The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (3 page)

The prison officer looked at the label and sneered. ‘Jacket. Dark blue. Armani.’ He had a nasal Birmingham accent. He was a big man with a pot belly that hung in front of him like a late pregnancy. He screwed up the jacket and thrust it into a polythene bag.

Terry undid his belt and slipped off his trousers. A second prison officer wrote the details down on a clipboard. ‘Trousers. Dark blue,’ said the prison officer, another large man, but well muscled as if he worked out. Like his colleague he had short-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed moustache.

A third officer walked over. A small man with a tight, pinched mouth and small eyes. He picked up the clipboard and looked at the form. ‘The famous Terrence Greene,’ he said. ‘We are honoured.’ He grinned. ‘Armani, huh? Pity it’s going to be out of fashion by the time you get out, Greene.’ He handed the clipboard back to the admitting officer. ‘I’m Chief Prison Officer Riggs. This is my wing.’

‘You must be very proud,’ said Terry. He took off his wristwatch and held it out to the first prison officer.

Riggs reached over and took it. He weighed it in his hand. ‘Rolex Oyster. Gold.’

Terry took a pile of prison-issue clothes off the table. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to show me to my room.’

Riggs smiled at Terry. ‘You’re a very funny man, Greene.’ He dropped the watch on to the tiled floor and stamped on it. He kept his eyes on Terry as he bent down and picked it up. ‘Rolex Oyster. Gold. Broken.’ He tossed the watch into the polythene bag. ‘Sign for your things and then these nice gentlemen can take you to your cell. You’ve missed lunch, and I’m sorry but room service isn’t working today.’ He paused for effect, holding his hand up as if silencing a child. ‘No, wait a minute . . . I’m not sorry. In fact, I couldn’t give a shit if you didn’t eat for a week.’

Riggs laughed softly to himself as he walked away, his prison boots squeaking on the tiled floor.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Richard Asher’s office was a little like the man, thought Sam: brash with hard edges and questionable taste. The furniture was all chrome and glass, the paintings on the wall merely squares of canvas with what looked like sprays of blood across them. As she walked in, Asher was wearing a telephone headset and pacing up and down in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the City. He flashed her a quick smile and carried on muttering into his headset mike, something about moving money between the Cayman Islands and Gibraltar and how the taxman wouldn’t get a sniff of it.

Laurence Patterson was sitting on the edge of Asher’s white maple desk. He motioned towards a long black leather sofa on sweeping chrome legs. Sam sat down, crossed her legs and lit a cigarette.

The two men were both in their late twenties, tall and thin with the build of squash players, and they both virtually crackled with nervous energy. She’d only met Asher once, shortly after Terry had been arrested. He was half-Indian with a dark olive complexion and jet-black hair that was forever falling across his eyes. He smiled a lot and Sam never really trusted him. Patterson wasn’t as good looking, with a long, narrow face and a rash of old acne scars across his forehead, but he seemed to Sam to be the more trustworthy of the two. Patterson always looked her in the eye, even when he was giving her bad news, but Asher seemed to avoid eye contact whenever he could, as if he were hiding a guilty secret. She tapped her cigarette on a crystal ashtray and smiled at the thought that appearances could be deceptive. A year ago and she’d never have believed that her husband would be behind bars, serving a life sentence for murder.

‘Funny old world,’ she said to herself.

‘Sorry, Samantha?’ said Patterson.

‘Just thinking out loud, Laurence,’ said Sam with a smile.

Asher took off his headset and strode over to Sam, his long legs moving as gracefully as a giraffe’s. ‘Samantha, thanks for coming.’

‘Didn’t sound to me like I had much of a choice, Richard.’

Asher air-kissed her, studiously avoiding any physical contact. Sam could smell his cologne, heady and sweet with a hint of sandalwood. ‘I am so sorry about today,’ he said, not looking at her, but concentrating on a spot on the wall behind her.

‘You and me both,’ said Sam.

‘You’ll be appealing, yeah?’

‘Soon as we can. Is that what this is about?’

‘Partly,’ said Asher.

Asher and Patterson exchanged a quick look and something unspoken passed between them. Sam frowned and waited. Asher loped over to his desk and sprawled in his chair.

Patterson went to stand by the window. ‘However the appeal goes, it’s going to be expensive, you realise that?’

‘I didn’t think for one minute that you’d be doing it
pro bono,
Laurence.’

Asher sighed. ‘Snag is, Terry’s a bit stretched.’

Patterson nodded. ‘He tucked away enough to pay for his defence up to today’s case, but we’re gonna need more if we’re to appeal.’

Sam leaned forward. ‘If? Now it’s if?’

Patterson looked pained. ‘When. If. It all comes down to the readies, Samantha. And the way things stand at the moment, Terry couldn’t appeal a parking ticket.’

Sam sat stunned, not knowing what to say.

‘It’s what you might call a cashflow problem,’ said Asher smoothly. ‘Hopefully temporary, but you’d better hear it from the horse’s whatsit.’

‘What?’ said Sam.

Asher didn’t reply. Instead he picked up a remote control and pointed it at a large flat-screen television mounted on one wall. It flickered into life and he pointed the remote at a video recorder.

Terry appeared on the screen, smoking a small cigar. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on in court, but no tie. He smiled at the camera and waved the cigar. ‘Hiya, love. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, but you’ll only be seeing this if things have taken a turn for the worse.’

Sam looked at Asher and Patterson. Both men were watching the screen. She took a long pull on her cigarette.

Terry was smiling apologetically. ‘What can I say? It’s going to be rough for you, but at least you’re not sitting in a cell stinking of stale piss and cabbage. Look, love, I’m going to need your help, big time. I’m sorry to drop this on you, but there’s no one else who can do what needs to be done. I can’t say too much in case this gets into the wrong hands, but Richard and Laurence will fill you in. You can trust them, okay? Oh yeah, look up Andy McKinley. He was my driver, he’ll be useful. He’s working for George Kay. And give my love to the kids. Tell them a visit would be nice.’

Asher pressed the remote and the screen went blank.

‘That’s it?’ said Sam. Terry’s short speech had posed more questions than it had answered.

‘It’s by way of a reference,’ said Asher.

‘So that you’ll know that what we’re telling you has Terry’s blessing,’ added Patterson.

‘And what are you telling me?’ asked Sam.

Asher took a deep breath as if steeling himself to break bad news. ‘Terry’s been a bit busy recently. Since you and he separated eighteen months ago . . .’

‘Fifteen,’ interrupted Sam. ‘We separated fifteen months ago.’

‘Fifteen. Okay.’ He took another deep breath. ‘Anyway, a lot’s happened over the past fifteen months.’

‘You’re telling me.’ She blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘How bad is it, Richard?’

‘Snapshot, it’s not too bad. Pretty much balances out. But without injections of outside capital . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished. He looked across at Patterson and nodded.

Patterson walked over to Sam and gave her a cardboard file. ‘It’s like a juggler keeping four balls in the air,’ said Patterson. ‘As soon he stops moving . . .’ He shrugged and looked at her glumly.

Sam stared at the two men in turn. They had the guilty looks of schoolboys called up in front of the headmistress, expecting a caning. ‘So you’re telling me that if Terry drops his balls, I’m out on the street?’

‘Not exactly out on the street,’ said Asher, picking up a glass paperweight and toying with it, ‘but I think it’s only fair to warn you that the mortgage on your house is actually paid from an account linked to one of Terry’s property companies. And if that were to go into receivership . . .’

Sam opened the file. It contained several sheets of papers and computer print-outs. There were statements from a number of bank accounts, only two of which she recognised. And there were profit and loss statements from Terry’s business enterprises. His nightclubs. His model agency. His courier service. His stake in the local football club. The timeshare development in Spain. And there was a list of the family’s outgoings. The mortgage on the house. Car payments. Jamie’s university fees. The payments to Terry’s mother’s nursing home. Sam shook her head. There were too many numbers to cope with. ‘So we’re broke, is that it?’

Asher looked pained. ‘Of course not, Samantha. But you realise that without Terry earning, there’s not going to be any cash coming in.’

‘I don’t understand this. Terry’s always been a big spender, but he’s been putting money away, too. Stocks. Shares. He’s even got Tessas and Isas and all that stuff.’

Asher shook his head. ‘Terry’s borrowed against virtually all his assets. Effectively, they belong to the banks.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘The property whatsit in Spain. Terry told you about it?’

‘He mentioned it. It’s with Micky Fox, yeah?’

Asher nodded. ‘Micky Fox and a few other like-minded individuals. It’s been a big drain, cashflow wise. They had to buy the land, grease a few Spanish palms, pay the architects and the builders . . .’

‘I get the picture, Richard.’

‘Money’s been poured into the development. Millions. And I have to say, Samantha, it was against my best advice. I did tell Terry that this was a long-term investment and that he should only use money he didn’t have tied up elsewhere. It was his idea to leverage against his portfolio.’

Sam tossed the file on to a chrome and glass coffee table. ‘Can’t we sell out now? Pay back the banks. Then sell the shares.’

‘They’re timeshares, Samantha. No one’s going to pay for them until the building work’s finished. The days of punters buying off-plan in Spain are long gone. Too many horror stories.’

‘Okay, so we sell off some of the other businesses. The model agency’s got to be making money, right? And there’s his stake in the football club. That’s got to be worth something.’

‘Neither is showing much in the way of profits, and, realistically, they’re not going to, not in the near future.’ He pulled another pained face. ‘Frankly, Samantha, the model agency and the football club weren’t much more than hobbies for Terry. He wasn’t over-concerned whether they made money or not.’

Sam flicked ash and crossed her legs. ‘Terrific,’ she said. ‘What about the courier company? That’s got to be a real business, right? And he told me he’d invested in a couple of West London taxi firms.’

Asher and Patterson exchanged a quick look. Sam was becoming fed up with their little looks, as if they were working to a script, telling her only what they wanted her to know. They were manipulating her, and Sam hated being manipulated. ‘What?’ she said sharply. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Terry does have extensive business interests, Samantha,’ said Asher, ‘but many were acquired for their cashflows rather than profits.’

Sam frowned. ‘You’re not making sense, Richard. Just spit it out, why don’t you?’

Asher took a deep breath. ‘In a word, Samantha. Money laundering.’

Patterson walked over to the window as if trying to distance himself from the conversation.

Sam smiled tightly. ‘That’s two words, Richard.’ She took a long pull on her cigarette and blew smoke up at the ceiling.

Asher smiled back but his eyes were ice cold. It was the smile of a predator, and Sam realised for the first time that Asher didn’t really like her. ‘Terry uses the cash-rich companies to clean his profits from his less than legal operations,’ said Asher. ‘On their own, profits are minimal.’

‘This is getting better and better,’ said Sam bitterly.

Asher rubbed the paperweight between the palms of his hands. ‘Terry does have a solution,’ he said. ‘He put together two . . . business deals . . . shortly before he was arrested.’

Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Business deals?’

‘Terry has arranged for a consignment of cannabis resin to be imported from Spain. He’s already paid for it, there’s just the delivery to be organised.’

For a moment Sam thought that she’d misheard. She put up a hand as if warding him off and shook her head in disbelief. ‘What? What are you saying?’

‘Terry has paid for four tons of cannabis resin. It’s arriving in three days.’

‘Cannabis? Drugs? A drugs deal?’

‘Terry has also invested in a currency deal in Spain. The notes are going to have to be brought back to the UK in the very near future.’

‘Currency? You mean counterfeit notes? A drugs deal and counterfeit money?’

Asher stared up at the ceiling. Patterson was looking out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘Terry expects me to do his dirty work?’

‘He’s handed over all aspects of his business to you, legitimate and otherwise,’ said Asher. ‘You will have control over all of his companies, signing rights for his bank accounts. All we need you to do is to sign a few forms.’

Sam twisted her cigarette into the crystal ashtray. ‘You’re taking the piss.’ She stood up. She could feel her whole body trembling and she fought to stay calm. ‘You’re as bad as he is. Both of you.’

She stormed out and slammed the door behind her.

Patterson turned away from the window and gave Asher a pained smile. ‘Told you she wouldn’t like it.’

‘Like it or lump it, she’ll come around. She doesn’t have a choice.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Laura Nichols sat on the sofa, her legs drawn up underneath her. The television was on, the sound muted. She had just watched the third news report of the day covering her father’s sentence. Little had been added since the story was first broadcast that afternoon. West London businessman Terry Greene, sentenced to life for the murder of small-time drug dealer Preston Snow. A major Customs investigation naming him as a suspected drugs importer. Pictures of Sam being pursued from the court by the Press pack, escaping into Jamie’s Land Rover, and a screaming Luke Snow throwing a bottle at the vehicle as it drove away. A photograph of her father, smiling and looking younger than his fifty-two years, his black hair swept slightly back, his eyes sparkling as if he’d just seen something amusing. Then a photograph of her mother, taken more than twenty-five years earlier, a publicity shot from a Christmas variety show, singing on a stage flanked by long-legged dancers.