The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Where is he?’ hissed Snow. He pointed the shotgun at Sam’s face and she flinched.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Sam, pulling the quilt around her.

  ‘I can see that. Where’s he gone?’ He was sweating, and looked around nervously as if expecting Terry to appear at any moment. He waved the shotgun back and forth, his finger tight on the trigger.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Sam.

  Snow glared at her. He lifted the butt of the shotgun to his face and aimed it at her chest, squinting along the stubby barrel. ‘You’re his wife, aren’t you?’ he snarled.

  Sam didn’t say anything. She swallowed, but her mouth was so dry she almost gagged. She put a hand up to her mouth, but dropped it and held on tightly to the quilt when she realised how much it was shaking.

  Snow took a step towards her, the butt of the shotgun pressed against his cheek. ‘When’s he coming back?’ he whispered.

  Sam stared at the twin barrels. They seemed huge enough to swallow her up. She could barely imagine the damage the weapon would do if Snow fired it at short range, and her heart was now pounding so hard she feared it would burst. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. ‘I don’t know if he is,’ said Sam. She could see the look of disbelief on his face. ‘I’m serious, I’m not sure where I stand with him at the moment. He says he’s back—’

  ‘I’m not interested in your marital problems,’ interrupted Snow, taking another step towards her. He raised the shotgun as if to strike the butt against her face, and Sam threw up her hands defensively. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ said Snow. ‘If you lie to me I’ll blow you away, I swear to God I will.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ said Sam, her voice trembling. ‘Why would I lie? You can see he’s not here.’

  Snow aimed the shotgun at her again. ‘Yes, I can see he’s not fucking here. Now I’m going to ask you one more fucking time, when’s he coming back?’ Sweat was pouring down his face and he wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Look, you’re Preston Snow’s brother, aren’t you? Luke Snow?’

  Snow jabbed the end of the shotgun at her. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ he hissed.

  ‘This is about your brother, isn’t it? It’s not me you want to hurt, is it, Luke?’

  ‘Shut up!’ he repeated. ‘I’ll use this. I will.’

  Sam stared at the barrel of the gun. Her legs were shaking under the quilt and her mouth was so dry that every breath hurt her. She kept picturing the explosion and the blood and the mess, and she held the quilt tighter even though she knew it offered no protection. She brought her knees up towards her chest in an attempt to stop them shaking. ‘Look, my daughter’s asleep down the corridor,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want her woken up. She’s got school tomorrow.’

  Snow’s dreadlocks swung from side to side under his leather hat as he shook his head. ‘What?’

  Sam nodded at the shotgun. ‘They go bang if they go off.’ She forced a smile, trying to put Snow at ease.

  ‘Don’t fucking patronise me!’ he hissed. ‘I’ll shoot you and I’ll shoot your slag of a daughter.’

  Sam narrowed her eyes. ‘Just because you’re angry at my husband doesn’t give you the right to take it out on his family,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I’m the one with the gun,’ he hissed, taking a step towards her, his eyes wide and staring.

  Sam glared back at him. ‘That’s right. You are.’

  Snow looked down at the shotgun as if seeing it for the first time.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Luke?’ asked Sam quietly.

  ‘I’m gonna kill him,’ said Luke. He held the shotgun with his right hand, and began to stroke the stubby barrel with his left. ‘He killed my brother so I’m gonna kill him.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ asked Sam.

  Snow frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘The Court of Appeal released him. Someone else confessed. That guy in prison said he shot your brother.’

  Snow’s face contorted with rage. ‘Just because someone else confessed, doesn’t mean your husband didn’t kill Preston,’ he said. ‘He shot my brother then he got someone else to say that they did it.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense and you know it,’ whispered Sam. ‘Why would someone confess to a murder they didn’t do?’

  Snow shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but he did. Your husband got away with murder.’ He shook the shotgun in her face. ‘And I’m gonna give him what he deserves.’

  ‘Then you’ll be in prison, too,’ said Sam. ‘Is that what you want? You want to spend the rest of your life behind bars? How does that help your brother?’

  Snow paced up and down at the foot of the bed. ‘I’m not stupid, I know nothing’s going to bring Preston back. This isn’t about bringing him back, it’s about teaching your husband a lesson.’

  ‘If you shoot him, he’s not going to learn anything, is he?’

  Snow stopped pacing and pointed the shotgun at her again. ‘You’re patronising me again!’ he hissed.

  ‘I’m just saying, that’s all,’ said Sam. ‘Revenge isn’t going to get you anywhere. It doesn’t help anyone.’ She pushed the quilt to the side and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Snow, stepping back. He waved the shotgun at her.

  Sam ignored him and reached for her dressing gown. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ she said, tying the belt of the robe.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, you obviously came here to shoot Terry,’ said Sam patiently. ‘He’s not here, and you don’t look as if you’re going to hurt me. Not deliberately, anyway. So we might as well be civilised.’

  Snow stood holding the shotgun and shaking his head as if not sure how to react. ‘No. Stay here. We’re going to stay here and wait for him to come back.’ He aimed the shotgun at her stomach.

  ‘I already said, he might not come back. He might stay out all night. It wouldn’t be the first time. At least let me make you a coffee. Okay? We can wait for him downstairs just as easily as here.’

  Snow stared at her for several seconds, then he let the shotgun swing down to his side. He shrugged. ‘Yeah. I guess.’

  Sam nodded and headed downstairs. Snow followed her. He walked on tiptoe, and Sam realised he was trying not to disturb Trisha. She smiled to herself. Snow was a hurt, disturbed young man, but he didn’t appear to be a cold-blooded killer.

  Sam switched on the kettle and took instant coffee and sugar out of a cupboard while Snow paced up and down. ‘I’d offer you decaff, but I haven’t got any,’ she said.

  Snow frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Sit down, Luke, you’re wearing a hole in the floor.’

  Snow took off his hat and more dreadlocks tumbled around his neck. He sat down at the kitchen table and put the shotgun on the chair next to him, taking care that it wasn’t pointing towards Sam. ‘Where did you get that from?’ Sam asked, gesturing at the gun.

  ‘Guy in a pub,’ said Snow. ‘Three hundred quid.’ He pulled an apologetic face. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you, you know.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, Luke,’ said Sam, smiling thinly. ‘Sweet, but bullshit. What if my husband had been in bed with me? What if you’d shot him? Sugar?’

  The last bit threw Snow and he frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Sugar?’ repeated Sam. ‘Do you take sugar, because we haven’t got any. We’ve got sweetener, though.’

  ‘No. No sugar. Just milk.’

  ‘Sweet enough, huh?’ said Sam, but Snow just frowned again.

  The kettle boiled and Sam made two mugs of coffee. She handed one to Snow, who nodded his thanks and cupped his hands around it, blowing on the surface to cool it.

  ‘I probably wouldn’t have done it,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Sam sat down opposite him. ‘Why are you so sure that my husband killed your brother?’ she said.

  Snow shrugged. ‘The p
olice said. That detective, Welch.’

  Sam shook her head. ‘Welch has had it in for my husband for years, Luke. The Met’s full of bent coppers. And your brother was a drug dealer, right? He must have had lots of enemies.’

  ‘Yeah, I tried to tell him he was heading for trouble . . .’

  ‘Wouldn’t listen?’

  ‘Nah. You can only do so much, right? Alicia was always trying to keep him on the straight and narrow, but he wouldn’t listen to her, either.’

  Sam frowned. ‘Alicia?’

  ‘Preston’s wife.’

  Sam put her mug down. ‘She wasn’t mentioned in court.’

  ‘Nah. They were separated. She’d left him long before he . . .’ Snow couldn’t finish the sentence. He sipped his coffee. ‘Moved to Bristol, I think.’ Snow looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be going. My wife’s gonna go mental if I stay out all night.’

  He stood up and reached for the shotgun. Sam put her hand on it. ‘Why don’t you leave that with me?’ she said.

  Snow smiled apologetically. ‘Guy I bought it off said he’d give me half the money back if I didn’t fire it,’ he said. Sam took her hand away and Snow picked up the shotgun, carefully as if he feared it might break. ‘I won’t be back,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Sam put a hand on his elbow and squeezed gently. ‘I am so sorry about what happened to your brother,’ she said.

  Snow nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sean Kelly frowned as he saw who was waiting for him in the interview room. He turned to the prison officer who had escorted him down from the landing. ‘I’ve fuck all to say to him,’ said Kelly.

  ‘Sit down and shut up,’ said Frank Welch. Welch tossed two packs of cigarettes on to the table in front of him. They were Kelly’s brand. Kelly sneered at the cigarettes, but he sat down opposite Welch. The detective gestured at the prison officer to leave them alone.

  As the prison officer opened the door, Kelly twisted around in his seat. ‘Oi, don’t leave me alone with him,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sean,’ said Welch. ‘You’re not my type.’ Welch waited until the door was closed before speaking again. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  Kelly looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  Welch stared coldly at Kelly. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Kelly opened one of the packs, took out a cigarette and lit it with a safety match.

  ‘I spoke to your doctor,’ said Welch, quietly.

  Kelly tensed. ‘Like fuck you did.’

  Welch smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘Always getting parking tickets, doctors.’

  Kelly narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised the detective, then he looked away. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered.

  ‘Pancreatic cancer’s a bitch, isn’t it?’ said Welch, his voice almost a whisper. Welch sat in silence for a few seconds, then he leaned forward. ‘Went around to see your missus, too. Nice car she’s got. New stereo, as well. I know it doesn’t mean much to you, putting your hand up for the Preston Snow murder. Not when you’ve only got a year or so. But I bet Terry Greene was really grateful. Who paid over the money, Sean? McKinley, was it? Kay? Or did his wife pay out? Was it Sam Greene?’

  Kelly picked up the two packets of cigarettes and stood up.

  ‘Was it Sam Greene?’ shouted Welch. ‘Was it?’

  Kelly turned his back on the detective and hammered on the door to be let out.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Sam walked slowly through the graveyard. Leaves swirled around her feet as she arrived at Grace’s grave. She knelt down and placed a small bouquet of lilies against the stone. Lilies had always been Grace’s favourite flower.

  Sam brushed dead leaves away from the bottom of the stone, then stood up, wiping her hands. ‘I miss our little chats, Grace,’ she said. ‘I really do.’

  Two small boys ran alongside the brick wall that bordered the pavement, laughing and kicking a soft-drink can. Sam smiled at their youthful exuberance, all their lives ahead of them.

  ‘Well, your darling boy’s out,’ she said, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. ‘He’s still got me doing his dirty work, though. He’s back in the house. He’s even back in my bed. But I’ve got this horrible feeling that something’s not right. What’s a girl to do, Grace? What’s a girl to do?’

  Sam sighed. The bunch of lilies fell over and Sam knelt down and propped them up again. She ran her hand along the cold smoothness of the polished marble. ‘He told me he was with some Irish heavyweights the night Snow was shot, but he was lying. So where was he, Grace? Where was he?’

  Sam put her head on one side as if expecting the gravestone to answer, but the only sound was the wind whipping around the church.

  ‘Laura’s in hospital. She’s on the mend. Still says she tripped. I don’t know why she stays with him.’ She laughed harshly. ‘That’s not true, is it?’ She nodded at the adjoining gravestone. Grace’s husband. ‘You of all people know that, don’t you? You either love ‘em or you don’t. What do I do, Grace? The more I dig, the more I think he’s been lying to me.’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  It was early evening and Sam was lying down in her bedroom with a cold compress on her eyes. Trisha was out at a concert – it was Friday, so Sam had said she could stay out late, so long as she was back before midnight. Terry was out too, but he’d been less specific about where he was going, and even vaguer about when he’d be getting back.

  She was drifting in and out of sleep, relishing the chance of being alone. No arguments, no decisions to be made, no verbal jousting. Just silence and solitude.

  She stiffened as she heard a noise on the landing, followed by the swish of the door rubbing against the carpet. Images of Luke Snow and his shotgun flashed through her mind and she ripped off the compress and struggled to sit up. Someone was moving towards her, someone in black, someone with a hand outstretched. Sam opened her mouth to scream, but then her eyes focused and she realised it was Terry.

  ‘For God’s sake, Terry, what are you playing at?’ she shouted.

  Terry sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Now what’s wrong?’

  ‘Creeping up on me like that.’

  ‘I didn’t creep.’

  Terry looked genuinely concerned at her reaction. Sam hadn’t told him about Snow’s nocturnal visit to the house, and she didn’t intend to.

  She sat up and brushed the hair away from her eyes. ‘I was asleep,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he said.

  ‘You should have knocked. Or rung the bell.’

  ‘I live here, Sam.’

  ‘I wonder about that.’

  Terry frowned. ‘Okay, and I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘Well, you did that.’

  Terry grinned and picked up a nylon holdall. He unzipped it and emptied the contents on to the bed. There were bundles of fifty-pound notes. Dozens of bundles. Hundreds. The bundles that Sam had last seen in the Spanish garage with Micky Fox. Terry ripped the paper wrapper off one of the bundles and threw the notes into the air. They fluttered around Sam like massive snowflakes.

  ‘It got here?’ said Sam. She grabbed a handful of the notes and looked at them.

  ‘Every last one,’ said Terry, beaming. He picked up a second holdall and emptied it on to the bed. ‘Both cars straight through. Unpacked them at the warehouse, paid off the other investors, this is all ours.’ He dropped the empty holdalls on to the floor and kissed Sam, full on the mouth.

  Sam pushed him away. ‘How much is there?’ she asked.

  ‘Here? About half a million.’

  ‘Half a million!’

  ‘Don’t get too excited. It isn’t real, remember. It’s got to be cleaned. Through the clubs, through some people I know. We can’t just pay it into the bank.’

  Sam pressed a handful of the banknotes to her face and drew in the fragrance. ‘I love the smell of new money,’ she said.

  ‘We can’t spend it, Sam,’ sai
d Terry.

  ‘But they’re perfect.’

  ‘They’re perfect, but they’re not real. Get caught with one and we’d be for the high jump. We clean them, get the clean money into the bank, then we can spend it.’

  Sam dropped the notes on to the bed. Five hundred thousand pounds. She had seen Terry with wads of banknotes in his free-spending days, but she doubted that she’d ever seen more than a few thousand at one time. Five hundred thousand pounds. It was lottery money. ‘How long will it take, to launder it?’

  ‘A few weeks. And whichever way we do it, we lose about twenty-five per cent. Maybe more. We’ll probably end up with about three hundred thousand when we’re all square.’

  Sam nodded. That was still big money. At least their short-term money problems would be over.

  Terry moved on to the bed, reaching for her.

  ‘Terry!’ she scolded.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, pushing her back on to the thick layer of fifty-pound notes. ‘How often do you get to make love on half a million quid, hey?’

  ‘You tell me,’ laughed Sam.

  Terry looked down at her. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you, Sam,’ he said. ‘Any of it.’

  She held his look, and when he moved down on her she reached up for him, her mouth opening to receive his. They kissed, slowly at first, then passion overtook them and Sam rolled over on top of him, pulling at his clothes as he undressed her, panting and urging each other on.

  Later, they lay together on top of the money, Sam pressed against his side, her hand gently stroking his chest. ‘Did you mean it?’ she whispered. ‘Straight and narrow?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So this is the end of it? You’re going to be legit from now on?’

  Terry groaned. ‘God, you choose your moments, don’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You make love to me like there’s no tomorrow, then you hit me with the “When are you going to retire?” speech.’

  ‘That’s not what happened. I just want to know where I stand, that’s all.’

  Terry ran his fingers down her spine. ‘You’re not standing, love.’

  Sam smiled coldly. ‘This isn’t a laughing matter, Terry.’