She stared back at him, trying to see the answer in his eyes. Finally she shook her head, admitting defeat. ‘I used to know when you were lying. You’d come back at all hours and tell me it was business kept you out, and I knew. I knew Terry Greene, knew you’d been out with one of your slappers because I could see it in your eyes. But this. I just don’t know. Why is that, Terry? Have you got better at telling lies, is that it? Better at covering your tracks.’
Terry hunched forward over the table. ‘Find that slag Morrison, love. Find him and get him to tell you the truth.’
‘He told the court, Terry. He told them everything. He said he saw you leaving Snow’s house with a gun.’
‘He was lying, love,’ said Terry earnestly. ‘On my mother’s life.’
‘Why would he lie, Terry?’
‘Raquel must have put him up to it. Paid him. Offered him a deal on something else.’
‘Terry . . .’
‘You know what coppers are like. He was desperate to fit me up. Getting Morrison to roll over on me wouldn’t have been much of a challenge. Now the trial’s over, he might tell you what really happened. He might even know who really killed Snow.’
‘So how do I find Morrison?’ asked Sam.
Terry looked around as if he feared being overheard. Riggs was looking in their direction but he was too far away to eavesdrop. Terry put his hand up over his mouth as he talked. ‘There’s a cop on the payroll. Has been since the year dot. His name’s Mark Blackstock. Detective Superintendent. His mobile’s in the Filofax under Blackie. If he gives you any trouble, there’s some pictures in the safe deposit box that’ll gee him up.’
Sam shook her head in amazement. ‘Bent coppers?’ she said. ‘Now you want me to deal with bent coppers?’ Sam sat back in her chair, stunned. ‘This is going from bad to worse.’
∗ ∗ ∗
Luke Snow was in the back of a dark green Jaguar, sucking up dirt with an industrial Hoover, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and saw a large man in a dark overcoat peering through the open door. ‘Luke Snow?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I do, Luke. Now don’t piss me about. Get out of the car, yeah?’
Luke found it difficult to understand the man’s accent, but he sensed the menace in the man’s voice.
The man stood back as Luke clambered out of the car and switched off the Hoover. ‘What do you want?’ He tried to sound confident, but he could see that the man was a good six inches taller than he was, and looked like he worked out. The man had a hard face, and cold blue eyes that stared unblinkingly at Luke. Luke found it difficult to meet the man’s gaze and he kept looking away.
‘My name’s McKinley,’ said the man. ‘Just so you know who I am. I don’t hide behind anonymous phone calls, Luke. I am who I am, right?’
‘So?’
‘So your brother was a scumbag. He sold drugs to kids. You wouldn’t have caught him in overalls cleaning out the back of a rich man’s car.’
‘He didn’t deserve to die like a dog.’
McKinley nodded. ‘I understand that, Luke. I can see why you’d feel the way you do. But that’s got to be between you and Terry Greene. Between men. Do you get my drift?’
Luke said nothing. McKinley’s eyes continued to bore into him and Luke looked down. ‘She lied, man. She fucking lied.’
‘Everyone lies, Luke.’
‘She lied in court.’
‘So she won’t go to heaven. You married, Luke?’
Luke narrowed his eyes, wondering if the big man was threatening his family. ‘Yeah,’ he said hesitantly.
‘You love her, right? Your missus?’
Luke nodded again.
‘You’d lie for her, right? Of course you would. Wouldn’t matter if it was right or wrong, you do what you have to do to protect the ones you love. Look, your brother’s dead and I can imagine how that must feel, but Terry Greene’s behind bars for it. He’s gonna be seventy before he gets out. You, you’re a young guy, you’ve got a wife to go home to. Someone warm to sleep with at night. Be a man, Luke. If you want to take your grief out on someone, take it out on Terry Greene. Or me. But don’t go frightening women. Okay?’
Luke raised his eyes and met McKinley’s gaze for about the first time since he’d come into the cleaning bay. He stared at him for several seconds. McKinley stared back, totally relaxed, as if he didn’t care one way or the other what Luke said. McKinley’s physical superiority was intimidating, but there was something above and beyond that which made Luke Snow hesitate and think about what he’d said. McKinley was right. It had been wrong to take out his anger on Greene’s wife and he suddenly felt ashamed. ‘Yeah. Okay.’ He nodded. ‘It’s over, yeah.’
McKinley nodded, satisfied. ‘I appreciate that, Luke. I really do.’ He turned to go, then stopped. ‘Answer me one thing, Luke.’
‘What?’
‘That business with the chicken head? What was that, voodoo?’
Luke shook his head, puzzled. ‘Voodoo? Give me a break, man. I’m from Brixton, not Haiti.’
‘So why the chicken head?’
‘Just wanted to gross her out.’
McKinley walked off chuckling, leaving Luke still shaking his head in bewilderment.
∗ ∗ ∗
Sam Greene opened the front door within seconds of McKinley ringing the doorbell. She was dressed in a pale blue suit, the skirt just above the knee, and was carrying a large burgundy briefcase. McKinley reached out a hand for the case but Sam shook her head. ‘I’m a big girl, Andy, I can carry my own case.’
‘Fine by me, Mrs Greene.’
He opened the rear door of the Lexus for her and climbed into the front seat. He could feel her eyes on the back of his head, so he fastened the seatbelt before she had a chance to remind him. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and caught her smiling to herself.
McKinley kept checking in the mirror as he drove to Lapland. Sam was staring out of the window, deep in thought, the briefcase on her knees. It can’t have been easy for her, thought McKinley. Terry Greene had a right cheek expecting his wife to start running things for him while he was inside. It was devotion above and beyond, especially when they’d been separated for more than a year. McKinley didn’t think many wives would have been prepared to do what Sam Greene was doing. And if things went wrong, if Terry’s carefully orchestrated plans fell apart, then there was a good chance that she would end up in prison, too.
She lit a cigarette and wound down the window halfway, the slipstream tugging at her hair. McKinley wanted to reassure her, to tell her that she was doing just fine, but he knew that it wasn’t his place. He was just muscle, a hired hand, and besides, words of encouragement might sound patronising and he didn’t want to run the risk of offending her.
Sam smoked three cigarettes during the drive, and didn’t say a single word. McKinley parked at the back of the club in between a brand new BMW and a red Porsche. In all a dozen luxury cars were lined up behind the club, and at the rear entrance a group of large men in long coats were huddled, several of whom recognised McKinley and acknowledged him with offhand nods. One of them, whom McKinley didn’t recognise, made a comment about Sam’s short skirt. McKinley stopped and gave him a hard stare, but Sam carried on walking as if she hadn’t heard. The man shrugged apologetically and McKinley let it go, but he made a conscious effort to imprint the man’s face on his memory as he walked past him. There’d be another time.
‘Sorry about that, Mrs Greene,’ he said as he caught up with Sam. ‘They’re not usually hired for their table manners.’
‘Andy, at my age I’ll take compliments wherever I get them,’ she said.
‘Och, Mrs Greene . . .’ protested McKinley. He pushed open the door to the club and followed her inside.
There were still three hours to go before the club was due to open, but the twelve men sitting around the bar weren’t there to see girls dancing naked around silver poles. They turned as one to look at Sam as he
r high heels clicked across the dance floor. George Kay was in the middle of the group and he gave Sam a beaming smile.
McKinley watched impassively at the side of the club, his arms folded across his chest.
Sam waited until she had their full attention, then she swung the briefcase up on to the bar. ‘Thank you all for coming, gentlemen. I know you’ve all been a bit disconcerted by Terry’s sudden removal from the scene, but I’m here to reassure you that it’s business as usual.’
There were mutterings from some of the men, but George Kay shushed them. ‘Give the girl a chance,’ he said.
His tone was patronising and Sam hated him for that, but at least the men went quiet and let her speak. ‘Terry’s asked me to take care of the delivery you’re expecting,’ continued Sam. ‘That you’ve paid for.’
There were more mutterings and Sam held up a hand to quieten them.
‘I know you’d rather have Terry in the driving seat, and I’m sure he’d have preferred to be here himself, but what’s done is done. Tomorrow night everything goes ahead exactly as planned. Exactly as Terry planned.’
‘Amateur hour,’ whispered a thickset man with a mane of greying hair. He had his thumbs stuck into the waistband of his trousers and his belly thrust out in front of him. His name was Micky Fox and Sam had met him a few years earlier at a boxing match that Terry had been promoting.
‘Well, Micky, I’ll be sure to pass on your reservations to Terry.’
‘Nothing personal, love, but I’ve a lot of money tied up in this.’
There were more mutterings from the group and a chorus of ‘Yeah, me too.’
Sam nodded and held up her hands to calm then. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, and gradually they fell silent again. ‘Look, lads, no one here’s got more at stake than me. Most of your cash is due on delivery, right? You’ve put a percentage on deposit, but the lion’s share is still to come?’
Micky Fox nodded. So did the men around him.
Sam put her hand on the briefcase and tapped it with her blood-red nails. ‘Anyone who wants out can say so now. I’ll give you your deposit back and you can be on your way. I’ve got buyers lining up for the stuff.’
Micky Fox frowned. He looked across at George Kay and Kay shrugged. The other men looked equally confused.
‘Well, Micky?’
‘No need to be hasty, Sam. The stuffs on its way?’
‘It just needs collecting. Reg Salmon’s doing the business, but if you want to supply some of the manpower, you’re more than welcome. You all are.’
Fox looked at the men around him. Several were nodding. Fox looked at Sam and grinned. ‘What the hell, go for it, Sam!’ he said. The men cheered and pumped their fists in the air.
Sam grinned over at McKinley and he smiled at her.
McKinley escorted Sam back to the Lexus. On the way she handed him the briefcase. ‘You’d better take care of this from now on, Andy,’ she said.
It was heavy. ‘How much have you got in here, Mrs Greene?’ asked McKinley as he dropped the briefcase in the boot.
‘Two Yellow Pages and a stack of last year’s Vogue,’ said Sam, climbing into the back of the car.
McKinley grinned at her. ‘Mrs Greene, you are a class act,’ he said. He got into the front seat. ‘Where to?’
‘Trafalgar Square. I’m meeting that cop of Terry’s.’
McKinley drove out of the car park and on to the main road and accelerated. ‘Which one?’
‘How many are there?’ asked Sam.
‘That’s a good question.’
‘And that’s not much of an answer, Andy. Seatbelt.’
McKinley groaned and put on his seatbelt, annoyed at himself for being caught out again.
‘Blackstock, his name is. Mark Blackstock.’
‘Ah, Blackie. He’s a chief super. One of the old school. Tough, no nonsense, and as bent as a nine-bob note.’
∗ ∗ ∗
Sam sat at the front of the top deck of the tour bus. Behind her were half a dozen Japanese tourists, a German couple and a French family. They all wore headphones and looked around as the recorded commentary in their own language described the sights of Trafalgar Square. The bus had been Blackie’s idea for a meeting place and Sam could see the sense of it. Hardly anyone on board the open-topped bus spoke English, there’d be no one who’d recognise either of them, and they’d be too busy listening to the recorded commentaries to overhear what was being said.
Blackie climbed on to the bus just before it crossed the Thames close to the Houses of Parliament. He was a big man, bigger even than Andy McKinley, and Sam had to squeeze herself to the side to give him enough room to sit down. He had close-cropped hair and a square face with thin lips that looked as if they rarely formed a smile. There were deep frown lines across his forehead and his fingernails were bitten to the quick.
‘Thought you’d be sick of sightseeing by now,’ said Sam. ‘Eighteen years on the Met.’
Blackie scowled at her. ‘Terry had no right to give you my name. No bloody right. And you can tell him that from me.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that,’ said Sam, smiling sweetly. ‘You remember the grass that gave evidence against him? Morrison? Ricky Morrison?’
‘So?’
‘So Terry would be ever so grateful if you’d find out where he is.’ She paused for effect with a hand lightly touching her forehead as if trying to dredge up a long-forgotten memory. ‘Actually, no, that’s not how he put it. His exact words were “tell that wanker Blackstock to pull his finger out and get on the case.” Something like that.’
All the tourists on the bus peered to the right as they drove by Lambeth Palace. Blackie shook his head and grimaced. ‘Have you any idea how dangerous that’s going to be?’
Sam patted him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Compared to, say, fifteen years of taking bribes and kickbacks from my dear husband?’
Blackie looked like he was close to exploding. His face was red and eyes were wide and his breath came in short wheezy gasps.
Sam smiled. ‘Come on, Blackie, let’s not get off on the wrong foot here, hey? Terry just needs a bit of help, that’s all. He’s not asking you to do anything you haven’t done a hundred times before.’
Blackie relaxed a little and settled back in his seat. Behind him there was a flurry of camera clicks but Sam and Blackie stared straight ahead as the bus drove alongside the Thames.
‘What does he want?’ asked Blackie eventually.
‘He wants me to speak to Morrison. To get the truth from him.’
‘The murder guys did that. He told them everything and repeated it in court. It’s not like they had to strap electrodes to his balls. The way I hear it, they couldn’t shut him up.’
‘I just want to talk to him. That’s all.’
‘There’s not just the witness, though. There’s the forensic, too. The blood on Terry’s shoes. The footprint on the dead man’s carpet.’
‘Terry says that Raquel stitched him up. First we discredit Morrison, then we’ll see if we can show that he faked the forensic’
Blackie shook his head in disbelief. ‘For fuck’s sake, Sam, this isn’t an episode of Murder She Wrote. There were two dozen cops on that investigation, thousands of man hours. You’re not going to overturn his conviction by a bit of do-it-yourself snooping.’
‘It’s no skin off your nose, though, is it, Blackie? All I need is an address for Ricky Morrison. Then you’re free and clear.’
Blackie stood up and leaned over her. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Okay?’
‘Can’t say fairer than that,’ said Sam.
Blackie went downstairs and got off at the next stop, close to Waterloo Station, and Sam settled back for the return trip to Trafalgar Square where McKinley was waiting for her. She needed time to think.
∗ ∗ ∗
Sam sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette. She looked across at the bottle of White Horse whisky on the sideboard. She really wanted a stiff drink, but in view of what lay ah
ead, she figured she’d need a clear head. Her hand trembled slightly as she tapped the cigarette on the edge of an ashtray. The Filofax lay on the coffee table and she reached out for it, then pulled back her hand. There was nothing within its covers that she hadn’t read a dozen times already. Terry had thought of everything, covered every eventuality. All she had to do was to follow his instructions and all their financial problems would be over.
She lay back on the sofa and blew smoke up at the ceiling. There’d be enough money to pay off the mortgage, Jamie’s university fees and Grace’s nursing home bills, and Patterson would have the funds to start the investigation into Terry’s conviction. All she had to do was to bring four tons of cannabis ashore.
‘Easy peasy,’ she muttered to herself. She sat up as she heard a car pull up outside and was already halfway down the hall when Andy McKinley rang the doorbell. Sam heard Trisha moving around on the landing upstairs.
She opened the door. McKinley was wearing a thigh-length dark grey woollen coat and black leather gloves. ‘It’s a cold night, Mrs Greene, I’d wrap up warm if I were you.’
‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Andy. Thanks.’
Sam closed the door and went upstairs. Trisha’s bedroom door was shut. Sam knocked on it. There was no answer.
‘Trish?’
‘What?’
Sam pushed open the door. Trisha was lying across her bed face down, reading a book that she’d placed on the floor.
‘That’ll ruin your eyes,’ said Sam.
‘You came all the way upstairs to tell me that?’
Sam sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Trisha’s long blonde hair. ‘You’ve got beautiful hair,’ she said.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Trisha, her voice loaded with resentment.
‘Out.’
‘Where?’
Sam smiled and played with Trisha’s hair. ‘Last time I looked in the mirror I was the mother.’
‘Are you going out with him.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who. Him with the Lexus.’
‘Actually, it’s your dad’s Lexus.’
‘Actually, I don’t give a shit.’ Trisha rolled off the bed and went to sit in front of her dressing table.
The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 9