘You’re looking well, Terry,’ said Welch. ‘Prison food must be agreeing with you. Sit down.’

‘I’d rather stand,’ said Terry.

Welch’s eyes hardened. ‘Sit the fuck down, Greene.’

Terry held his stare for several seconds, then slowly pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Welch gestured with his chin at the two prison officers and they left, closing the door behind them. Simpson went to stand with his back to the door. Terry folded his arms and waited for Welch to speak, but the detective just kept smiling, wanting to keep Terry in suspense for as long as possible. Terry yawned, loud and long.

‘Reg Salmon sends his regards,’ Welch said eventually.

Terry forced himself not to react. He kept a relaxed smile on his lips as he stared at a spot just behind Welch’s head.

‘Four tons,’ said Welch slowly. ‘That’s got to hurt, Terry. That’s got to really hurt. I tell you, my boss thinks the sun shines out of my arse.’

‘Yeah, well, make sure you give whoever tipped you off his thirty pieces of silver.’

Welch tutted. ‘The going rate’s much more than that these days.’ Welch glanced over at Simpson to check that his colleague was taking notes. ‘So I can take that as an admission of guilt, can I, Greene?’ said Welch.

‘Since when have you cared about admissions of guilt, Raquel?’

Welch nodded thoughtfully. ‘Fair point. It’s always much more satisfying when they plead not guilty. Your face when the judge sent you down. It was a picture.’

‘Are we done here?’

Welch sat down opposite Terry. ‘How much would four tons fetch on the street, Terry? Millions. I mean, you’d have other investors, right? Spreading the risk? But a big chunk of the profits would have been coming your way, wouldn’t it? Bet you were depending on that money, weren’t you? The way I hear it, you’ve got big financial troubles. And no way to sort them out, either. Not while you’re inside.’ He grinned and rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand. ‘Salmon’s going to talk eventually. Then your name’ll be in the frame and it’ll be another ten years on your sentence.’

‘What are you going to do, beat a confession out of him? That’s your style, isn’t it, Raquel? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’

Welch leaned forward, still grinning. ‘Like you, hey, Terry? Yeah, we could arrange that. Why don’t you take a swing at me, here and now? Get rid of all the frustrations that are building up. You in here, the lovely Samantha out there. I guess you’ll be missing a lot. Decent food, drinks with the lads, the footie. And the sex. You’ve got to be missing the sex. Regular sex, anyway. Sex between a man and a woman.’

Terry made a slow wanking gesture with his hand. ‘As opposed to the sort you enjoy.’

Welch’s eyes hardened, but he kept grinning. ‘You’ll be wanting to talk to Samantha, of course. Get her side of the story. Find out what went wrong.’

‘Yap, yap, yap,’ said Terry softly.

‘Didn’t think you’d be one to hide behind a woman’s skirts. Getting your wife to do the dirty work.’

‘Yap, yap, yap,’ said Terry. ‘Like a little dog bursting for a pee. Go cock your leg somewhere else.’

The grin vanished from the detective’s face. ‘You think you’re so tough, don’t you, Greene? A big man.’

‘It’s all relative, Raquel.’

‘You’re nothing, Greene. You’re a fucking prisoner, slopping out like every other child molester, shoplifter and car thief in this place.’

Terry smiled easily. ‘They’ve done away with slopping out, haven’t you heard?’

‘What are you now, Terry, fifty? Fifty-one? You’ll be due your pension in fifteen years, and you know what? You’ll still be banged up. By the time you get out you’ll have a mouthful of dentures and a stainless steel hip and you’ll be going to the loo half a dozen times a night.’

Terry stood up so quickly that his chair fell over backwards, the sound echoing around the room like a gunshot. Welch threw up his hands and flinched, thinking that Terry was about to attack him.

Terry smiled at Welch’s display of fear. ‘What do you think, Raquel, you think I’d give you a slap here with your man at the door and half a dozen screws outside waiting to drag me off to solitary?’ He took a step towards the detective and Welch took a step back. ‘When I slap you, it’ll be outside and you’ll stay slapped.’

Welch recovered his composure and pointed a warning finger at Terry. ‘You threatened me.’ He looked at Simpson. ‘You heard him, he threatened me.’

Terry sneered at Welch, then turned his back on him. Simpson moved away from the door without a word and Terry walked out.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Later that morning McKinley drove Sam to the garage which had cleaned the graffiti off her Saab. She was pleased to see they’d done a good job, there wasn’t a trace of the yellow paint. The mechanic who’d overseen the work was a small Irish guy with a limp, and he refused to let Sam pay, saying that he owed Terry a favour.

Sam told McKinley that she would go straight on to see her mother-in-law, now that she had her car back, and arranged to see him the following day. It felt good to be behind the wheel again, she realised, as she drove herself to Oakwood House. Being chauffeured around was all well and good, but Sam liked to be in control of her own destiny.

As usual, when Sam arrived Grace was sitting at the window, staring out, her hands clasped in her lap.

‘Good morning, Grace,’ said Sam, brightly.

Grace didn’t react. On a side table was a tray with a plate of grilled fish and boiled new potatoes and a glass of orange juice.

‘Grace, you haven’t touched your lunch,’ chided Sam. She pulled up a chair and sat opposite her mother-in-law. She picked up a fork and stabbed a piece of fish. ‘This looks nice, Grace. Why don’t you try some?’

Sam held the fork to Grace’s mouth. Grace’s lips parted and Sam pushed the fish in. Grace chewed mechanically, still looking out of the window.

‘So, did you have a good night, Grace?’

There was no answer, and Sam hadn’t expected one. It had been several years since Grace Greene had been able to have a sensible conversation with anybody.

‘Didn’t get much sleep myself, as it happens,’ said Sam, putting another forkful of fish into Grace’s mouth. ‘Lost four tons of Terry’s cannabis and came this close to getting arrested myself. Hell of a night.’

Grace smiled amiably as she looked out of the window, chewing slowly.

‘See, without that deal, we’re penniless, pretty much. The house, the car, this place. It’s all going to have to go. Unless I carry on playing your darling boy’s little games. Counterfeit money from Spain. All we’ve got to do is to get it into the country. What’s a girl to do, Grace?’

Grace frowned. She turned to look at Sam and the frown deepened. ‘Are you Laura?’

‘No, Grace. Laura’s my daughter. I’m Samantha.’

The door to Grace’s room opened. A nurse, in a starched white uniform, was surprised to see Sam. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Greene. I was just coming for Grace’s tray.’

‘We’re still working on it,’ said Sam, showing her the fork.

‘I’ll come back later, then,’ said the nurse. She started to leave, but hesitated and pushed the door closed. ‘It’s not really any of my business, Mrs Greene, but Mrs Hancock wanted to be told when you were on the premises. She said she wanted to talk to you about Grace’s account.’

Sam’s face fell. After the debacle in Northumberland, she had no idea how she was going to be able to pay Grace’s bills. Or any bills for that matter.

‘She’ll be doing her rounds in about fifty minutes. Okay?’

Sam smiled gratefully and thanked her. The nurse left and Sam continued to feed her mother-in-law.

Grace swallowed, then turned to Sam, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘We had poached salmon, didn’t we? Salmon in a watercress sauce.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sam. ‘We did.’

A huge smile spread across Grace’s face. ‘There was too much salt in the sauce,’ she said. ‘It was a lovely wedding, though. You and Terry looked so good together.’

‘We did, didn’t we? We did look good.’

Grace frowned and the blankness returned to her eyes. She tilted her head on one side and peered closely at Sam. ‘Who are you?’

Sam sighed and held up a forkful of fish. ‘I’m Samantha, Grace. Come on, chew your fish.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Richard Asher was talking on his telephone headset and pacing up and down like a caged panther as the secretary showed Sam into his office. Laurence Patterson, who had been sitting on the edge of Asher’s desk, came over and air-kissed Sam.

Asher said goodbye to whoever he was talking to, and took off the headset. ‘Samantha, thanks for dropping by. I gather things went . . . awry.’

‘You could say that, Richard,’ said Sam. She sat down on one of the black sofas and lit a cigarette. Patterson hurried over with a crystal ashtray. ‘They were waiting for us with open arms. They knew exactly where and when the gear was coming ashore.’

‘You weren’t . . . you know . . . compromised?’ asked Asher.

‘You mean caught red-handed? No, Richard, I wasn’t. I’d hardly be here if I had been.’

A look flashed between the two men and Sam realised what it signified.

‘You thought I’d come here to set you up? That I was working with the cops to cut myself a deal? Is that what you thought?’

Asher and Patterson shook their heads. ‘Perish the thought,’ said Patterson.

Asher went over to his desk and produced a small metal detector, the sort used by airline security people for personal checks. ‘But just to put our whatsits at rest, yeah?’

‘You have got to be joking,’ said Sam.

‘Samantha. Please,’ said Asher. ‘It’s a formality.’

Sam sighed and stood up. She held her arms out to the side as Asher passed the metal detector over her body. ‘You’re not going to give me an internal, are you, Richard? Because I have to warn you, I’ve not had a chance to shower yet.’

Asher grimaced but didn’t say anything. He finished the sweep then stood back. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but, you know, the filth have no morals these days.’

‘Whatever happened to honour among thieves?’ she asked them.

‘Went out with AA salutes and beehive hairdos,’ said Patterson. He slid open a glass door that led to a large terrace bedecked with plants. ‘Let’s get some fresh air, yeah?’

The terrace overlooked a large chunk of the city’s financial district. There was a small fountain with water spraying from a dolphin’s mouth and a white oval cast-iron table with six chairs. At one side of the patio was a small Japanese garden, its smooth rocks surrounded by perfectly raked sand, with more than a dozen bonsai trees on wooden benches. The perimeter of the terrace was lined with lush green plants connected to an automatic watering system.

In the distance Sam could see the NatWest Tower, dwarfing the rest of the City skyscrapers which clustered around it like chicks around a mother hen. She walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the city. ‘Hell of a view, lads,’ she said.

‘You get what you pay for,’ said Asher, ‘and this costs an arm and a leg.’

Sam turned to face them. Patterson had brought a briefcase with him, and he put it on the table. ‘What’s the financial position now, Richard . . . in view of last night’s hitch?’ asked Sam.

‘There’s money in two of the current accounts. Just about. And you’re three months behind with the mortgage. The bank’s not going to call in the mortgage straight away – they don’t like repossessing unless they absolutely have to. However, Laurence is going to need funds to keep the case going.’

Sam turned to Patterson. ‘Have you made any headway yet?’

‘Samantha, there are basically two ways of getting Terry out of prison,’ said Patterson, leaning back in his chair as though about to start a lecture.

‘Not a helicopter, Laurence. I really can’t afford a helicopter.’

Patterson smiled thinly, like an uncle humouring a favourite child. ‘No, Samantha, not a helicopter. Hopefully it won’t come to that. We need to discredit the forensic evidence, and we need to show that Ricky Morrison was lying when he said he saw Terry leaving Snow’s house after the shots were fired. If we assume the forensic evidence was planted by one of the investigating officers . . .’

‘Raquel . . .’ Sam interjected.

Patterson nodded. ‘Raquel. Quite. If we assume that the evidence was indeed planted, the easiest way of showing that is first to demonstrate that Morrison is lying. If it was the police who encouraged Morrison to lie, it follows that they could also have planted the evidence. Or at least an appeal court is likely to see it that way. The first step is to find Ricky Morrison, though, and I have to say that so far we’ve drawn a blank. Apparently he’s under some sort of witness protection scheme. Finding him is going to cost, Samantha. It’s going to cost big time.’

‘I’ve got someone else working on that as we speak,’ said Sam. From down below came the wailing siren of a fire engine.