‘What about for wives of convicted murderers?’
Patterson smiled thinly and shook his head.
Sam took a deep breath and walked towards the double doors that led out to the street. She heard the click-click-click of cameras and the buzz of questions before she even pushed the doors open. The Press were huddled around Welch and Simpson, whose faces were white in the glare of television camera lights.
Sam kept her head down but it was useless, they were waiting for her, and like hounds on a fresh scent they bore down on her, throwing questions from all sides. How did she feel, what were her plans, how had her husband taken the sentence, had she lied?
Sam tried to push through them. ‘Please, I’ve nothing to say,’ she shouted. ‘Nothing.’
Two figures barred her way. A man and a woman. Sam raised her head and looked at them. It was Mr and Mrs Snow, the victim’s parents, dressed as if they’d just come from church. They were both in their late fifties, he in a dark tweed suit and highly polished brogues, she in a blue flowery print dress and a dark blue coat, with a matching blue hat with a wide band into which had been tucked three silk daisies.
Sam tried to get by them, but Mrs Snow moved to block her way. ‘How could you?’ she hissed at Sam. ‘You gave your word before God and you lied. How could you do that?’
Sam shook her head. Mrs Snow raised a gloved hand and Sam stared at her unflinchingly, waiting for the blow. The older woman lowered her hand and burst into tears. Her husband put an arm around her shoulders. His eyes were dull and flat, as if he wasn’t even aware of Sam or the near-constant barrage of flashes as the photographers clicked away.
Sam pushed around them.
The questions continued. Did she know why her husband had killed Preston Snow, had her husband asked her to lie for him, where was she the night Snow was shot? Sam tried to blot out the shouts, tried to imagine they weren’t there. A television camera appeared at her side and a bleached blonde with too much make-up thrust a bulbous microphone in her face. Sam pushed the microphone away. ‘Don’t you understand – no comment!’ she shouted.
She reached her car, a black convertible Saab. It was penned in by two almost-new saloons and Sam knew instinctively that the Press had done it, cutting off her avenue of escape. She whirled around. ‘Can someone please move this car!’ she yelled, but she could barely hear her own voice above the noise of the Press pack.
A battered old Land Rover roared up, smoke belching from its exhaust. ‘Mum! Get in!’ It was Jamie. He threw open the door and Sam climbed in gratefully.
‘Jamie, you’re a life-saver,’ she gasped.
Jamie grinned and accelerated. As he roared away from the still-shouting journalists, a bottle smacked into the windscreen, cracking it down one side. Through the side window Sam saw Luke Snow screaming and shaking his fist.
Jamie slammed on the brakes. ‘Bastard!’
‘Leave it, Jamie,’ said Sam.
‘Look what he’s done.’
‘Forget it.’
Jamie looked as if he was going to argue, but Sam patted him on the leg. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee. And a new windscreen.’
Jamie accelerated away, still cursing.
She rubbed the back of his neck as he drove. ‘You should go and see him, soon as you can.’
‘I will. Laura wasn’t there.’
‘Yeah. Probably too upsetting for her. You know what your sister’s like. It’s Trish I feel really sorry for. They’re bound to give her a hard time at school.’
Jamie drove them to a coffee bar and they sat in the window sipping cappuccinos in silence.
‘Why did you lie for him, Mum?’ Jamie asked eventually. ‘After everything he did to you.’
‘We’re neither of us kids, Jamie. Anyway, who says I lied?’
‘The judge for one. Come on, the forensic alone was enough to convict him. Plus they had an eye witness. I don’t know why you bothered.’
Jamie had a smear of frothy milk across his upper lip. Sam reached over and wiped it away with her thumb.
‘What are you going to do, Mum?’
‘Been asking myself the very same question.’
∗ ∗ ∗
A cheer went up as Frank Welch walked into the CID office flanked by Detective Inspector Doug Simpson and Detective Sergeant Fred Clarke. Welch raised a hand in acknowledgment. There were two cases of lager on a side table, along with half a dozen bottles of red wine, stacks of paper cups and a few packets of crisps. Clarke headed straight for the lager.
‘Drink, Frank?’ asked Simpson.
‘Get me an orange juice and lemonade, Doug. I’m going to have a word with the governor.’
Welch went down the corridor and was waved through to Superintendent Simon Edwards’ office by his secretary. ‘He’s been waiting for you, Chief Inspector,’ she said.
Edwards was buried in paperwork, but he stood up and shook Welch’s hand as soon as he walked in. ‘Great work, Frank. First class. Pass on my congratulations to the team. I took the liberty of arranging a small libation.’
‘Much appreciated, sir.’
‘Not every day we see a villain like Terry Greene sent down.’
‘No, sir.’
Edwards sat down and picked up his fountain pen. When Welch didn’t move towards the door, Edwards put his pen down again. ‘Something on your mind, Frank?’
‘Greene’s wife. Samantha. She lied through her teeth. The judge gave her a tongue lashing, but I’d like to send the file on to the DPP.’
Edwards winced. ‘I’m not convinced that’s in anyone’s best interests, Frank. You’re not married, are you?’
It was a rhetorical question. Edwards was well aware that Welch had never been married. Welch answered anyway. ‘No, sir.’
‘Wives stand by their husbands. That’s what they do, bless ‘em. For better or worse.’
Welch put his hands on the superintendent’s desk and leaned towards him, but he could see from the look on his boss’s face that he resented the territorial encroachment, so he stood up again and folded his arms. ‘The judge said he thought there was a case of perjury to answer, that’s all I’m saying. She lied in court.’
‘But it didn’t do any good, did it, Frank? Greene still went down. Let sleeping dogs lie. Okay?’
Welch said nothing. He wanted to argue the point, but he had worked with Edwards long enough to know that there was no point. Once the superintendent had made his mind up, it was like a steel trap. Nothing would budge him, and he’d regard even reasoned argument as a challenge to his authority. Welch nodded slowly. ‘Okay, sir.’
‘Good man,’ said Edwards, and returned to his paperwork.
Back in the main CID room, Simpson held out a paper cup to Welch. ‘There you go, boss.’
Welch took it but didn’t drink.
‘What’s up?’ asked Simpson.
‘Difference of opinion with the governor,’ said Welch. ‘He thinks Sam Greene’s a sleeping dog. I think she’s a lying bitch.’
∗ ∗ ∗
Terry Greene took off his jacket and handed it to the bored prison officer. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a hanger,’ he said.
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 t
oo 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.’
The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 2