Terry cupped her breast and tried to kiss her but she turned her head to the side. ‘Terry . . .’
‘That’s my name . . .’ He kissed her and this time she didn’t turn away. He slipped his hand down between her legs and she moaned softly. He rolled on top of her, but as she opened her legs there was a ringing from the floor.
Terry cursed and groped for his mobile phone.
‘Leave it,’ said Sam, trying to pull him back.
‘I’d better get it, love,’ he said. ‘It might be important.’
‘This is important,’ she said.
He kissed her on the cheek, then picked up the phone and swung his legs off the bed. ‘Yeah?’ He listened for a few seconds. I’ll be right there. Yeah.’ He cut the connection and smiled ruefully at Sam. ‘I’ve got to go, love.’
‘Terry, we need to talk.’
He grinned and ruffled her hair. ‘We’ve been doing more than talking, love.’
‘There’s things we have to discuss.’
Terry stood up and began dressing. ‘Sure, but not now, okay? I’ve got things to do.’
‘Mountains to climb?’ said Sam, sarcastically.
‘Later, I promise.’
Terry finished dressing, kissed her on the cheek, and left. ‘Take care of the money, yeah?’ he said as he closed the bedroom door.
∗ ∗ ∗
Terry drove into the rugby club’s car park and pulled up next to Kim Fletcher’s car. Fletcher was in the driving seat, Roger Pike beside him. Terry climbed out and went over to Fletcher. There was one other car in the car park. A red Porsche.
‘Just him in there,’ said Fletcher. ‘Through that door then first on the left.’
Terry nodded and held out his hand.
Fletcher reached into his inside pocket and took out a handgun. ‘You sure about this, boss?’ he said.
Terry took the gun off Fletcher. ‘You stay in the car. I won’t be long.’
Fletcher looked across at Pike. ‘Sure you don’t want us with you?’ asked Pike.
Terry checked the action of the gun. ‘Think I can’t handle myself, boys?’
‘It’s not that, boss,’ said Fletcher. ‘It’s just that if you’re going to get heavy, the more the merrier, yeah?’
Terry shook his head and slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. ‘This one’s all mine,’ he said. He headed towards the entrance to the club’s gym.
Jonathon Nichols was lying on his back lifting weights, and he didn’t see Terry walk into the gym.
‘Working off excess energy, are we?’ said Terry. ‘Now that you haven’t got my daughter to beat up.’
Nichols froze, the weights on his chest. ‘Terry . . . I . . . she fell . . .’ he stuttered.
‘Oh, an accident, was it?’ said Terry. He bent down and picked up a two-kilogram weight. ‘Accidents do happen, don’t they?’
Terry tossed the weight at Nichols and it hit him in the chest. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ exclaimed Nichols, scrambling to his feet. He dropped his weights on to the floor and stood rubbing his chest. ‘You could have broken my fucking ribs.’
He was wearing a rugby shirt and baggy black shorts. Terry jerked a thumb at the shirt. ‘Bit of a poofter’s game, rugby,’ said Terry. He jabbed Nichols in the chest with his finger. ‘All that touching, all that groping, putting your head between other men’s legs.’ He jabbed him again, hard enough to make Nichols take a step back. ‘Gotta be a bit suspect, that. Soccer, now that’s a man’s game. But then, you’re not really a man, are you?’
Nichols took a swing at Terry, but Terry swayed back and the punch went wide. Terry grinned. ‘Was that an accident too? I mean, I wouldn’t want to misinterpret a perfectly harmless gesture of affection.’ He slapped Nichols on the side of the face.
Nichols grunted and threw another punch, but Terry blocked it and hit Nichols twice in the solar plexus. Nichols bent forward, gasping for breath, and Terry elbowed him in the face, hard. Nichols staggered backwards, blood pouring from his broken nose.
‘Different, isn’t it?’ said Terry. ‘When they fight back.’
Nichols wiped his bloody mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Terry. ‘Not yet you’re not.’
He punched Nichols in the face and Nichols fell back, tripping over a set of weights. As he crashed to the floor, Terry started kicking him in the kidneys, grunting with each kick. Nichols curled up into a foetal ball, but that only left his back even more unprotected and Terry laid into him with a vengeance.
Nichols rolled over, trying to protect his back, and Terry dropped down on top of him, trapping the man’s arms with his legs and punching him with both fists, left, right, left, right, until his son-in-law’s face was a bloody pulp. Terry stopped, panting heavily, and stared down at Nichols. The man’s eyes were puffy and half-closed, and as he coughed up blood and phlegm, two teeth slid down his chin and fell on to the floor.
Terry bent down and grabbed Nichols by the collar of his rugby shirt and hauled him to his knees.
‘Can you hear me?’ said Terry.
Nichols groaned and nodded.
‘Open your fucking eyes,’ hissed Terry.
Nichols did as he was told and stared up at Terry fearfully. Terry took the gun from his pocket, pressed the barrel hard against the man’s forehead and cocked the hammer with his thumb. ‘You’re a dead man,’ said Terry.
‘Please don’t . . .’ gasped Nichols.
‘You’re a wife beater and a coward,’ said Terry. ‘No one’s going to shed a fucking tear for you.’ Terry’s finger tensed on the trigger.
Nichols began to sob. There was a bitter smell of urine and the front of his shorts darkened. Terry wrinkled his nose in disgust.
‘Don’t kill me,’ sobbed Nichols. ‘Please don’t kill me.’
Terry stared down at his son-in-law, a look of loathing on his face. Nichols closed his eyes, still sobbing. Terry took the gun away and pushed Nichols down on to the floor. He stood over Nichols, the gun pointing down at the man’s head. ‘She’s lying in hospital, tubes in her, her face all cut up,’ hissed Terry. ‘You came this close to killing her. Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t just put a bullet in your head right now.’
The wet patch around Nichols’ groin widened.
‘You are fucking disgusting,’ spat Terry.
‘I’m sorry,’ sobbed Nichols.
Terry was breathing heavily. He aimed the gun at a point between his son-in-law’s eyes. He thought of Laura and what Nichols had done to her, and the anger flared again. His finger tightened on the trigger. Nichols curled up into a tight ball, his tears smearing across his bloodstained face.
Terry sneered at his son-in-law. ‘This is what you’re going to do, and if you don’t do it, you’re dead, do you understand me?’
Nichols nodded quickly. He spat bloody froth from between his puffy lips.
‘Go home, get your passport and whatever else you need, and fuck off out of the country. I don’t care where you go or what you do, but if I find you’re still in the UK, you’re dead. I will kill you. As sure as I’m standing here, I will fucking kill you.’
Nichols closed his eyes, still nodding. His breathing was ragged and uneven. Terry grabbed his hair and banged his head against the floor.
‘Don’t pass out, you bastard!’ Terry shouted. ‘Open your fucking eyes!’ He rammed the gun against the man’s nose.
Nichols did as he was told, but his eyes were unfocused and he was close to passing out.
‘You don’t ever talk to my daughter again. You write her a letter, telling her you’re leaving. You get a lawyer to handle the divorce. I find you’ve ever talked to her again, you are dead, do you understand me?’
‘My job . . .’ moaned Nichols.
‘Fuck your job!’ shouted Terry. ‘Tell them whatever you want, you little shit. Do you understand? Twenty-four hours, and if you’re still in the country, you are a dead man.’
Nichols nodded. He c
oughed up more blood and spat out another tooth. Terry let go of his hair and stood up. He put the gun back into his pocket, wiped his hands on his son-in-law’s towel and threw it down on top of him with a look of disgust.
Terry walked out of the gym and back towards Kim Fletcher’s car. Fletcher wound down the window. Terry took the gun and slipped it to Fletcher with a wink.
‘You didn’t . . .’ said Fletcher.
‘Not yet,’ said Terry, ‘but it’s still an option.’
Fletcher nodded and handed the gun to Pike, who put it into the glove compartment.
Terry patted the roof of the car. ‘Right, lads, have the rest of the night off. I’ve got someone to see.’
∗ ∗ ∗
The staff nurse was in her fifties with the build of a prop forward and the confidence born of years of telling patients what to do. She heard Terry’s rapid footfall before she saw him, and stood in the middle of the corridor waiting for him, holding up a hand like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ she asked.
‘Laura Nichols,’ said Terry. ‘I’m her father.’
‘Visiting hours are over, Mr Nichols.’
‘I just want a few minutes with her. And it’s Greene. Terry Greene.’ Terry took out his wallet and handed the nurse four twenty-pound notes. ‘Two minutes, yeah?’ He walked on, leaving the staff nurse staring at the notes in amazement.
Terry sat on the plastic chair next to Laura’s bed. She was asleep and didn’t react as Terry reached over and held her hand. ‘Hiya, love,’ he said softly. ‘It’s your dad.’ Laura’s monitors continued to bleep quietly and her eyes remained closed. ‘Everything’s okay. I’ve taken care of it. There’s nothing to worry about any more.’
Terry smiled at Laura. He took her hand and kissed it, then pressed it against his cheek.
‘My dad used to hit your gran,’ he said. ‘Never put her in hospital, he was too clever for that. That’s why I left home when I did. He got handy with his fists once too often and I smacked him in the mouth.’
Laura moved in her sleep and she squeezed Terry’s hand, then relaxed again.
‘I’ve always done what I’ve had to do to support this family, Laura,’ said Terry. ‘Yeah, I’ve broken a few laws along the way, but who hasn’t? I never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it, though.’
Terry looked down at his hand on the hospital bed. The knuckles were bruised and bloody from beating Nichols. He let go of Laura’s hand and bent over her, kissing her on the forehead. ‘Anyway, it’s all sorted now. He won’t ever bother you again. Night, love. Sleep well.’
Terry walked out of the room, licking his injured knuckles.
∗ ∗ ∗
Sam took off her jacket and slung it over her shoulder. It was in the mid-eighties and humid, the conditions necessary to maintain the good health of the hundreds of tropical plants and trees in the greenhouse. It had been one of Grace’s favourite places. She had spent hours at Kew Gardens, sketching the lush vegetation and talking to the gardeners, most of whom she was on first-name terms with.
The door at the far end of the greenhouse opened and Blackie walked in. He kept his overcoat on as he strode along the path to Sam, and his face was bathed in sweat by the time he reached her.
Sam smiled at his obvious discomfort. ‘Hot enough for you, Blackie?’ she said.
‘This is a bloody liberty, Sam,’ said the detective superintendent. ‘I’m on Terry’s payroll, not yours.’
‘It’s all in the family, though, isn’t it?’ said Sam. ‘Have you got it?’
Blackie took a piece of paper from his pocket and slipped it to her, looking left and right to check that there was no one else near by. ‘I just hope that she doesn’t decide to top herself after you’ve spoken to her.’
‘Morrison’s suicide was nothing to do with me,’ said Sam.
Blackie shrugged. ‘We’ll probably never know,’ he said. He gestured at the piece of paper. ‘Don’t say where you got that from, okay?’
‘Give me some credit, Blackie.’ She read the name and address on the paper and put it into her handbag. ‘Why wasn’t she called as a witness?’
‘She’d already left Snow. No suggestion that she was anywhere near the house on the night. And Terry’s name was in the frame from day one. They weren’t looking for anyone else.’ Blackie wiped his forehead with his overcoat sleeve. ‘I thought you told me Terry was retiring?’
‘He is,’ said Sam emphatically.
‘I’d check your facts if I was you, Sam.’ Blackie turned to leave. ‘Stay here for a few minutes, I don’t want anyone to see me leaving with you,’ he said.
Sam smiled thinly. ‘God forbid I should sully your good name, hey?’
Blackie snorted softly, put his hands in his pockets, and walked away.
Sam walked around the greenhouse for five minutes, deep in thought, then went out the same way Blackie had gone.
McKinley was waiting for her in the car park, standing next to the Lexus. He opened the rear door for her, then climbed into the front seat.
‘Fancy a drive, Andy?’ said Sam.
‘Whatever you say, Mrs Greene.’
‘Bristol,’ said Sam. ‘And fasten your seatbelt, yeah?’
∗ ∗ ∗
Sam said nothing during the drive west, the piece of paper clutched in her hand. From time to time McKinley looked at her in the rear-view mirror, but he didn’t intrude on her thoughts.
As they reached the outskirts of Bristol, Sam read out the address and McKinley nodded. ‘I’ll find it, Mrs Greene,’ he said.
He didn’t have to stop to ask for directions, and twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a pretty detached house with a neatly tended garden. A gleaming blue MGB was parked in the driveway. Sam nodded at the car. ‘The girl done well,’ she said to herself. She sat in silence, staring at the house. ‘You been here before, Andy?’ she asked quietly.
‘What makes you ask that, Mrs Greene?’ he said.
‘Just a thought,’ said Sam.
McKinley twisted around in his seat. He looked at her with his cold blue eyes. ‘What are you getting at, Mrs Greene?’
Sam shrugged. ‘You seemed to know the way, that’s all.’
‘It’s not that big a city.’
Sam lit a cigarette. She wound down the window and blew smoke out of the car. ‘I don’t know, Andy. Maybe she might’ve been a witness, maybe Terry might’ve wanted you to warn her off.’
McKinley turned back in his seat and stared silently through the windscreen.
‘Andy?’
McKinley put his big hands on the steering wheel. ‘Bit of a headache, Mrs Greene. That’s all.’
Sam opened the door.
‘Mrs Greene?’
‘What?’
‘Do you think this is a good idea?’
‘Is there something you want to tell me, Andy?’
McKinley sighed, then slowly shook his head.
Sam got out of the car, dropped her cigarette and twisted it into the pavement with her heel, then strode up the path and rang the doorbell. She turned to look at the Lexus. McKinley was still staring straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
The door opened and Sam turned her head. A pretty black girl stood on the threshold, looking quizzically at Sam. She was in her mid twenties, flawless black skin, high cheekbones and large dark brown eyes framed by shoulder-length hair. ‘What?’ she said, in a south London accent. ‘What do you want?’ A baby was crying somewhere in the house.
‘You’re Alicia Snow, yeah?’
The look on the girl’s face hardened and she tilted her chin. ‘What are you doing here?’
Sam frowned. ‘Do you know me?’
‘How did you find me?’
‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ said Sam.
Alicia went to close the door but Sam was too quick for her. She used her shoulder to force her way in.
‘Hey! You can’t do that!’ shouted Alicia.
Alicia came up behind Sam. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said.
Sam didn’t reply. She barely heard Alicia, it was as if the girl’s voice was at the end of a long tunnel. Time seemed to have stopped as she stood staring at the baby. There were toys in the playpen. A Winnie the Pooh soft toy. Some plastic balls. A cuddly caterpillar. Blocks of wood with animals painted on them.
‘I’ll call the police,’ said Alicia.
‘No you won’t,’ said Sam quietly.
A group of framed photographs on a sideboard showed Terry and Alicia, holding champagne glasses, in what looked like Lapland, George Kay grinning behind them. A photograph of the two of them on a beach, Terry in swimming trunks, Alicia in a black bikini that left little to the imagination. The beach could have been in Spain. It could have been the beach close to Micky Fox’s villa. One of the photographs was of Terry, holding a baby, a month or two old. Terry beaming at the camera. The proud father.
Alicia put a hand on Sam’s shoulder but Sam shook her off. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ hissed Sam. ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’
The baby started crying again and Alicia went over and picked her up. She made shooshing noises as she stared defiantly at Sam, the baby in her arms.
Sam shook her head, unable to accept what she was being faced with. The enormity of it all took her breath away.
‘I think you should go,’ said Alicia.
Sam turned and ran from the room. She fumbled with the lock on the front door and staggered out of the house, gasping for breath. She felt as if she’d been punched in the chest, every breath an effort. Her heart was pounding and she could barely stand.
Sam put a hand out to steady herself. The door slammed shut behind her. She didn’t know if it had been the wind or if Alicia had done it. She didn’t care. She had to get away from what she’d seen, away from the child and the photographs and everything that they signified. She took deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart, then walked slowly down the driveway past the MGB.
The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 26