The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (25 page)

Is was Hobson who moved first, slashing at Terry’s stomach. Terry breathed in and swung his pipe at Hobson’s head, clipping him in the mouth and breaking a tooth. Blood spurted from Hobson’s lips and he grunted and stepped back. Byrne stabbed the spike at Terry’s face and Terry ducked to the side. He felt a stinging sensation across his chest and realised that Hobson had cut him.

Terry dropped on one knee and swung his pipe at Byrne’s shin as hard as he could. He heard a satisfying crack and Byrne pitched forward, screaming. Terry stood up and pushed him away, then he charged at Hobson, bringing the pipe down on the back of the man’s shaven head. Hobson’s eyes rolled back and he slumped to his knees. Terry hit him again on the back of the head and Hobson pitched forward, unconscious. Byrne was moaning and trying to get to his feet. Terry stamped on him over the kidneys, and he kept stamping until Byrne lay still.

Terry stood over the two injured men, panting. He wiped his face, then put the lead pipe back in its hiding place. Drops of blood plopped on to the tiled floor and streaked towards the drain. Terry examined the cut on his chest. It was about six inches long and ran just above his stomach. It wasn’t too deep and by the look of it wouldn’t require stitches.

Terry took his towel off the hook, wrapped it around his waist and walked out of the shower room.

Chief Prison Officer Riggs was standing in the toilet area, leaning against one of the cubicles. He straightened up when he saw Terry, a look of surprise on his face. He stared open-mouthed at the blood on Terry’s chest.

Terry put his hand on the cut and showed his bloody fingers to the officer as he walked past him to collect his clothes. ‘Must have cut myself shaving, Mr Riggs,’ said Terry.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Superintendent Edwards stood in front of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘I’m not sure I understand this aversion to gift horses, Frank,’ he said.

Welch was pacing up and down, shaking his head. ‘Terry Greene killed Preston Snow. End of story.’

‘You’re off the case, Frank.’

Welch stopped pacing. ‘Like fuck I am!’

Edwards stiffened. He looked at Welch coldly and Welch realised that he’d overstepped the mark.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Edwards nodded, accepting the apology.

‘But I’m telling you,’ Welch continued, his tone more conciliatory this time, ‘Sean Kelly didn’t do it. No way. He’s lying.’

Edwards moved away from the window and sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers under his chin. ‘Look at the facts, Frank. Why would Kelly lie his way into a life sentence? He’s doing seven years for armed robbery, probably be out in four. Kelly says he killed Snow and he’s given up the gun. It is the gun, right?’

Welch nodded. Forensics had shown that the bullets that had killed Preston Snow were fired by the twenty-two they’d found in the canal.

‘And we never had a motive for Greene killing Snow.’

‘Drug dealers falling out. Happens all the time.’

‘But we had nothing concrete, Frank. Kelly has a motive. Solid gold.’

Welch shook his head, refusing to accept what the superintendent was saying.

‘So Terry Greene’s going to be out before you can say “miscarriage of justice”, Frank.’ Edwards put his hands on his desk. ‘Your best bet would be to keep your head down and avoid the flak.’

Welch snorted and turned to leave.

‘I’ll do what I can, but . . .’

Welch stormed out of the office before the Superintendent could finish.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam was loading the dishwasher when the phone rang. It was Laurence Patterson. ‘Samantha, good news,’ he gushed. ‘The best. Terry’s going to be released.’

‘What?’ said Sam.

‘Terry’s going to be out. A few days, a week at most.’

Sam felt her legs start to tremble and she put a hand against the fridge to steady herself. ‘What’s happened, Laurence?’

‘Someone else has confessed to the murder. And given the murder weapon to the police. It’s an open and shut case.’

‘That’s what they said about Terry.’

‘This is different, Samantha. The only real evidence against Terry was the witness, and Morrison’s dead—’

‘What about the forensics?’ interrupted Sam.

‘Called into question,’ said Patterson. ‘Welch could be out on his ear after this.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Sam.

‘Believe it,’ said Patterson. ‘It’s on the fast track with the Court of Appeal. We’ll be suing for compensation, the works. We’ve won, Samantha! Terry’s coming home.’

‘That’s great news, Laurence,’ she said hesitantly.

‘I’ve already spoken to him, and he says he can’t wait to see you. And he says to hang fire on the other thing until he’s out.’

Sam frowned. ‘The other thing?’

‘You know. The thing you were arranging for him. The business thing.’

Sam realised what he meant. The counterfeit money. ‘Right, Laurence. Sure. Thanks.’

She hung up, her mind in a whirl, and sat down at the kitchen table. She wondered why she didn’t feel elated. It was what she’d been working towards, getting Terry out of prison, but she didn’t feel the least bit happy about the solicitor’s news. In fact she had a sick feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. An image sprang into her mind and she realised why she was so apprehensive. It was Terry, outside the church as he was being led to the van in handcuffs. ‘Keep your chin up,’ he’d said. ‘There’s light at the end of the tunnel.’

How had he known? How had Terry known that someone else would be confessing to Preston Snow’s murder?

∗      ∗      ∗

 

The next few days passed in a blur. There were congratulatory phone calls from most of Terry’s friends. George Kay, David Jackson, Warwick Locke. Even Micky Fox called from Spain, where he’d rushed off to following the cannabis fiasco. They were all coming out of the woodwork now that they knew Terry was going to be released. Sam accepted their congratulations and good wishes without warmth, unable to forget how unhelpful they’d been when she needed them.

The day before Terry was due to appear in the Court of Appeal, the Press laid siege to her house and she kept the curtains closed and the phone off the hook. Trisha didn’t want to go to school and Sam couldn’t blame her, so they stayed at home watching television. Journalists kept shoving pieces of paper through her letterbox offering money for an interview, and the doorbell rang so often that Sam disconnected it.

The Press became increasingly obtrusive during the evening, presumably because their deadlines were approaching. Earnest men and women trampled over the garden and knocked on her windows, and once a reporter from one of the tabloids pretended to be delivering a bouquet of flowers and shouted a barrage of questions when Trisha opened the door.

When she peered through the curtains and found a television crew climbing over the garden wall, Sam decided that she’d had enough and phoned Andy McKinley. He arrived within thirty minutes, accompanied by half a dozen burly bouncers from Lapland. They forced the Press pack off the property and stood at the entrance to the driveway, glaring menacingly at any reporter who came near them.

Sam let McKinley into the house and made him coffee. ‘I called the police, but they said there was nothing they could do.’

‘Nothing they wanted to do, more likely,’ said McKinley, sipping his coffee. ‘They’re going to look pretty stupid when Terry is released.’

‘I can’t believe it’s all happened so quickly,’ said Sam. ‘A few weeks ago it looked as if he’d never get out. Now . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t know, Andy.’

McKinley said nothing as he studied her over the top of his mug.

‘Do you think this is . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. She lit a cigarette. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not making much sense.’

‘You’re under a lot of stress, Mrs Greene.’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’ From upstairs came the sound of Trisha’s stereo. Sam smiled ruefully. Trisha’s not exactly over the moon at the thought of her dad getting out.’

McKinley looked uncomfortable and Sam realised that she was putting him in a difficult position. While McKinley had been a tower of strength for her, Terry was still his boss.

‘Thanks for coming, Andy.’

‘Absolutely no problem, Mrs Greene. I’ll stay the night, yeah?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think your husband would want me to. And you’ll need me to drive you to the court in the morning.’

Sam felt a lot safer knowing that McKinley was in the house. He slept in Jamie’s room and was up half an hour before her, cooking scrambled eggs and bacon. Trisha turned up her nose at the food but Sam ate gratefully and drank two cups of strong coffee.

Most of the journalists had gone by the time they left the house. Two of McKinley’s friends still stood guard at the gate, and a man and a woman stood next to a car watching the house. The man made a half-hearted attempt to shout a few questions at the Lexus as it drove by, and the woman produced a camera with a motor drive and snapped away. Sam kept her head down until they were well away from the journalists.

‘There’ll be more at the court, Mrs Greene,’ warned McKinley, fastening his seat belt as he steered with his right hand. ‘It’s a big story.’

‘They’re parasites,’ said Sam, putting on a pair of dark glasses.

McKinley waited with the car while Sam went inside the Court of Appeal. Terry was brought up by two prison officers, and he waved at Sam and grinned. Pike and Russell were in the court and they started cheering until a court officer hissed at them to be quiet.

Of the three judges, only one spoke. Sam barely heard his words, and was surprised at how brief the procedure was. Two minutes, three at the most, then a cheer went up from the people in the court.

Terry walked out of the dock and hugged her. ‘Told you,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I told you it would be okay.’

Laurence Patterson clapped him on the back, and Terry’s barrister, John Orvice shook his hand. Terry put his arm around Sam and they walked out of the court together.

Welch and two of his detectives were sitting at the back of the court and they glared at Terry as he walked by. Terry grinned over at Welch. ‘Drinks in the pub later, yeah, Raquel? I’m buying.’

‘Leave it, Terry,’ said Sam, and he hugged her.

Outside, cameras started clicking and TV crews ran forward, their lights blinding. Sam put her dark glasses on as Terry launched into an impromptu speech.

‘I just want to thank my legal team, and for all the support I received during my incarceration,’ he said. ‘I always knew I was innocent, but this isn’t the first miscarriage of justice in this country and it won’t be the last. Someone should take a closer look at the way the police are conducting investigations. It was obvious to a blind man that I wasn’t guilty.’

Several reporters started shouting questions, but Terry held up his hand to silence them. ‘It’s the Snow family that I feel sorry for. What they’ve been through. Now I just want to go home and get on with my life. I hope you’ll all respect my privacy. I’m happy to answer a few questions now, but then I hope you’ll leave me and my family alone.’

There was another flurry of questions. Sam pulled at Terry’s arm but he wouldn’t budge, as if he was relishing being the centre of attention.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

McKinley sat in the Lexus watching Terry talk to the assembled journalists. He tensed as he saw someone he recognised, walking purposefully along the road to the court. It was Luke Snow, his dreadlocks tucked in a black woollen hat, his shoulders hunched inside his green Army surplus jacket.

McKinley got out of the car and hurried to intercept Snow, who was so fixated on Terry and the Press pack that he didn’t see McKinley until he was right in front of him. ‘Don’t even think about it, Luke,’ said McKinley quietly.

Snow’s right arm tensed. McKinley caught a glimpse of something metallic in Snow’s pocket. A knife. McKinley was almost relieved. A knife he could handle. A gun would mean problems.

‘He killed my brother and got away with it,’ whispered Snow through clenched teeth.

McKinley looked steadily at Snow, his hands swinging freely at his side. He didn’t want to make any movement that might antagonise Snow, but he wasn’t going to be caught unawares either. ‘The court said he didn’t do it,’ said McKinley.

‘Fuck the court,’ spat Snow. He tried to get past McKinley, but McKinley moved with him, blocking his way.

Snow started to pull the knife from his pocket and McKinley clamped a hand on his arm. Snow fought against him but McKinley was by far the stronger man. ‘I’ll break it,’ said McKinley.

‘He killed my brother!’ hissed Snow. There were tears in his eyes and his lower lip was trembling. ‘Now look at him, mouthing off to the fucking Press.’

‘He’s not doing this to be famous, Luke.’ McKinley felt Snow stop struggling against his grip and let go of his arm. ‘Go home.’

‘I’ll kill him.’

‘No you won’t, Luke. Not here. Not with so many cops around.’ There were three uniformed police officers standing outside the court, and Raquel and two of his detectives were walking out, surrounded by reporters holding out tape-recorders and scribbling in notebooks. ‘You won’t get within ten feet of Terry Greene. And you’ll end up doing time. For what?’

‘For my brother. For my fucking brother.’

Over at the court, Terry and Sam moved away from the TV crews, flanked by Pike and Russell. Fletcher was at the wheel of a large BMW and they all piled in.

Snow stared after the car as it roared off down the road. A tear ran down his cheek and he pulled his right hand out of his pocket to wipe it away, revealing a six-inch long-bladed hunting knife.

‘For God’s sake, Luke, put that away!’ said McKinley, looking around to check that the police hadn’t seen the weapon.