The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  She turned the envelope over and shook it. A bloody chicken’s head dropped out and slapped on to the draining board. Sam put a hand over her mouth and stared at it in horror.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  There were two dozen men lining up for breakfast, holding plastic trays and chatting as they waited for their turn. Terry grabbed a tray and walked to the head of the queue where a prison cook was slapping greasy bacon and blackened sausages on to a plate.

  A short man with pockmarked skin reached out for the plate, but Terry leaned across him and took it. The man protested, but fell silent when he saw that it was Terry. He nodded and Terry gave him a tight smile.

  ‘How about another sausage, yeah?’ Terry asked the cook.

  The cook nodded and used plastic tongs to hand Terry a sausage, then spooned a dollop of baked beans on to Terry’s plate.

  ‘Oi, there’s a fucking queue here!’ shouted a prisoner halfway down the line.

  Terry turned to look at him. He was a black guy in his twenties and he was looking around for support from the prisoners next to him. Most avoided meeting his gaze. One of the men leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. The man’s body language changed immediately: he seemed to sag at the waist and he swallowed nervously. He gave Terry a half wave, then looked at the floor. Terry continued to stare at the man for several seconds before turning away.

  He reached over and picked up three slices of toast. The rule was one slice of toast per prisoner, but none of the cooks said anything. Terry picked up a mug of tea and headed back to his cell. Several of the prisoners in the queue nodded and wished him a good morning. The two prison officers who were standing on the landing looking down had watched Terry push into the queue but it was clear they weren’t going to intervene.

  Terry wasn’t particularly hungry, and he certainly hadn’t wanted the extra burnt sausage. It was all about establishing his place in the pecking order, demonstrating to the prison population that Terry Greene wasn’t to be messed with.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  There were three bouncers at the entrance to the club, big men in dark coats with their hands clasped in front of their groins like bit players in a low-budget gangster movie. Behind them a thick purple rope ran between brass poles, the barrier through which customers had to pass to get inside Lapland.

  Sam walked to the head of the line. It had been more than two years since she’d last visited the club, and that had been with Terry. It wasn’t her favourite place, but George Kay had said that he was too busy to get away and that if she wanted to see him it would have to be there.

  One of the bouncers moved to bar Sam’s way, but another put a hand on his shoulder and nodded. He removed the rope and waved for Sam to go through. ‘Mrs Greene,’ he said, in a throaty Glaswegian accent. ‘Long time no see.’

  Sam frowned at the man. He was well over six feet tall, in his early thirties and with close-cropped receding hair and a strong jaw.

  ‘Andy McKinley, Mrs Greene, I used to drive your husband.’

  ‘Andy. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Greene. You were only in the Lexus one time and you probably only saw the back of my head.’

  ‘It’s not that, Andy, it’s just that I didn’t expect to see you on the door.’

  ‘Needs as needs must, Mrs Greene. I’ll show you through.’

  Sam followed McKinley down a dimly lit corridor and into the club. Three busty girls, two blondes and a brunette, were dancing around silver poles on a stage while dozens of other equally well-endowed girls moved among the predominantly male clientele, accepting drinks and performing one-on-one lapdances. There were lots of bottles of champagne in ice buckets and men in suits shoving ten-pound notes in the garters of the dancing girls. It was, thought Sam, a hell of a way to earn a living.

  ‘Busy night, Andy,’ she said, as McKinley led her through the tables to George Kay’s office.

  ‘It always is, Mrs Greene,’ said McKinley. He knocked on a door and opened it. ‘Mr Kay. Mrs Greene to see you.’

  McKinley stepped to the side to let Sam go in, then gently closed the door behind her.

  George Kay was sprawled in a leather executive chair, his feet up on a cluttered desk reading a copy of Exchange and Mart. ‘Sam, darling, lovely surprise.’ He swung his feet off the desk and waddled over to greet her, planting a wet kiss on each cheek.

  ‘I did say I was coming, George.’

  ‘Of course you did, darling, of course you did.’

  He waved her over to an overstuffed sofa opposite a large window through which they could see what was going on in the club. McKinley had moved away a rowdy group of men in shirtsleeves who were giving one of the dancers a hard time. McKinley quietened them with a few words and they dropped back into their seats as meek as mice.

  Sam sat down and George went back behind his desk. He gestured at a chipped mug by a computer terminal. ‘Coffee, Sam?’ Sam shook her head. ‘Something stronger, then? Shall I get a bottle of bubbly sent in?’

  ‘No, thanks, George. I’m driving and I’ve already had to piss in a bottle once this week.’

  Kay’s brow furrowed. He ran a hand through his greying goatee beard. He was at least ten stone overweight and was sweating despite a large air-conditioning unit on the wall behind his desk.

  ‘How long’s McKinley been working for you?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Since they arrested Terry, pretty much.’ Kay looked uncomfortable, as if he might have said the wrong thing. ‘Least I could do, you know? Help the lad out.’

  Sam nodded and took a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag. ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you, George?’

  Kay looked even more uncomfortable. He picked up an inhaler and showed it to her. ‘Rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind. Asthma. Since I was a kid. Smoke shuts my bronchioles down.’

  ‘Can’t have that, can we?’ said Sam, putting the cigarettes away. She tapped her fingernails on her handbag. ‘The thing is, George – Terry has asked me to run things for him while he’s away.’

  Kay stiffened. He pointed a finger at her. ‘Now just a fucking minute . . .’

  ‘It’s all right,’ interrupted Sam. ‘I’m not doing it. Don’t worry. But I’ve got money problems. Cashflow.’

  He shrugged. ‘You and me both.’

  Sam gestured at the window. ‘Place is packed.’

  ‘Overheads, Sam.’

  Kay opened one of his desk drawers and took out a cheque book. ‘If it’s a loan you want, I’m more than happy to help out.’

  ‘It’s serious money, George.’

  Kay dropped the cheque book back into the drawer. ‘Terry’s never been short of a bob or two.’

  ‘Yeah, well, times have changed. Look, Terry owns half the clubs, right? This place, the one in Clerkenwell, the one south of the river. Can’t you buy him out?’

  ‘It’s not a good time, Sam. I can barely keep the wolf from the door myself.’

  ‘Come on, George, you’re not pleading poverty, are you?’

  Kay took his inhaler and sucked on it, then patted his barrel-like chest. ‘It’s not a question of poverty, Sam, but I’m over-extended with the banks. And it’d need a big chunk of change to buy Terry out.’

  ‘What about getting someone else to buy his stake?’

  Kay pulled a face. ‘That’s possible, but I wouldn’t want to get into bed with just anyone.’ He smiled at the double entendre. ‘If you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want the wrong sort of people in here. There’s the licence to think of.’

  Sam stood up. ‘That’s it, then. I guess there isn’t anything else to be said, is there?’

  ‘Come on, Sam, there’s no need to rush. Let’s have a drink. Catch up on old times.’

  ‘We don’t have any old times, George,’ said Sam.

  Sam lit a cigarette as she walked towards the exit. She was sure George Kay was deliberately being unhelpful. If the clubs were making money, he’d have no problem getting a loan from the banks, no matt
er how extended he was. He probably assumed that with Terry behind bars, he’d be able to keep the lion’s share of the profits. Sam trusted Kay about as far as she could throw him.

  Andy McKinley undipped the rope to let her out and slipped a business card into her hand. ‘You need anything, Mrs Greene, anything at all, you call, hear?’

  ‘Thanks, Andy,’ said Sam, gratefully. McKinley was the first friendly face she’d seen in a while.

  She got into her Saab and drove home, checking her rear-view mirror regularly, convinced that the police would pull her in again. The fact that she was driving away from a nightclub would give them all the excuse they needed to breathalyse her again.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The curtains at Trisha’s window were moving as Sam got out of the Saab and let herself into the house but the light in her room was off. Sam went upstairs and knocked on her door. ‘Trish? You awake?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Good night, love. Sleep well.’

  Sam went downstairs and opened a bottle of chilled Chardonnay. She poured herself a glass and lit the flame-effect gas fire in the sitting room. She sat on the floor, her back against the sofa, and stared at the flames as if hoping to find the answer to her problems there. The phone rang, startling her, and she spilled wine down the front of her dress. She picked up the receiver as she dabbed a tissue against the wet patch. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are fucking dead meat. You hear me? Dead fucking meat. I know where you live and I’m gonna fucking cut you. I’m gonna fucking take a knife to you, do you—’

  Sam banged the receiver down. She didn’t recognise the voice but guessed that it was one of Preston Snow’s relatives, probably the brother, the one that had thrown the bottle at Jamie’s car. Under normal circumstances she’d go to the police, but she doubted that they’d bother to do anything, and there was no way that she was prepared to give Raquel the satisfaction of asking for his help.

  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.’