The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Yeah. Warwick Locke. I’m seeing him this afternoon, after I’ve visited Terry, but he didn’t sound too hopeful on the phone.’

  Jacko stopped and put his shovel-like hands on her shoulders. He looked at her sympathetically. ‘I’ll ask around, Samantha, see if I can find someone to take the stake off your hands. But don’t hold your breath, girl.’ He cuffed her gently under the chin. ‘You’ll be okay. Terry and you, you’re fighters.’

  Sam forced a smile and wished that she felt half as confident as Jacko sounded.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam’s high heels clicked purposefully on the tiled floor as she walked across the visiting room. Terry was sitting at a corner table, a red vest over his prison-issue denims, his hands clasped in front of him on the Formica table.

  Sam didn’t give him a chance to get to his feet. ‘You selfish, self-centred, arrogant bastard. You screwed up your own life, what the fuck makes you think you’ve got the right to screw up mine?’

  Terry smiled up at her. ‘Fine, thanks. The food’s a bit ropey, but what can you do?’

  Sam shook her head. ‘This isn’t funny, Terry. You fucked me over big time. Do you want me inside with you, is that it?’

  Terry couldn’t help chuckling at the thought of sharing a cell with his wife, but he stopped when he saw how upset she was. He stood up and put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, love. Honest.’

  A burly prison officer walked by. ‘Sit down, Greene,’ he barked. Terry did as he was told, and Sam sat down opposite him.

  ‘You walked out of my life, Terry,’ she said, keeping her voice low. The tables in the visiting room were so close to each other that it was hard not to hear neighbouring conversations. A young woman with a toddler was crying and her husband was trying to console her; another prisoner was accusing his wife of always being out of the house when he phoned; an elderly prisoner was asking about his racing pigeons. ‘You’ve no right to do this to me. You should have told me first. Talked to me.’

  Terry sat back in his orange plastic chair and fixed her with his pale blue eyes. He started counting on his fingers. ‘First of all, I didn’t walk out. You threw me out. Second of all, I didn’t think it’d go this far. Jury should never have convicted me. No motive, no weapon, and a slag for a witness. Case shouldn’t have even gone to court. Wouldn’t have either if it hadn’t been for Raquel. That bastard Welch has had it in for me for years.’ Terry put his hands back on the table and leaned forward. ‘Sam, love, if I’d thought for one minute that I was going to go down, I’d have got this better sorted.’

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fallback position, is that what I am? Fuck you, Terry Greene. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.’

  Terry smiled and raised his eyebrows archly. ‘Do you kiss our kids with that mouth?’

  Sam stood up quickly and heads jerked in her direction but she was too angry to care. ‘You can’t joke your way out of this one,’ she shouted, pointing an accusing finger at his face. ‘I’m not doing it. I’m not doing any of it. You can rot in here for all I care.’

  Sam gave him one final glare, then turned her back on him and walked out.

  Terry watched her go, nodding slowly to himself. He heard a soft chuckling sound to his right and he turned to see Chief Prison Officer Riggs revelling in his discomfort.

  ‘Bit of marital discord, Greene?’ said Riggs. ‘Never mind, you’ll be able to sort it out when you get home – in thirty years or so.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  ‘How’s the fish, Sam?’ Warwick Locke looked across the table and smiled like a BMW salesman.

  ‘It’s fine, Warwick. I guess I’m just not hungry.’ She sipped her white wine. The restaurant had been Locke’s idea, an expensive seafood restaurant in Kensington, not far away from his office. It was full of television executives and wannabe celebrities and the waiting staff all had Australian or South African accents and introduced themselves by name before reeling off the specials. Sam had sole and it was overcooked. The vegetables were almost raw and the wine wasn’t as well chilled as it should have been.

  Locke ordered oysters followed by lobster, and he ate everything with his fingers, occasionally licking them with relish. His big red napkin was tucked into his shirt, his jacket on the back of his chair. He kept turning to look at a blonde waitress with large breasts every time she came close to their table.

  ‘So what do you think, Warwick?’ asked Sam, lighting a cigarette.

  Locke raised a greasy lobster claw. ‘Delicious. Want some?’

  Sam narrowed her eyes. She was sure Locke knew what she meant, and if he was trying to be funny he was failing miserably. ‘About Terry’s stake in the business?’

  ‘His fifty per cent is worth about five grand. Top whack.’ He sucked noisily at the broken end of the claw.

  ‘Five grand?’ said Sam incredulously. ‘How many girls have you got on the books?

  Locke waved the lobster claw in the air like a conductor warming up an orchestra. ‘Just because they’re on the books doesn’t mean that they’re working, Samantha. And fifteen per cent of a catalogue shoot doesn’t amount to much.’

  The big-breasted blonde waitress came over to their table and leaned towards Sam. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but this is a no-smoking restaurant.’

  Sam smiled thinly, took a last drag on the cigarette, and then stubbed it out on her barely touched fish. The waitress leaned over to take the plate away, giving Locke an opportunity to look down the front of her chest. She caught him looking and he grinned at her, unabashed, wiping grease off his chin with the back of his hand.

  Sam looked at Locke with contempt. ‘You know, Warwick, I’d hate to think that the agency’s only function was to provide a supply of nineteen-year-old blondes for you and Terry.’

  Locke’s eyes hardened. ‘That’s unkind, Sam. Unkind and uncalled for.’

  Sam didn’t say anything. She drained her glass of wine and stood up. ‘Thanks for dinner, Warwick. If five grand’s the best you can do, I’ll have to take it. Send me a cheque, yeah?’

  Locke pretended to look hurt, but he was a bad actor. ‘Sam, come on. Have a dessert. A coffee. Something.’ He waved his claw over the table.

  ‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ she said, and lit another cigarette as she walked towards the exit.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam drove to a filling station, still fuming at Locke’s patronising attitude. It was only the second time that she’d met the man, and she realised that Terry had probably wanted to keep him away from her. She regretted telling him to send her the cheque for the five grand – it would have made more sense to have Richard Asher go over the books first.

  She filled the Saab with four star then gave the Indian cashier her Visa card. He ran it through the card reader, then frowned. He tried again, then handed it back to her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s not accepting it.’

  Sam groaned as she remembered that one of the bills she’d opened that morning had been from Visa, pointing out that she had already exceeded her credit limit on the card. She handed him her gold American Express card and said a silent prayer as he ran it through the reader. It spewed out a receipt and Sam signed it. The Amex card was paid for by direct debit from one of Terry’s accounts, but she had no way of knowing how long that state of affairs would last. Most of the accounts she’d seen in Asher’s office had been in the red or heading that way.

  She was half a mile from home when she heard the blip of a siren behind her. She looked in the mirror and saw blue flashing lights.

  There were two policemen in the patrol car and neither of them was much older than Jamie. One of them said that she seemed to be driving erratically, and the other held out a breathalyser. Sam shook her head and told them that she hadn’t been drinking.

  ‘I can smell alcohol on your breath,’ said the one with the breathalyser.

  ‘I had two glasses of wine. Two glasses.’

  ‘So you have been drinking,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not blo
wing into that. I had two glasses of wine. And I wasn’t driving erratically. You know that I wasn’t.’

  The policeman put the breathalyser away. ‘In view of your refusal, you’ll have to come to the station with us, I’m afraid, Mrs Greene.’

  Sam sneered at him. ‘You know who I am, then?’

  The officer’s face hardened and she knew that she was right.

  ‘So it wasn’t a random stop, was it?’ She held out her hand. ‘All right, I’ll blow into your little machine if it makes you happy.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’ve already refused,’ he said. He nodded at the car. ‘In the back, please, my colleague will secure your vehicle.’

  ‘I know policemen are looking younger, I didn’t think they were stupider as well.’

  ‘If you want to be handcuffed, that can be arranged.’

  They drove Sam to the police station in silence and showed her to an interview room. There was a table and four chairs, and a tape deck with two slots for cassettes on a shelf under a window made of glass blocks. Sam sat down and lit a cigarette. It had burned halfway down before the door opened again. It was Frank Welch.

  ‘I might have known,’ said Sam.

  ‘The doctor’s on his way,’ said Welch, closing the door and standing with his back to it.

  ‘I don’t have to piss in a bottle to know that I’ve not been drinking,’ said Sam, scornfully.

  ‘Two glasses of wine, you told the woodentops.’

  ‘What do you want, Raquel?’

  ‘The last person to call me Raquel was your nearest and dearest, and look what happened to him.’

  ‘Everyone calls you Raquel, it’s just that most people do it behind your back.’

  Welch’s cheeks flared red and he opened his mouth to reply, but then he made a conscious attempt to calm himself down. He smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Let’s not get off on the wrong foot, Sam. Let’s at least try to be civil to each other.’

  Welch pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, carefully adjusting the creases of his dark grey suit. Sam watched his face, waiting to see what it was that he wanted. Welch had a bloodhound’s face, jowls that hung around his chin and sad, almost watery eyes. His hair was receding but he was growing it long at the back as if to compensate for the shortcomings up front. He licked his lower lip with the tip of his tongue and fiddled with his tie as he looked Sam up and down.

  ‘You were always too good for Terry, Sam,’ he said, his voice a soft whisper. ‘You’ve got class. Lots of class. You know how to dress, how to behave. Terry didn’t even know which knife and fork to use before he met you.’

  Sam looked around for an ashtray. There wasn’t one so she flicked ash on to the floor.

  Welch’s voice hardened. ‘I want to know who’s running things while Terry’s away. I know he was setting something up.’

  ‘Grow up, will you?’ said Sam savagely. ‘Terry and I separated more than a year ago. And even when we were together, he never told me what he was up to.’

  Welch licked his lower lip again. ‘I always know when you’re lying, Sam. I knew you were lying in court and I know you’re lying now.’

  Sam didn’t say anything. She blew smoke in two tight plumes through her nostrils and tapped more ash on to the floor.

  ‘You don’t owe Terry anything, Sam. He’s a criminal. A murderer. He didn’t give you and his kids a second thought when he pulled that trigger.’

  Sam crossed her legs and saw Welch stiffen at the sound of her stockings rasping against each other. ‘This isn’t about Terry, is it? Not really. It’s about you and me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Frank. I turned you down four years ago when you first tried to stitch Terry up, and ever since you’ve had a hard-on like a baseball bat every time you get near me.’

  Welch’s draw dropped. ‘What? I never . . . that wasn’t what . . . you can’t . . .’ Welch spluttered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

  Sam smiled with satisfaction, knowing that she’d hit a nerve. She dropped her cigarette on to the floor and ground it out with her heel. She walked around and sat on the edge of the table, her breasts just about level with Welch’s oyster-like eyes.

  ‘You think life’ll mean life?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I reckon,’ he said smugly. He licked his lip again and spittle glistened under the overhead fluorescent lights.

  ‘Long time, life.’

  There was a silence lasting several seconds in which Welch tried hard not to look at Sam’s breasts. She leaned forward a little to give him the merest glimpse of cleavage.

  ‘You got a girlfriend, Frank? Anyone steady?’

  Welch cleared his throat. ‘I get by.’

  Sam leaned forward a bit more. She could see small beads of sweat on his upper lip.

  ‘Couldn’t really say yes, could I, what with Terry being in the picture and all. Even when we’d split up, he was still a jealous sod. Would’ve broken your legs. Mine too.’

  ‘I’m not scared of Terry.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘No need. Not now.’

  ‘Iron bars do not a prison make?’ She smiled. ‘Maybe.’ She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. ‘Do we have to do this here, Frank?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Couldn’t we do it at my place? Tomorrow night. Maybe open a bottle of wine or something.’

  ‘I don’t drink.’ He almost choked on the last word and he had to clear his throat.

  Sam smiled and put her head on one side. ‘You’re missing the point.’

  Welch swallowed and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What time?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘About nine. Might even cook something. You like pasta, yeah?’

  Welch nodded eagerly.

  Sam’s smile vanished and her upper lip curled back into a snarl. ‘You sad fuck! You can always tell when I’m lying, can you? There’s about as much chance of you ever getting inside my pants as there is of you getting rid of your halitosis.’

  Welch rocked back in his chair, stunned by her outburst. Sam shook her head contemptuously.

  Before Welch could say anything, the door opened. It was the police doctor, holding two specimen bottles. Welch stood up and hurried out of the room. ‘Make sure she fills both of them,’ he snarled as he brushed past the doctor.

  Sam smiled sweetly at the doctor and held out her hand for the bottles. ‘Shall I do it here or can someone escort me to the ladies?’ she said. ‘I’ve taken the piss out of Raquel, least I can do is make a donation myself.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Trisha came tottering downstairs on high heels and grabbed her backpack from under the telephone table in the hall. She’d tied her long blonde hair back in a ponytail and her school tie was loose around her neck.

  Sam came out of the kitchen holding a plate of toast. ‘Hey, breakfast.’

  ‘Not hungry, Mum. I’ll get something at school.’

  Sam held out the plate and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Mother, I’m not going to clog up my arteries with cholesterol.’

  ‘It’s Flora. High in polyunsaturates. Whatever they are.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘On your mother’s life.’

  Trisha took a slice and sniffed it suspiciously. ‘Smells like butter,’ she muttered.

  ‘A miracle of modern science. Are you going to school like that?’

  Trisha frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You look like you’ve just fallen out of bed. And you’re wearing too much make-up.’

  ‘Mum, everyone wears make-up these days. Even some of the boys.’

  Sam couldn’t help smiling. Trisha had her mother’s high cheekbones and fiery eyes and looked older than her fifteen years. Sam had been the same at Trisha’s age. Even in her mid-teens she’d been able to pass herself off as a twenty-something and had never had a problem getting into nightclubs and pubs. However, even Sam would never have thought of wearing pink glossy lipst
ick and eyeliner to school.

  ‘And the earrings are okay?’

  ‘So long as they don’t dangle. That’s the rule.’ Trisha could see from the look on her mother’s face that she didn’t believe her. ‘It’s true, Mum,’ she protested.

  ‘How is it, school?’ asked Sam, brushing a stray lock of Trisha’s hair over her ear.

  ‘School’s school.’

  ‘Did they give you any grief over Dad?’

  Trisha scowled. ‘No more than usual.’ She looked at her chunky fluorescent-green wristwatch. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What time are you getting home tonight?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve got to go out.’

  ‘Again? You didn’t get back until almost eleven last night.’

  ‘Business. I’m trying to tidy up your father’s affairs.’

  ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’

  ‘His financial affairs.’

  ‘Speaking of which . . .’ Trisha held out a hand. ‘Can I have a tenner?’

  ‘I gave you twenty last week,’ said Sam.

  ‘Exactly. Last week.’

  ‘What do you need it for?’

  Trisha sighed theatrically. ‘Tampons . . . actually.’

  ‘That’s what you said last week.’

  Trisha groaned. ‘Fine. Okay. Whatever.’

  Sam picked up her purse off the hall table and gave Trisha a twenty-pound note.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Trisha and kissed Sam on the cheek. ‘Any chance of a lift?’

  ‘Do you see a chauffeur’s cap on my head?’

  ‘Kidnappers and child molesters use the bus. You might never see me again.’

  Sam opened the front door. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’

  Trisha stuck her tongue out playfully, then tottered out of the door.

  ‘And those heels are too high,’ Sam called after her. Trisha waved without looking back.

  Sam closed the door and picked up the mail. There were several brown envelopes that were obviously bills. A letter from the Inland Revenue addressed to Terry. A letter from American Express that Sam hoped was junk mail and not a demand for payment. A padded envelope with her name on it, written in capital letters. Sam carried them through to the kitchen. She used a breadknife to slit open the padded envelope and put her hand inside. She screamed as she touched something cold and damp and she jerked her hand out.