The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (7 page)

She took another sip of her wine. The bills that had arrived that morning were spread out on the coffee table in front of her and she ran her fingers over them. There was an electricity bill and a reminder that she had to pay for her television licence, and statements for two of her credit cards. In all she owed a little over three thousand pounds, just on that day’s bills alone. There were others on the way, she knew. She had had no idea of how short of money Terry was, she’d just blithely assumed that money would keep flowing into the bank accounts as it always had done in the past.

The phone rang again. Sam snatched at it. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off and leave me alone, you sick bastard!’ she snarled.

There was a short silence on the line. ‘Gosh, Mum, I love you, too.’ It was Jamie.

‘God, Jamie, I’m sorry.’

‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

‘Nothing. I’ve just had a bad day, that’s all.’

‘Has someone been bothering you?’

‘A few phone calls, that’s all.’

‘About the trial?’

‘What else?’

‘Do you want me to come home?’

‘Jamie, I’m a big girl. And you know as well as I do, people who make threats rarely carry them out.’

‘He’s threatening you? For God’s sake, Mum . . . go to the police.’

‘Yeah, wouldn’t they just love that? I can handle it, Jamie. How did the exams go?’

‘No sweat. Look, I don’t want to bother you with everything else you’ve got on your plate, but the admin office has been on at me about my tuition fees. Do you know if Dad sent a cheque before . . .’

He tailed off. Before he was arrested, he was going to say.

‘I don’t know, Jamie. I’ll find out.’

‘Do you mind? It’s a bit embarrassing, that’s all.’

‘I’ll talk to his accountant tomorrow. Have you written to your dad?’

‘Yeah. Sent him a letter yesterday. Thought about sending him a cake with a file in it, but I guess the screws don’t have a sense of humour, do they?’

‘What sort of language is that for a future solicitor to be using? Screws indeed.’

‘Solicitor? I should cocoa. Barrister’s where the money is, Mum. You won’t catch me working in a solicitor’s office when I’ve graduated. Say hi to Trisha, will you? And Laura, when you see her. I’ve tried calling but I keep getting her machine.’

They said goodbye and Sam replaced the receiver. She looked at the phone for several seconds, then took off the receiver and put it on the table. She figured she deserved a quiet evening.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Oakwood House looked more like a stately home than a nursing centre, a large Georgian house in almost a hundred acres of woodland and gardens with a sweeping gravel drive and a fountain in front of the main entrance. The hallway was a grand affair with ornate furniture and a massive chandelier hanging over a wide oak staircase. Despite the luxurious fittings and the vases of fresh flowers, there was an underlying smell of urine and disinfectant and Sam wrinkled her nose. Sam smiled at the receptionist and walked along the west wing to Grace’s room. Several doors were open along the length of the corridor and expectant faces looked up as Sam walked by, faces that fell as soon as they realised that she wasn’t there to visit them.

Grace was sitting in a large winged chair looking out of her window, an untouched cup of tea next to her on a small side table. ‘Hello, Grace. It’s me.’ Sam closed the door and pulled up a chair next to her mother-in-law. ‘How’ve you been, then, Grace?’

Grace said nothing. A small trickle of saliva was running from the side of Grace’s lip and Sam took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed her chin.

‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had one hell of a few days. Your darling boy is behind bars, he’s left me with barely a penny to my name, and now he wants me to mastermind a multi-million-pound drugs deal to pay for his appeal.’ There was no reaction from Grace. She was fiddling with her wedding ring as she stared out over the lawn. ‘So how was your week, Grace?’

The door to the room opened. It was a young nurse with a starched white uniform and a BUPA smile. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Greene?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Mrs Hancock asks if you’d pop into her office before you leave.’

‘I’ll do that.’

Grace turned to Sam as the door closed. There was a faraway look in her eyes as if her mind elsewhere. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m Sam, Grace. Your daughter-in-law.’

‘Laura?’

‘No, Grace. Laura’s your granddaughter. I’m Sam. Laura’s mother.’

‘Such a lovely girl, Laura.’ She smiled serenely and went back to looking through the window.

‘Yes, Grace. She is.’

Sam sat with her mother-in-law for the best part of an hour, and as always the conversation was one-sided, with Grace’s comments confined to asking who Sam was and why they hadn’t brought her a cup of tea, even though Sam kept pointing out the cup by her side.

Mrs Hancock was waiting for Sam in her office. She was in her fifties with grey permed hair and a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez spectacles perched on the end of her nose. The first time Sam had met her she’d thought that she had the look of a spinster who’d rejected her one chance of love early on in life and spent the last thirty years hating all men, but there was a picture of her with a good-looking man and three teenage children on the desk and a ring on her wedding finger.

Sam was all too well aware of how deceptive appearances could be. Grace Greene looked as elegant and intelligent as she had ten years earlier, but she was an empty shell.

‘There’s been no decline this past month, Mrs Greene, but no improvement either,’ said Mrs Hancock. It was almost word for word what the administrator said every time she met Sam. ‘Alzheimer’s is a terrible illness. All we can do is to make her as comfortable as possible. She’s in no pain. Sometimes she even appears to be happy, in her way.’

‘Happy? Yeah, I remember happy,’ said Sam ruefully.

Mrs Hancock frowned and Sam forced herself to smile. ‘So, is that why you wanted a word? To update me on my mother-in-law’s lack of progress?’

‘Actually, no.’ Mrs Hancock opened a pale blue file in front of her. ‘It’s more to do with her account. The last two direct debits haven’t gone through. I’m sure it’s just an oversight.’

Sam sighed. ‘It’s probably the bank’s fault,’ she said. ‘We’ve just opened a new savings account and I think some of the direct debit mandates went adrift. I’ll give the manager a call this afternoon.’

Mrs Hancock smiled reassuringly and pushed her spectacles higher up her nose. ‘I can’t help but be aware of your present circumstances, Mrs Greene. Your husband . . . well, it was in all the papers.’

‘Wasn’t it just.’

‘What I’m trying to say is, if you should be having problems of a financial nature, please let us know right away.’

‘I will,’ said Sam. ‘Thanks.’

‘Because if you are finding it difficult to meet the payments, we can help you find a place for Grace in a local authority institution.’

Sam’s eyes hardened. ‘Excuse me?’

‘We can make alternative arrangements for Grace’s care. I have extremely good contacts within the state sector. It won’t be a problem, I can assure you.’

Sam stood up. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Mrs Hancock – Grace is not going into the poor house.’

‘Mrs Greene, you’re over-reacting. I was simply pointing out that the private sector isn’t for everybody.’

‘You’ve been happy enough to take our money for the past three years. Now just because we’re late with a couple of payments, you’re threatening to throw an old woman out on the streets.’

‘Mrs Greene, please . . .’

‘You’ll get your money, Mrs Hancock. Don’t you worry.’

Sam hurried out of the office, tears of rage burning in her eyes.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry walked along the landing. A young prisoner slipped him two telephone cards and Terry nodded his thanks. Terry had made it known that he was prepared to pay twenty times the face value of telephone cards, the money being paid on the outside to family or friends. He’d been inundated with prisoners wanting to exchange their cards for cash and Terry had taken all he could get.

He slipped the cards into the back pocket of his trousers. Ahead of him two large prisoners, one black, one white, were lounging against a wall, their eyes scanning back and forth, taking in everything that was happening on the wing. Both were well over six feet, broad shouldered with bulging forearms. They straightened up as Terry got closer, and stood in front of him, their arms crossed, their faces set like stone.

‘Hello, lads,’ said Terry. ‘Is he in?’

‘You got an appointment?’ said one of the prisoners in a thick West Country accent.

‘No, just wanted to pay my respects, that’s all,’ said Terry.

The other prisoner knocked on the cell door behind them, then disappeared inside. A few seconds later he reappeared and nodded at Terry. ‘You can go in,’ he said gruffly.

‘Thanks, lads,’ he said.

The two men moved to the side and Terry walked into the cell. There was a single occupant, a black man in his late twenties with close-cropped hair and a runner’s build, thin and wiry. A thick raised scar ran from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth. He wore a dark blue Nike T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms and a pair of gleaming white Nike training shoes. He acknowledged Terry with a slight nod of his head. ‘Settling in, Terry?’ he said.

Terry shrugged. ‘You know how it is, Baz.’ Baz Salter had run a major drugs crew south of the river before being sentenced to life for an arson attack on a Brixton drinking club that left four Jamaicans dead and more than a dozen horrifically burned. Terry had never met him on the outside but he knew him by reputation. The four arson deaths were the tip of an iceberg – Baz was rumoured to be responsible for more than a dozen gangland slayings in the struggle for the dominance of the South London crack cocaine market.

‘Have a seat,’ said Baz, waving Terry to a chair by the single bunk. The cell was the same size as the one that Terry shared with Hoyle, but Baz had it to himself. There was a CD player and a selection of books on a shelf, and a green and black quilt on the bunk. Baz effectively ran the wing and was allowed privileges that reflected his status.

Terry sat down. ‘I wanted to drop by and let you know I was here.’

‘Jungle drums said you were coming,’ said Baz.

‘If there are going to be any problems down the line, I wanted to get them out in the open here and now,’ said Terry. ‘I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulder.’

Baz nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.

‘Jungle drums told you why I’m here, right?’ continued Terry.

‘It was in all the papers. Major celebrity, you are.’

Terry smiled thinly. ‘So are there going to be repercussions?’

Baz leaned forward and put his head on one side. ‘Of what nature?’

‘Preston Snow was one of yours.’

Baz smiled. ‘Ancient history.’

Terry nodded slowly. He looked into Baz’s dark brown eyes, trying to see if the man was being honest with him or not.

‘I didn’t shed any tears over Snow,’ said Baz. ‘He went loco years ago. He needed killing.’

‘Okay,’ said Terry.

‘So what are your intentions, then?’

‘To get out of here as quickly as possible,’ said Terry.

‘That’s easy to say. I was wondering more about your intentions on the wing.’

‘It’s your wing, Baz. There’s going to be no boats rocked.’

‘It’d be a difficult boat to rock,’ said Baz.

‘Absolutely,’ said Terry. ‘I just want to keep my head down.’

‘You’ve been buying cards, big time. Pushing the price up.’

Terry nodded. ‘I’ve things that needed sorting on the outside,’ he said.

‘You and me both,’ said Baz. ‘But pushing the price up is gonna piss me off.’

‘Message received,’ said Terry.

‘Gambling, smokes, drugs, booze, I run them all,’ said Baz.

Terry nodded.

‘Any problems on the wing, you talk to me before sorting them.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Terry.

‘Anything you need bringing in, you talk to me. I don’t like contraband coming on to the wing without me knowing.’

‘Okay,’ said Terry.

Baz smiled. ‘That’s all the rules,’ he said. ‘Break them and I’ll break you.’

Terry stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Baz.’

‘Be lucky,’ said Baz.

Terry left, closing the cell door behind him and nodding at the two heavies. He walked back down the landing to his own cell. He hated having to kowtow before a thug like Baz Salter, but he knew he had no choice. Terry didn’t plan to stay behind bars for long and he didn’t have time to wrestle for control of the wing. If Baz wanted his own little prison empire, all well and good. Terry had bigger fish to fry, and they were outside the prison walls.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

The manager made Sam wait for almost an hour before his secretary ushered her into his office. It was austerely furnished, as if the bank was keen to demonstrate how little money it was spending on decoration. The manager was in his thirties with thinning sandy hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and wore a suit that was slightly too small for him, so that he constantly pulled at the sleeves to cover his shirt cuffs. A wooden nameplate with black plastic letters announced his name as Mr Phillips. No first name. He even introduced himself as Mr Phillips when he offered Sam his slightly sweaty hand, the emphasis on the Mr, as if he was desperate to prove his gender.

He punched his computer keyboard with his index finger and frowned as he read what was on the screen. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see what’s happened.’ He tapped the screen even though all Sam could see was the back of the VDU and a tangle of wires. ‘The account is still in the black, but there wasn’t enough to cover the direct debit payments. So they weren’t processed.’