The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  Sam fumbled in her bag for her keys, opened the front door and went down the hall to the kitchen. She stopped as she saw a teenager standing by the fridge wearing nothing but purple underpants and drinking from a bottle of milk.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she shouted. He spluttered and started to choke, spraying milk across the terracotta tiled floor. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?’

  He bent double and coughed, and more milk peppered the tiles. ‘I’m . . . I’m a . . . It’s . . .’ He couldn’t catch his breath, and every time he tried to speak he started choking again.

  ‘What’s up, Mrs Greene?’ McKinley came hurrying down the hall. ‘Who’s he?’ he asked, as he saw the choking teenager.

  Trisha came down the stairs wearing a T-shirt down to her knees, her blonde hair tousled. ‘He’s with me.’

  ‘What do you mean he’s with you?’ snapped Sam. ‘What’s he doing in my kitchen?’

  ‘I was thirsty,’ gasped the boy.

  McKinley took the half-empty bottle of milk from his hand and slapped him on the back, before he put it back into the fridge.

  Sam glared at her daughter. ‘Trisha, what’s he doing here?’

  ‘We were studying.’

  Sam gestured at the boy’s purple underwear. ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘He couldn’t get a cab.’

  ‘And he’s lost the use of his legs, has he?’

  The boy was regaining his composure. He straightened up and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth down his unruly hair. ‘I’m Ken,’ he said. He held out his hand to Sam, but she ignored the gesture. He offered to shake hands with McKinley, but McKinley just shook his head sadly.

  ‘He lives miles away, Mum.’

  ‘I just can’t trust you, can I?’

  Trisha narrowed her eyes. ‘You were the one who stayed out all night.’ She jerked a thumb at McKinley. ‘With him,’ she spat. She turned and ran out of the kitchen and scurried upstairs.

  Ken smiled awkwardly at Sam and McKinley. ‘I guess there’s no use crying over it,’ he said.

  Sam frowned at him. ‘What?’

  Ken nodded at the milk. ‘Spilled milk. No use crying over it.’

  Sam looked at him in disgust. ‘Get your clothes and get out of my house.’

  Ken stood rooted to the spot like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. It was only when McKinley took a step towards him that he finally moved, edging around Sam and then rushing into the sitting room.

  Sam followed him. The boy’s clothes were on a chair and there was a pillow and a sheet on one of the sofas. ‘You slept here last night?’ she asked him.

  He nodded as he stood on one leg to pull on his jeans. Sam looked around the room. There was a pile of text books on the coffee table.

  McKinley’s mobile phone rang and he went out into the back garden to answer it as Sam went upstairs and knocked on Trisha’s bedroom door.

  ‘Trish?’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Trish, I just want to talk to you.’ Sam pushed open the door.

  Trisha was sitting on her bed, holding a hairbrush. ‘This is supposed to be my room. I’m entitled to have some privacy, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re fifteen years old and I’m your mother.’

  ‘So that means I don’t have any rights, does it?’

  Sam sat down on the bed next to her daughter. ‘Of course you have rights. But I’m allowed to worry about you, aren’t I?’

  ‘You just assume the worst. You assumed that I slept with Ken.’

  ‘What do you expect when I catch him in my kitchen in his Y-fronts?’

  ‘Well we didn’t have sex. He wanted to, but I said no. You should remember that you’re the one who had unlawful sex. Right?’

  ‘For God’s sake, I was seventeen.’

  Trisha nodded quickly. ‘Which back in the dark ages was a year before it was legal. So let’s not go throwing stones in glass houses, okay?’

  ‘Trisha, I was just using that as an example of what not to do with your life. If I could turn back the clock . . .’

  ‘What, you’d still have been a virgin when you’d met Dad? Would that have been better?’

  ‘How did this conversation turn out to be about me? We were talking about you.’

  ‘You accused me of sleeping with Ken. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t exactly whiter than white when you were a teenager.’

  ‘We didn’t have teenagers back then. We were children one day, then suddenly we were adults.’

  ‘And all it took was a couple of Babychams to make the transition . . .’

  Sam sighed in exasperation. ‘I told you that story because I thought it might help you understand the dangers,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you were going to throw it back in my face.’

  ‘But you take my point?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m sorry. I jumped to a conclusion, I should have given you the benefit of the doubt.’

  Trisha smiled. ‘Apology accepted.’ She narrowed her eyes inquisitively. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘It was business.’ Trisha turned away and Sam put a hand on her knee. ‘Really, it was.’

  ‘Mum, what sort of business has to be done in the middle of the night?’

  Sam hesitated. She didn’t want to lie to her daughter, but there was no way that she could tell her what she’d really been doing on the Northumbrian coast all night.

  Trisha took the silence as an admission of guilt. ‘See!’ she said. ‘You spent the night with him, and yet you slag me off because I let Ken sleep on the sofa. You’re so hypocritical!’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘It’s exactly that.’ She stood up and headed for the bathroom. ‘I’ve got to get ready for school.’

  ‘Trisha . . .’

  Trisha slammed the bathroom door, and Sam sat staring at her own reflection in the mirror on her daughter’s dressing table. A number of photographs were stuck around the edge of the mirror: Trisha with Sam, with Laura and with Jamie. There were no pictures of Terry.

  Sam sighed. She went downstairs just as Ken was heading down the hallway buttoning up his shirt. He opened his mouth to speak but Sam shook her head. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. He ran past her and out of the front door, his backpack bouncing on his shoulder.

  McKinley came in through the kitchen door, putting his mobile phone into his coat pocket. ‘We’ve got a problem, Mrs Greene.’

  ‘You can say that again, Andy,’ said Sam, closing the front door.

  ‘No. A real problem.’

  ‘Compared with Customs seizing four tons of my husband’s cannabis, this would rank how?’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  McKinley parked in front of a weathered-brick warehouse not far from Paddington Station. The upper-floor windows had been whitewashed on the inside and those on the ground floor had been boarded up. It looked derelict, but outside stood three fairly new Transit vans and half a dozen cars.

  McKinley got out and held the rear door open for Sam. She lit a cigarette and looked around. ‘Salubrious,’ she said.

  ‘Not the sort of area where people ask a lot of questions, Mrs Greene,’ said McKinley. ‘Watch your step, the flagstones are a bit uneven.’

  Sam followed McKinley to a delivery ramp. Grass and weeds had thrust their way up through the gaps between the concrete flagstones, several of which were broken in places. McKinley strode up the ramp and banged on the metal door at the top of the ramp. After a few seconds a voice from inside shouted, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who the fuck do you think it is?’ McKinley shouted back. ‘Now stop pissing about and open up.’ He smiled apologetically at Sam. ‘Excuse my French, Mrs Greene.’

  The door rattled back and a stocky figure in a donkey jacket peered out.

  ‘It’s a bit late to be wary now, isn’t it?’ said McKinley. He turned to Sam. ‘Mrs Greene, this is Kim Fletcher. He works for Terry.’

  Fletcher grinned and held out his hand. ‘Mrs Greene
. Pleased to meet you.’ Sam shook his hand. Fletcher was in his forties with greying hair and a cheerful smile marred by the fact that two of his front teeth were missing and there was blood on his lips. His left eye was almost closed and his right ear was swollen. ‘Sorry about Terry and that. Should never have gone down for that, never in a month of Sundays.’

  ‘This isn’t a social call, Kim,’ said McKinley. ‘Mrs Greene’s got a lot on at the moment, so let’s get on with it, yeah?’

  Fletcher nodded and ushered them inside, closing the metal door behind them.

  The warehouse was piled high with metal shelving full of cases of alcohol of every description. Spirits, wines, beers, lagers. Sam wandered down an aisle, running her hand along cases of champagne. There was enough to stock a large supermarket. Several supermarkets.

  McKinley came up behind her. ‘This is all Terry’s?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Yeah. He brings it in from the Continent and sells it on to off-licences and clubs. George Kay takes a fair whack of it, too. Terry didn’t mention it?’

  Sam shook her head and ground what was left of her cigarette into the concrete floor. ‘One of a million things my darling husband neglected to mention. How does it work?’

  ‘It’s a regular run, three times a week,’ McKinley explained. ‘Three vans, sometimes more, depending on the manpower. The booze comes over from France, we sell it in and around London. It’s almost legit.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘Well, it’s legit until the moment we sell it on. So long as our guys stick to the story that it’s for personal consumption, there’s nothing Customs can do.’

  Sam smiled at the stacks of cases that almost reached the roof of the warehouse. ‘Personal consumption?’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re seeing it all together. We’ve been stockpiling this for the last few months.’

  ‘You keep saying “we”, Andy.’

  ‘I mean Terry. Terry’s crew. Whoever’s doing the driving says he’s got a wedding or a birthday party or something, and that he’s got a few dozen friends coming around. Customs can’t touch him, he drives the stuff here, Robert’s your father’s brother.’

  Fletcher came up behind them. ‘The boys are in the office,’ he said.

  He led the way, down the aisle towards a plasterboard cubicle at the far end of the warehouse. Inside, three men stood around a fourth, who was sitting on a chair, his head back.

  He was in his late thirties, with a mountain man’s bushy hair, moustache and beard. He winced as one of the others dabbed at his face with a cloth.

  ‘Stop your whinging, Ryser, it’s just a cut,’ said the man with the cloth.

  ‘It fucking hurts,’ said Ryser. His face was bruised, his lips were puffy and bleeding and he had a two-inch cut on his forehead.

  ‘It’s psychological,’ said the man with the cloth.

  ‘It fucking hurts,’ Ryser insisted.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sam asked McKinley. The four men in the office looked around, surprised.

  ‘We were robbed,’ said Fletcher before McKinley could reply. ‘Bloody liberty. Robbed on the open road. Don’t know what this fucking country’s coming to. Gave me and Steve a right seeing to.’

  ‘There was six of them,’ said Ryser. ‘At least six of them. With fucking baseball bats.’

  ‘Lads, would you mind moderating your language in the presence of a lady. This is Terry’s wife.’

  Ryser looked suitably chastened. ‘Sorry, Mrs Greene. ‘S’been a bit stressful, that’s all. Steve Ryser,’ he added by way of an introduction.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Greene,’ said Fletcher. He took out a handkerchief and held it to his mouth.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Mrs Greene,’ said the man with the cloth. He was short and balding with a small scar on his left cheek. He held out his hand, then realised that he was still holding the cloth. He tossed the cloth at Ryser. ‘Roger Pike. Like the fish.’

  Sam shook his hand. The other two men introduced themselves as Pete Ellis and Johnny Russell.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ she asked Ryser when the introductions were over.

  ‘We came off the ferry, same as always, Mrs Greene. We got to the roundabout, then we split up as usual, the three of us taking different ways back here. Security. Terry’s idea.’

  McKinley made a ‘hurry up’ gesture with his hand and Ryser nodded earnestly.

  ‘Okay, so we’re driving along and all’s well with the world, then this van pulls alongside. Blue, it was. Right, Kim?’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘Dark blue.’

  ‘Okay, so there’s a blonde in the passenger seat. Smile like butter wouldn’t melt, right? And she’s holding up a number plate. Our number plate. So I figure it must have fallen off, right? And she and her boyfriend are being good Samaritans, right? So I pull over.’

  McKinley put back his head and closed his eyes, sighing in exasperation.

  ‘Come on, Andy,’ said Fletcher. ‘You’d have done the same thing.’

  McKinley just sighed again.

  ‘Okay, so I stop, right?’ continued Ryser. ‘I get out and go to the back of our van, just to see if there’s any damage. Fuck me but . . .’ He grimaced as McKinley glared at him. ‘Sorry, Mrs Greene. Anyway, you can imagine how surprised I was to see that the number plate is there. Just then the other van screeches to a halt and these guys in ski masks pile out with baseball bats and lay into us. It was a trap.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Sam. She turned to McKinley. ‘What did they take?’

  ‘About ten grand’s worth of booze, and the van.’

  ‘And my wallet,’ said Ryser. ‘They took my wallet.’

  McKinley gave Ryser a cold look, at which he looked away, mumbling and dabbing the cloth on his cut.

  ‘Any idea who did it?’ asked Sam.

  ‘It’s a competitive business, Mrs Greene,’ said McKinley. ‘We have run-ins with various firms from time to time, but this is something else. With Terry banged up, they reckon our doings are up for grabs. This has got be nipped in the bud before it goes any further.’

  ‘Gardening isn’t my thing,’ said Sam. ‘If there’s any bud-nipping to do, my dear darling husband can do it.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Terry was lying on his bed reading a copy of the Bible when Chief Prison Officer Riggs appeared at the cell door, with two prison officers behind him. ‘Not getting all religious, are we, Greene?’ he sneered.

  ‘Just the bits where He tells you to go forth and multiply,’ said Terry, his eyes still on the book. ‘So why don’t you do as God says, Mr Riggs. Go forth and multiply.’

  ‘Very funny, Greene.’ Riggs stepped into the cell and tore the Bible from Terry’s hands. He handed it to one of the officers. ‘Greene’s reading privileges are revoked with immediate effect. For the next month.’

  ‘That’s okay, Mr Riggs. I know how it ends. The meek inherit, right? So you’ll be all right.’

  ‘Get off your bed and down to the interview room, Greene. Someone to see you.’

  Terry sat up and swung his legs off the bed. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’m not your message service, Greene. Get your arse downstairs now.’ Riggs walked away, leaving the two prison officers to escort Terry down to the ground floor and along the corridor to the interview room.

  The officer on Terry’s left was called Dunne, a former paratrooper who seemed to Terry to be a reasonable guy. Unlike Riggs, who took every opportunity to make his life difficult, Dunne was relaxed at his job, firm but courteous with the prisoners, though he had the size and build to react physically if needed.

  ‘Who is it, Mr Dunne?’ asked Terry out of the side of his mouth. ‘Is it my brief?’

  ‘Cops,’ said Dunne.

  ‘Terrific,’ Terry muttered.

  The door to the interview room was open, and two men in dark suits were waiting inside, standing with their backs to the corridor. They turned as they heard the booted footfall of the prison officers, and Terry saw that the s
horter one was Welch, his companion Detective Inspector Simpson.

  Welch grinned cruelly as Terry entered the room, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Terry knew immediately that something had gone wrong with the cannabis deal and he felt a cold chill in his stomach.

  ‘You’re looking well, Terry,’ said Welch. ‘Prison food must be agreeing with you. Sit down.’

  ‘I’d rather stand,’ said Terry.

  Welch’s eyes hardened. ‘Sit the fuck down, Greene.’

  Terry held his stare for several seconds, then slowly pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Welch gestured with his chin at the two prison officers and they left, closing the door behind them. Simpson went to stand with his back to the door. Terry folded his arms and waited for Welch to speak, but the detective just kept smiling, wanting to keep Terry in suspense for as long as possible. Terry yawned, loud and long.

  ‘Reg Salmon sends his regards,’ Welch said eventually.

  Terry forced himself not to react. He kept a relaxed smile on his lips as he stared at a spot just behind Welch’s head.

  ‘Four tons,’ said Welch slowly. ‘That’s got to hurt, Terry. That’s got to really hurt. I tell you, my boss thinks the sun shines out of my arse.’

  ‘Yeah, well, make sure you give whoever tipped you off his thirty pieces of silver.’

  Welch tutted. ‘The going rate’s much more than that these days.’ Welch glanced over at Simpson to check that his colleague was taking notes. ‘So I can take that as an admission of guilt, can I, Greene?’ said Welch.

  ‘Since when have you cared about admissions of guilt, Raquel?’

  Welch nodded thoughtfully. ‘Fair point. It’s always much more satisfying when they plead not guilty. Your face when the judge sent you down. It was a picture.’

  ‘Are we done here?’

  Welch sat down opposite Terry. ‘How much would four tons fetch on the street, Terry? Millions. I mean, you’d have other investors, right? Spreading the risk? But a big chunk of the profits would have been coming your way, wouldn’t it? Bet you were depending on that money, weren’t you? The way I hear it, you’ve got big financial troubles. And no way to sort them out, either. Not while you’re inside.’ He grinned and rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand. ‘Salmon’s going to talk eventually. Then your name’ll be in the frame and it’ll be another ten years on your sentence.’