The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Your boss being . . . ?’ said Sam.

  ‘The guy who wants a word with you,’ he said.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I think you know what it’s about, Mrs Greene,’ he said.

  Sam nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ she said.

  ‘My car’s over there,’ he said, nodding at an old Ford Escort.

  ‘I’d rather follow you in mine, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve already been towed away once this month.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Mrs Greene,’ said the man. He went over to the Escort and Sam got into the Saab. He drove out of the supermarket car park and Sam followed. He kept below the speed limit and indicated well in advance of every turn so that Sam could stay close to him. They drove through West London, then headed north.

  The Ford Escort slowed and drove into a breaker’s yard, piled high with rusting cars, most of them with no tyres or windscreens. The carcass of an old Jaguar was being loaded into a crushing machine by a bored-looking man sitting at the controls of a crane.

  The Escort pulled up in front of a battered Portakabin with cracked windows. A man in his fifties wearing a donkey jacket and a yellow hard hat came out of the Portakabin. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Mrs Greene,’ said the man as Sam got out of her car. He had a kindly, weatherbeaten face and his eyes crinkled as he smiled. He waved at the driver of the Escort, who reversed his vehicle, turned, and drove away.

  Behind her, the crushing machine began to devour the Jaguar in a squeal of tortured metal. ‘I wasn’t sure if I had a choice,’ said Sam, extending her hand.

  The man shook it. He had a strong grip and Sam could feel the callouses on his palms and fingers. It was the hand of a man who was used to hard manual labour. ‘Of course you had a choice, Mrs Greene.’ His accent was also Irish, but it was harder and more guttural than that of the man who’d led Sam to the breaker’s yard. ‘The name’s McEvoy. Martin McEvoy. I’d try to be a bit more devious about it, but as it’s written in foot-high letters over the entrance to this place, I don’t see that there’s much point. Having said that, I think it would be best if you forgot my name immediately you leave the premises, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sam.

  They walked together through the yard, between stacks of stripped cars. ‘Now then, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what you told Brian Murphy.’

  Sam had almost forgotten about going to see Brian Murphy, and her request for confirmation of Terry’s whereabouts on the night that Preston Snow was killed.

  ‘It’s not important any more,’ said Sam. ‘My husband’s been released.’

  ‘Oh, it’s important, Mrs Greene,’ said McEvoy.

  Sam looked at him sideways. The man had a pleasant-enough manner, but there was a hard edge to his voice. Sam realised that she and McEvoy were alone, that no one would be able to hear her over the sound of the car-crushing machine, and that a breaker’s yard would be the perfect place to dispose of her Saab. And her body. She shivered. If McEvoy noticed her discomfort, he showed no sign of it. Sam took a deep breath. ‘My husband was accused of killing a drug dealer. A man called Preston Snow. He told me that on the night that Snow was killed, he was with some of your people, arranging to launder money for them.’

  ‘I don’t suppose your husband gave you any names?’

  Sam shook her head.

  McEvoy stopped and turned to look at her. ‘He wasn’t laundering anything for us, Mrs Greene. We don’t do business with people we don’t know. And we don’t know your husband.’

  Sam felt as if a cold hand had gripped her heart. She could barely breathe and her head swam with the realisation of what she’d just been told. Terry had lied to her about where he was when Snow was killed. And there was only one reason for him to have lied.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Greene,’ said McEvoy. He reached out and gave her arm a small squeeze. She could see in his eyes that he knew the significance of his revelation, and that made it all the harder for Sam to bear. She felt tears sting her eyes and she turned and walked away quickly, not wanting McEvoy to see how much pain she was in.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  There were two women on the king-sized bed, a blonde with shoulder-length hair and pneumatic breasts and a brunette who couldn’t have been more than a couple of months past her sixteenth birthday. The blonde kissed the brunette and her hand moved between the younger girl’s legs, easing them apart. The younger girl moaned and caressed the blonde’s breasts, then arched her back as the blonde’s fingers moved inside her.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Maddy, at least look as if you’re enjoying it!’ shouted Warwick Locke. ‘You’re not exactly giving me a hard-on here.’

  The blonde redoubled her efforts, tossing her hair from side to side and moving down the brunette’s lithe body, kissing and licking and talking dirty to her.

  Locke turned to Terry. ‘Fucking amateurs,’ he whispered. They were sitting in director’s chairs next to a cameraman and sound man who were filming the two women.

  Terry grinned. ‘They look good to me, Warwick.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s what they look like on screen that matters,’ said Locke. The cameraman was licking his lips, his eye glued to the viewfinder as he moved in for a close-up of the blonde as she started kissing the brunette between the legs.

  ‘All right, Allan, get stuck in there, mate,’ said Locke.

  A heavily built man with hair almost as long as the blonde’s slipped off his bathrobe and went over to the bed.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Terry, eyeing the man’s genitalia. ‘That’s enough to give anyone an inferiority complex.’

  ‘He is a big ‘un, isn’t he?’ said Locke. ‘Wait until you see it erect. Trouble is, Allan shoves so much coke up his nose, it takes him about an hour before he can get a hard-on.’

  Allan slid between the two girls. The brunette started to give him oral sex while the blonde rubbed her breasts back and forth across his chest with a look of bored disinterest on her face.

  ‘Maddy, if you don’t stop fucking around you’re off this set!’ shouted Locke. ‘And Allan, start to think happy thoughts, will you? You’re supposed to be enjoying every man’s fantasy here.’ Locke pulled a face at Terry and shook his head. ‘Bloody artistes,’ he said.

  A door opened at the far end of the warehouse where they were filming the blue movie, and a large figure ambled in. It was Mark Blackstock, wearing a long, shabby overcoat over his rumpled suit. He walked over to Terry, and nodded at him sullenly. ‘I don’t like being summoned like I’m some sort of lapdog,’ he said.

  Terry grinned amiably. ‘You’d rather I came around to your office?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He watched in disgust as the blonde climbed on top of the well-endowed man and began bouncing up and down. ‘And why here?’

  ‘It’s private,’ said Terry. He jerked a thumb at the trio on the bed. ‘And there’s sloppy seconds if you feel like it.’

  Blackie wasn’t amused. He turned his back on the bed. ‘Don’t waste my time, Terry.’

  Locke leaned over. ‘Please, we’re trying to make a movie here,’ he said.

  Terry stood up, put an arm around Blackstock and shepherded him away from the film crew. ‘Look, Blackie, Raquel’s still on my case.’

  ‘He’s suspended.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but he’s being a bloody nuisance. I want him off my back.’ Terry took an envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to the detective superintendent.

  Blackie didn’t open it. ‘I’m not on candid camera again, am I?’ he glowered.

  Terry patted him on the back. ‘You’re getting paranoid in your old age,’ he said.

  Blackie opened the envelope and flicked his thumb across the banknotes inside.

  ‘Thing is, Raquel I can handle,’ said Terry, ‘but I need to know if SOII or the NCU are sniffing around.’

  ‘Doubt if criminal intelligence would be bothered with you,’ said Blackie. ‘Bigger fish to fry.’


  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Blackie.’

  ‘I’ll ask around,’ said Blackie, putting the envelope away.

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Terry.

  Blackie sighed. ‘There always is.’

  ‘I think George Kay is stooling for Raquel. Check it out, yeah?’

  ‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’ Blackie shook his head despondently. ‘Sam said you were retiring. Going legit.’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Terry, cheerfully.

  ‘When?’

  Terry shrugged carelessly but didn’t answer.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam had her head in the oven when she heard Terry calling her name. ‘In here,’ she shouted.

  Terry walked into the kitchen. ‘Didn’t think things were that bad,’ he said when he saw what she was doing.

  She took her head out of the oven and took off her rubber gloves. ‘Ovens have to be cleaned from time to time,’ she said. ‘Not that you’d know.’

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ he asked, sitting down at the table.

  ‘What’s wrong, Terry?’

  ‘Why should anything be wrong?’

  ‘Because you’ve got that look on your face.’

  Sam made coffees for them both and sat down opposite him.

  Terry sighed. ‘The thing is, Raquel’s been following me around like a lovesick spaniel,’ he said. ‘He’s been suspended, but with him on my back I can’t get on with business. And if he sees me going to Spain, he’ll start alarm bells ringing. You’ve got to help me, Sam.’

  Sam put down her coffee mug. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘The money thing’s got to be sorted this week.’

  Sam sighed with exasperation. ‘So get Micky Fox to do it. Or McKinley.’

  ‘They’re footsoldiers, Sam. I need you.’

  Sam gave Terry a long, hard look but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Sam, it’s a one-off.’

  ‘Another one-off?’ She sipped her coffee, then lit a cigarette. ‘Jamie’s up from Exeter on Sunday,’ she said. ‘I was going to cook. Lamb. It’s always been his favourite. Be handy if you were there to carve.’

  Terry smiled and nodded.

  Sam leaned forward. ‘This has to be the last time, Terry. You can’t keep asking me to do your dirty work.’ She sat back in her chair and shook her head. ‘I hate Spain,’ she said.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Emma Riggs rolled over and prodded her husband. He snored loudly and she prodded him again. ‘Oliver. Wake up!’

  Riggs opened his eyes sleepily. ‘What?’ he murmured.

  ‘There’s someone outside.’

  ‘It’ll be those bloody cats again,’ groaned Riggs, rolling over and wrapping the quilt around himself.

  Riggs’ wife shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘It sounded like the garage.’

  At the mention of the garage, Riggs sat up. He strained to listen but all he could hear was traffic on the nearby main road. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I heard something, Oliver,’ she said archly. ‘I’m not senile.’

  Riggs swung his legs off the bed and picked up his dressing gown.

  ‘Are you going to call the police?’ asked his wife.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ scowled Riggs. ‘I can handle this myself. It’ll be kids, that’s all.’

  Riggs hurried downstairs and went out through the kitchen door, leaving all the lights off so as not to alert whoever was outside. He’d left a garden spade leaning against the rear wall of the house and he grabbed it.

  The garage had been built against the side of the house in matching brick with a sloping slate roof, but there was no connecting doorway leading directly into the house. There was the upward opening metal door at the front and a wooden door at the rear that opened into the garden. Riggs headed towards the rear door, hefting the handle of the spade in both hands. The garage didn’t have any windows so there was no way of seeing inside. Riggs pressed an ear against the wooden door. He jerked his head away and swore. The wood was hot. Burning hot. And Riggs could smell smoke.

  The door was locked so Riggs rushed back into the kitchen to retrieve the key from its hook by the fridge. He unlocked the door and gingerly opened it. A sheet of flame whooshed out and Riggs ducked back, cursing. He slammed the door shut and hurried around the side of the garage to the front.

  He stopped and his mouth fell open. Someone had spray-painted the word ‘WANKER’ in green paint across the metal door. Riggs reached out and felt the surface of the door. It was also hot to the touch. Riggs stared at the lock. It had been broken, drilled out by the look of it. He carefully twisted the chrome handle and swung up the door. Black smoke billowed out. The Morris Traveller was in flames. The heat was intense and Riggs had to move back as more smoke and fumes poured out of the garage.

  He watched in despair as his pride and joy burned. He’d invested thousands of hours in the car, rebuilding it from a rusted wreck that he’d found in a breaker’s yard. Every weekend for the past five years had been spent working on it or taking it to classic car shows where he would stand by the open bonnet proudly showing off the results of his restoration to other enthusiasts. Now it was all gone, and the amount it was insured for wouldn’t even come close to replacing it.

  Riggs knew who’d destroyed his beloved car. The green paint graffiti was enough of a clue. Terry Greene. Terry bloody Greene.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam caught a taxi at Malaga airport and settled back for the drive to Marbella. According to Terry, Micky Fox was staying at a large villa about a mile from the city. The taxi driver didn’t know the area and twice had to stop and ask for directions, but eventually they pulled up in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates set in a ten-foot-tall stone wall.

  The taxi driver pointed at the gates. ‘This is it?’ said Sam.

  The driver nodded. Sam paid him and got out. An intercom was set into one of the gateposts, and Sam pressed it. After about thirty seconds a Spanish voice said, ‘Qué?’

  ‘It’s Samantha Greene to see Micky. He’s expecting me.’

  There was silence and Sam wondered if the man had understood her, then the gate buzzed and opened electronically. Sam walked up a long, winding drive that zigzagged through well-tended gardens to a huge villa with large balconies on the upper floors and terraces on the ground floor, and a massive white satellite dish in one corner.

  A Spanish boy who couldn’t have been out of his teens was waiting at the front door. He had jet-black hair, flawless mahogany skin and dark brown eyes and was wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, revealing a tight stomach and hairless chest. He didn’t say anything, but as Sam reached the front door he turned and walked inside the house.

  Sam followed the boy through an ornately decorated hall that reached up two storeys, then through two large gilded doors into a sitting room packed with the most tasteless furniture she’d ever seen. There were life-size statues of African natives holding spears, next to Chinese vases with pictures of flowers painted on them, Louis XIV chairs and footstools and overstuffed sofas with tasselled cushions. Thick rugs covered most of the wooden floor space. Large chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and the walls were hung with portraits of nineteenth-century grandees and their wives in massive gilt frames. The windows were covered with thick green velvet curtains and several lamps were switched on, giving the room a warm glow. There didn’t appear to be any air-conditioning and the overall effect was so stifling that Sam was beaded with sweat within seconds of entering the room.

  At the far end of the room french windows led out on to a terrace, and Sam blinked as she walked back into the bright Spanish light.

  ‘Sam, over here!’ shouted Micky Fox.

  Sam shielded her eyes with her hand and peered around the terrace. It overlooked the Mediterranean, which stretched out in front of her, a clear blue that was almost painful in its purity.

  ‘Here, Sam!’

  Micky Fox was sprawled on a flight o
f white marble steps that led down to the shallow end of a large swimming pool, a Spanish boy either side of him. The boys were as young and pretty as the one in the towel who’d guided Sam through the house and who was now showering next to the pool, quite naked. Fox had a champagne glass in his hand, a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of Dom Perignon on the step behind him.

  ‘Sam! Great to see you. Come and have some shampoo.’ He gestured with his chin at his two young companions in turn. ‘This is Jesus. And Pablo. Come on, get a costume on and join us.’

  Sam smiled. ‘They’re a bit young for me, Micky. Besides, a bit of privacy would be nice.’ She lifted the briefcase up so that he could see it. ‘I’m here to talk business.’

  ‘Talk away,’ said Fox. ‘They don’t speak English. Do you, Pablo?’

  Pablo frowned and put his head on one side. ‘Que?’ he said.

  Fox beamed at Sam. ‘See?’ He leaned over to the ice bucket and refilled his glass. ‘So how’s Terry, then?’

  ‘Out and about.’

  ‘I knew they wouldn’t be able to keep him inside for long,’ said Fox, climbing out of the pool and slipping on a peach towelling robe. ‘I gather you’re getting more involved with the business.’

  ‘Word gets around,’ said Sam. It was sweltering by the pool and Sam took off her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her white silk shirt.

  ‘Not much else to talk about over here, truth be told,’ said Fox. He steered her towards a flight of steps that led down to the beach.

  ‘Micky, I’m wearing high heels here,’ Sam protested.

  ‘Kick ‘em off,’ said Fox. ‘Get some sand between your toes.’

  ‘I’m also wearing tights.’

  Fox laughed and came back up the steps. He sat down on a wooden lounger and Sam dropped down on to the one next to him. Pablo rushed over with a large umbrella and he positioned it to shade Sam before jumping into the pool.

  ‘How’s the timeshare coming on?’ asked Sam.

  Fox pulled a face. ‘Like pulling teeth. Bone idle, the Spaniards. Bloody siestas will be the death of me.’