The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (29 page)

Sam followed the boy through an ornately decorated hall that reached up two storeys, then through two large gilded doors into a sitting room packed with the most tasteless furniture she’d ever seen. There were life-size statues of African natives holding spears, next to Chinese vases with pictures of flowers painted on them, Louis XIV chairs and footstools and overstuffed sofas with tasselled cushions. Thick rugs covered most of the wooden floor space. Large chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and the walls were hung with portraits of nineteenth-century grandees and their wives in massive gilt frames. The windows were covered with thick green velvet curtains and several lamps were switched on, giving the room a warm glow. There didn’t appear to be any air-conditioning and the overall effect was so stifling that Sam was beaded with sweat within seconds of entering the room.

At the far end of the room french windows led out on to a terrace, and Sam blinked as she walked back into the bright Spanish light.

‘Sam, over here!’ shouted Micky Fox.

Sam shielded her eyes with her hand and peered around the terrace. It overlooked the Mediterranean, which stretched out in front of her, a clear blue that was almost painful in its purity.

‘Here, Sam!’

Micky Fox was sprawled on a flight of white marble steps that led down to the shallow end of a large swimming pool, a Spanish boy either side of him. The boys were as young and pretty as the one in the towel who’d guided Sam through the house and who was now showering next to the pool, quite naked. Fox had a champagne glass in his hand, a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of Dom Perignon on the step behind him.

‘Sam! Great to see you. Come and have some shampoo.’ He gestured with his chin at his two young companions in turn. ‘This is Jesus. And Pablo. Come on, get a costume on and join us.’

Sam smiled. ‘They’re a bit young for me, Micky. Besides, a bit of privacy would be nice.’ She lifted the briefcase up so that he could see it. ‘I’m here to talk business.’

‘Talk away,’ said Fox. ‘They don’t speak English. Do you, Pablo?’

Pablo frowned and put his head on one side.
‘Que?’
he said.

Fox beamed at Sam. ‘See?’ He leaned over to the ice bucket and refilled his glass. ‘So how’s Terry, then?’

‘Out and about.’

‘I knew they wouldn’t be able to keep him inside for long,’ said Fox, climbing out of the pool and slipping on a peach towelling robe. ‘I gather you’re getting more involved with the business.’

‘Word gets around,’ said Sam. It was sweltering by the pool and Sam took off her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her white silk shirt.

‘Not much else to talk about over here, truth be told,’ said Fox. He steered her towards a flight of steps that led down to the beach.

‘Micky, I’m wearing high heels here,’ Sam protested.

‘Kick ‘em off,’ said Fox. ‘Get some sand between your toes.’

‘I’m also wearing tights.’

Fox laughed and came back up the steps. He sat down on a wooden lounger and Sam dropped down on to the one next to him. Pablo rushed over with a large umbrella and he positioned it to shade Sam before jumping into the pool.

‘How’s the timeshare coming on?’ asked Sam.

Fox pulled a face. ‘Like pulling teeth. Bone idle, the Spaniards. Bloody siestas will be the death of me.’

‘What are you saying, Micky?’

‘They’re dragging their feet. The builders. The utility companies. The Spanish bureaucrats.’

‘So no cashflow?’

‘If I said there’s light at the end of the tunnel, I’d be lying, Sam. But we’re thinking about changing the design, making them top-end apartments. Marbella is attracting the high-rollers again, we could make a killing.’

‘When?’

Fox shrugged carelessly.
‘Mañana,’
he said in a bad imitation of a Spanish accent. ‘Terry been asking about his investment?’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of an investment to me.’

‘It’ll come good eventually, Sam. But you can tell Terry I could put something else his way, if he’s interested.’

‘That’s nice of you, Micky, but Terry’s set on retiring.’

Fox laughed. ‘Terry Greene settling for a pipe and slippers?’

‘I’m serious, Micky,’ said Sam. ‘He means it.’

Fox stopped laughing, not wanting to offend Sam. ‘What are you drinking, Sam?’

‘Something cold and non-alcoholic,’ she said.

‘Orange juice? They grow ‘em down the road. They were hanging on trees this morning.’

‘Sounds great, Micky. Thanks.’

Fox shouted over at Pablo, who was swimming lengths in a slow, relaxed breaststroke. Pablo waved and swam to the side.

‘The cars are ready, yeah?’ said Sam.

‘Will be by tonight,’ said Fox.

‘I want a look-see, okay?’

‘Sure, Sam. Wouldn’t have expected otherwise.’

Pablo padded over, carrying a tray on which was balanced a jug of iced orange juice and a glass. He put the tray down on a table next to Sam’s lounger. Sam and Micky said nothing as Pablo poured orange juice into the glass.

‘What are you doing out here, Micky?’ asked Sam as Pablo walked back to the pool. ‘I don’t see this being your scene.’

‘Pablo, you mean? He’s a bit gauche but he’s got a lovely arse.’

‘I meant the Costa del Crime. I assume there’s Pablos all over the world.’ She gestured at the villa. ‘Don’t get me wrong, this is nice, but it’s not London, is it?’

Fox gulped his champagne, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Something rotten in the state of Denmark,’ he said.

Sam frowned.

‘That cannabis bust,’ explained Fox. ‘Someone grassed. I couldn’t take the risk of staying. Not until we know who the rotten apple is. Fact is, Sam, I’m surprised you’re hanging around there. You never know when the other foot’s gonna fall, do you? Tell Terry to watch his back as well, yeah?’

Sam shrugged. ‘I figured if they were going to pull us in, they’d have done it already.’ She sipped her orange juice.

Fox leaned over conspiratorially. ‘I meant what I said about putting something Terry’s way,’ he said. ‘There’s a Russian guy here who can get us gear from Afghanistan. Good stuff.’

Sam put her glass back on the table. ‘Heroin?’ she said. ‘Give me a break, Micky. All I’m doing here is putting the finishing touches to Terry’s counterfeit thing.’

Fox sighed and loosened his robe. ‘It’s where the real money is, Sam,’ he said. ‘Tell Terry if he needs a sweet deal . . .’

Sam gave Fox a hard look and he shrugged and stopped talking.

‘Tell you what, Micky. Let me have a shower and a lie down, then you can take me to dinner, okay?’

‘Sure thing, Sam. What do you feel like?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Micky. What about Spanish?’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Micky Fox had the good grace not to mention heroin again during dinner. He took Sam to a seafood restaurant, high up on a peninsular overlooking the sea, where he was clearly a regular customer. The
maître d’
greeted him like an old friend, and as they were escorted to their table Sam saw a photograph of Fox and several other London faces sitting at a table raising champagne glasses.

Sam let Fox order, and he chose lobsters and more champagne. Sam wondered why men always ate lobster when they wanted to impress. Warwick Locke had done the same when she’d gone to see him about Terry’s share of the model agency. There was something primeval about the way they pulled the crustacean apart, cracking the shell and sucking out the meat. Terry had never liked lobster. He always said that they were nothing more than big insects that happened to live in the sea, and that if they weren’t so expensive no one would ever eat them.

After the meal, and more handshakes and pats on the back from the
maître d’,
Fox drove them to a garage on the outskirts of the city. Inside, two Spanish mechanics were packing black plastic-covered packages into the wings of two large Mercedes saloons.

Fox picked up one of the brick-sized packages and took a small silver penknife from his jacket pocket. He cut a slit in the black plastic and handed the package to Sam. It was full of brand new fifty-pound notes. Sam pulled one out and gave the package back to Fox. She held the note up to a light. It looked perfect in every detail, including the silver foil strip and watermark. She whistled softly. ‘Bloody hell, Micky. These are good.’

‘The best,’ said Fox, tossing the package to one of the mechanics.

‘Thing is, I can’t work out why I had to fly over with a briefcase full of real money to pay off the drivers and the rest.’ She held up the counterfeit note. ‘Why didn’t we just give them these?’

Fox laughed. ‘Sam, they’re not going to go through all this for funny money. They want real readies.’

Sam smiled ruefully. ‘I obviously don’t have a criminal mind,’ she said. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘Russian guy.’ He smiled. ‘Not the heroin guy, don’t worry. This guy’s former KGB. He used to make counterfeits for the Russian government. Stole a bunch of plates when the wall came down. Now he’s freelance.’

‘And why take them to the UK? Why not just change them here?’

‘No one really checks notes in the UK. They might do what you just did, give them a quick squint, but they don’t really check them. Here it’s foreign currency, so they give them a good going over. And they’re good, but they’re still counterfeit.’ He walked over to one of the cars and peered over the shoulder of the man who was packing notes into the panels. ‘Besides, we don’t want to shit on our own doorstep, right?’

‘Your doorstep, Micky.’

‘For the time being, yeah.’ Fox gave the mechanic a thumbs-up and said something in Spanish. The man laughed and Fox patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll stay in the villa tonight, Sam?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘We’ll try to keep the noise down,’ said Fox with a grin.

‘Don’t hold yourself back on my account, Micky,’ laughed Sam.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry flicked through the channels of the large-screen TV, idly looking for something to watch. He’d just settled down to watch football on Sky Sport when he heard a key in the front door. He hit the mute button on the remote control then stood up and went over to the sitting-room door. He put his ear against it and frowned as he listened. He heard voices. Trisha, and a man’s voice.

‘She’ll be asleep but keep quiet, yeah?’ Trisha said. Then she giggled.

Terry eased open the door. Trisha was in the hallway, closing the front door. A teenage boy in a tight white T-shirt and military-style trousers was running his hands through Trisha’s long, blonde hair. Trisha locked the door and they headed for the stairs. They both jumped with fright when they saw Terry leaning in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Trisha defiantly.

‘Babysitting,’ said Terry quietly.

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Out running errands.’

‘It’s nearly midnight.’

Terry smiled. ‘Isn’t it just.’ He peered at Trisha’s eyes. The pupils were dilated and the whites were tinged with red. ‘Have you been drinking?’ He walked towards her and she moved to get around him. Terry was too quick for her and he grabbed her by the shoulders.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said.

‘What are you on, Trish?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said the boy.

Terry looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. His skin was almost as soft and pink as Trisha’s, and it looked as if he didn’t have to shave more than once a week. He had grey eyes, and like Trisha the pupils were dilated and seemed to be having trouble focusing. He had a small gold earring in his left ear. Terry reached over, grabbed the earring and pulled it, hard. Blood spurted from the boy’s earlobe and he screamed.

‘Fucking hell!’ he shouted.

‘Ken!’ shouted Trisha.

Ken took his hand away from his ear and stared at the blood on it. ‘I’m bleeding!’ he said.

‘Better get off home, then,’ said Terry. ‘Let Mummy have a look at it.’ He tossed the earring at Ken’s face.

‘You can’t do that!’ yelled Trisha. ‘I’m not a baby!’

‘Then stop acting like one. Get up those stairs, now!’ Terry turned to Ken, who was holding his ear, the colour draining from his face. ‘Close the door on your way out, Ken. And don’t get blood on the rug.’

Terry followed Trisha up the stairs and bundled her into the bathroom.

‘You can’t do this to me!’ she said.

‘I’m your father.’

‘Only genetically,’ she said.

Terry pushed her into the shower cubicle fully clothed and turned on the cold tap. She started crying and bent double under the torrent of cold water. ‘This isn’t fair,’ she sobbed.

Terry closed the cubicle door and waited until Trisha was soaking wet, then he opened the door and handed her a towel. ‘Downstairs,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you hot chocolate.’

Terry went downstairs. Ken had gone. Terry went to the kitchen and boiled milk and made two mugs of hot chocolate. He was stirring them when Trisha appeared wearing a bathrobe.

‘You’ve no right to be here,’ she said.

‘The mortgage is in my name. And I pay the bills.’ He handed her one of the mugs and she took it, reluctantly. ‘Sit down, Trish.’

Trisha did as she was told, but she refused to look at her father. ‘Does Mum know you’re here?’

‘Yes, Mum knows I’m here.’ Terry sat down opposite her. ‘What is it, Trisha? Ecstasy? Dope? Speed? What did that little shit give you?’

‘No one calls it ecstasy any more. It’s E, and I had one tablet. It’s nothing.’

‘You’ve got school tomorrow.’

She lifted her head and looked at him. ‘So if it was Friday, it’d be okay?’ she sneered.

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. How do you think your mum’d feel if she knew?’