The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  McKinley hadn’t moved, and was still staring fixedly through the windscreen.

  Sam opened the rear door of the Lexus and slid on to the back seat. ‘Drive,’ she said.

  ‘Where to?’ said McKinley. He looked at her in the rear-view mirror, but averted his eyes as soon as he saw that she was staring at him.

  ‘Just drive,’ she hissed. Sam groped in her handbag and lit a cigarette with trembling hands.

  McKinley drove slowly, flashing looks at her in the mirror. They drove past a children’s playground.

  ‘Stop here,’ said Sam.

  She scrambled out of the car and walked across a patch of grass to a set of swings. Tears ran down her face as she blew a plume of smoke that was whisked away by the wind. Terry had lied to her. It had all been a lie. Everything. He’d told her what she’d wanted to hear, he’d used her, lied to her. And she’d let him. She had been so bloody stupid. So unforgivably stupid.

  She heard the door of the Lexus open and slam shut but she didn’t turn around as McKinley walked across the grass.

  ‘Mrs Greene . . .’ he said haltingly.

  Sam whirled around and slapped him, hard. McKinley didn’t flinch, so she slapped him again. And again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘You bastard!’ said Sam. She turned her back on him as tears trickled down her cheeks. Sam refused to wipe them away. She took a long pull on her cigarette and shivered. ‘How could you?’ she whispered. ‘You knew, all the time. Right from day one. He did it, didn’t he? Terry killed him. Shot him dead, just like the police said.’

  She looked over her shoulder and McKinley nodded.

  Sam turned away from him again. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I wasn’t there, Mrs Greene,’ he said.

  Sam sighed.

  ‘I wasn’t, Mrs Greene. I only know what Terry told me. He said it was self defence.’

  ‘He was shot twice. The chest, then the head.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what Terry told me. Snow said he needed cash. A lot of cash. When Terry went around to pay him off, Snow pulled a gun.’

  ‘Pay him off? Because of her? The wife?’

  ‘Ex-wife,’ said McKinley. ‘Snow said Terry owed him. Said Terry had stolen his wife and had to pay.’

  McKinley moved to stand next to Sam. ‘It was self defence, but who was going to believe him? Raquel was gunning for him, the filth weren’t going to listen to Terry.’

  ‘So you helped him?’

  ‘Terry gave me the gun. I got rid of it. Dumped it in the canal.’

  ‘Then Terry came to me for an alibi?’

  McKinley nodded.

  ‘And you paid off Sean Kelly?’ said Sam. ‘Got him to confess to the murder?’

  ‘Kelly’s got cancer. Jumped at the chance to take Terry’s money. Asher and Patterson gave his wife ten grand. Kelly put up his hand to the shooting.’

  ‘They paid off Snow’s wife, too?’

  McKinley nodded.

  ‘So you all knew?’ said Sam bitterly. ‘You, Asher, Patterson, you all knew that Terry had knocked up Alicia Snow, and that’s why he killed her husband?’

  ‘It was self defence, Mrs Greene.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’ Sam had reached the end of her cigarette. She flicked away the butt and lit another. ‘You bastards. You must have thought I was so fucking stupid.’

  ‘No, Mrs Greene. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘You bastards,’ repeated Sam. She walked away from the swings and climbed on to a wooden roundabout. She sat down, blew smoke and looked scathingly at McKinley. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  McKinley stood looking at her, his hands clasped at his groin.

  ‘Terry knew about Morrison, didn’t he? Knew that there was a witness, knew that Morrison would put him at the scene. And he knew that there was no way he could get to Morrison while he was under police protection. No way he could get to him before the trial. Right?’

  McKinley nodded.

  ‘But afterwards, after the trial, with Terry behind bars, Morrison would be easier to get to.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘He used me, didn’t he? He used me to get to Morrison?’

  McKinley didn’t say anything, but Sam could see by the look on his face that she was right.

  ‘I was so bloody stupid,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see that he was using me?’ She drew on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. ‘Did you kill him?’ she asked eventually. ‘Did you kill Morrison for Terry?’

  ‘No, Mrs Greene. I didn’t.’

  ‘But you know who did?’

  McKinley’s jaw tightened, then he nodded slowly. ‘Pike and Russell.’

  ‘Killed him and made it look like suicide?’

  McKinley nodded.

  ‘You told them where to find Morrison, didn’t you?’

  McKinley said nothing.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ shouted Sam, her voice echoing around the deserted playground.

  ‘Mrs Greene . . .’ McKinley shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Sam. She put her cigarette to her mouth with a trembling hand. ‘You’re sorry?’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Russell checked the driving mirror. ‘He’s still there, three cars back,’ he said.

  Terry laughed out loud from the back seat of the BMW. ‘What is it with Raquel?’ he said. ‘Does he think if he puts two cars between us and him that he’s fucking invisible?’

  ‘They learn it at woodentop school,’ said Pike, who was in the front passenger seat.

  Terry settled back. ‘Plan B it is, then,’ he said. All three men laughed.

  Pike took out his mobile phone and tapped out a number. ‘Kim? Yeah, you in position?’ Great. Be with you in five, yeah?’ He cut the connection and gave Terry a thumbs-up.

  Terry grinned and settled back in his seat.

  They drove on to a motorway, keeping well below the speed limit, until they reached an underpass. Russell brought the BMW to a stop and Terry and Pike got out and scrambled up the embankment.

  They stood at the top and waved at Frank Welch as he went by in his Rover. ‘Wanker! shouted Pike.

  Welch glared at them, but he was powerless to do anything, boxed in by the fast-flowing traffic.

  Russell drove off as Terry and Pike climbed up to the top of the embankment. Kim Fletcher was waiting for them at the wheel of a Toyota four-wheel drive. Terry and Pike got into the Toyota and Fletcher drove off.

  ‘You got it, Kim?’ asked Terry.

  Fletcher reached into the glove compartment and took out a handgun, which Pike passed back to Terry.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Terry, checking the gun’s action.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Lapland was just about to close. Two blondes were making a desultory attempt to keep a group of suited businessmen interested, but the men were looking at their watches and draining their glasses.

  Terry walked in, flanked by Fletcher and Pike.

  George Kay was sitting alone at a table with a half-empty bottle of champagne in front of him. He frowned as he saw Terry, then hauled himself to his feet and waddled over, hand outstretched. ‘Terry, you should have called. Half the girls have gone home.’

  Terry shook Kay’s hand and slapped him on the back. ‘Just wanted to drop by and say hello, George.’

  ‘Always glad to see you, Terry. You know that. Bottle of bubbly?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Terry sat down at Kay’s table and motioned for Pike and Fletcher to sit. ‘So how’s business?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Bit slow tonight, but it’s midweek. We’ll be jumping on Friday.’ He waved at a pretty waitress and mouthed ‘champagne’ to her. ‘Sam not with you?’

  Terry shook his head. ‘Boys’ night out.’ The blondes had perked up when they saw Terry, and were now doing some heavy-duty hair-tossing and creative polework, but Terry didn’t appear to notice. ‘You know what I fancy, George? Poker. I haven’t played poker for years. Got any cards?’

/>   Kay looked confused. ‘Cards?’ He took out his inhaler and took a long pull on it. ‘Might have some in the office.’

  ‘Go get them, yeah? And might as well close the door and let everyone go home. I feel like a long night.’

  He looked at Pike and Fletcher, and they both grinned and nodded. The waitress returned with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and four glasses. Kay frowned at the bottle. ‘Not the Moët, dear,’ said Kay. ‘Get us a bottle of the good stuff, will you?’

  Two hours and three bottles of Christal later, the four men were alone in the club, sitting around a pile of banknotes. Kay won the pot, and he grinned as he pulled the money towards him.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Pike, sitting back in his chair. ‘That’s your third pot on the run, George.’

  ‘Yeah, your luck’s in tonight, Georgy boy,’ said Terry. ‘Wish I had your luck.’

  ‘Just the way the cards fall,’ said Kay. He opened a fourth bottle of champagne as Fletcher dealt the cards.

  ‘Nah, your guardian angel is on your case,’ said Terry. He grinned. ‘Let’s put her to the test, yeah?’

  Kay frowned as he poured champagne for the four of them. Terry reached into his pocket and pulled out the revolver. Kay’s hand trembled and champagne slopped over the card table.

  ‘Steady, George,’ said Terry.

  ‘Fucking hell, Terry!’ said Kay.

  ‘What, you’ve seen a gun before, haven’t you?’ said Terry.

  ‘If the filth find that here – Christ, my licence, the club . . .’ He put the champagne back in the ice bucket with trembling hands.

  ‘Relax, George,’ said Terry, caressing the barrel of the gun. ‘Why would the cops be here, huh? Not been serving afters, have you?’

  Pike and Fletcher laughed loudly, but Kay looked uncomfortable. He sat down and wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief, staring at the gun with wide eyes. ‘What are you doing with that?’ he asked.

  Terry’s grin widened. ‘Ah, that’s for me to know . . .’

  Kay took another pull on his inhaler.

  Terry popped out the cylinder and peered down the barrel. ‘Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,’ he said. ‘Can’t beat it. Automatics look flash, but they spit shells all over the shop.’ Terry tipped the shells out of the cylinder and they clattered on to the table.

  Kay stared at the bullets. He held his inhaler with both hands and his chest wheezed with every breath.

  ‘Number of twats that have ended up behind bars because they forgot to wipe their prints off the shells.’ Terry put a single shell in the cylinder and clicked it closed.

  ‘Remember that movie, George? The Vietnam one?’

  Kay swallowed. ‘Apocalypse Now?’

  Terry shook his head. ‘Nah, that was the one with Marlon Brando. I mean the one with De Niro. The one where they played Russian roulette. Christopher Walken was in it.’ Terry spun the cylinder.

  Pike sniffed. ‘The Deerhunter, wasn’t it?’

  Terry nodded approvingly. ‘Yeah, that’s it. The Deerhunter. Fucking great movie.’ He put the gun down on the table and spun it. They all watched as it gradually slowed, then stopped, the barrel pointing directly at Terry. Terry smiled laconically. ‘See. It’s just not my night.’

  Terry slowly raised the gun and pointed it at his temple.

  ‘Terry!’ shouted Kay.

  Terry’s eyes hardened, then he pulled the trigger. Click.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exploded Kay.

  ‘Maybe my luck’s changing, George,’ said Terry. ‘What do you think?’

  Terry put the gun back on the table and spun it again.

  ‘Terry, what are you doing?’ asked Kay.

  Terry didn’t reply. They all watched as the gun came to a halt. This time it pointed at Fletcher.

  ‘Come on, Kim,’ cajoled Terry.

  ‘Terry, this is fucking crazy,’ said Kay.

  ‘What’s wrong, George? Sense of humour failure?’

  Fletcher picked up the gun. He looked at Terry. Terry nodded encouragingly. Fletcher slowly put the gun against his temple, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. Click. Fletcher sighed, then opened his eyes and grinned. ‘Fuck me, what a rush,’ he said.

  ‘Better than sex,’ said Terry. Kay stood up, and Terry pointed a warning finger at him. ‘Sit the fuck down!’ he said, his voice loaded with menace, then nodded at Fletcher.

  Fletcher put the gun down and spun it. It whirled around half a dozen times then stopped. It pointed at Kay. Kay stared at the gun in horror.

  ‘Your shot, George,’ said Terry.

  ‘Yeah, come on, George. We’re behind you,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘You won’t feel a thing, George,’ said Pike.

  Kay picked up the gun. The blood had drained from his face and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. Terry stared at him coldly as he raised the gun to his head. Kay looked at Terry with pleading eyes. He was close to tears. ‘Terry . . .’ he said.

  ‘Come on, George,’ said Terry. ‘Be lucky.’

  Kay’s finger tightened on the trigger. The gun was shaking in his hand and he bit down on his lower lip.

  ‘Come on, George,’ said Terry. ‘You can do it.’

  Kay’s finger was white on the trigger, and his whole body shook as though he’d been plugged into the mains supply. Fletcher and Pike sat transfixed, tight grins on their faces, silently urging him on.

  Kay eventually broke. ‘I can’t,’ he said, slamming the gun down on the table. Tears streamed down his face. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I just can’t.’ His body was wracked with sobs.

  Terry slowly smiled. He held out his left hand and opened it. On his palm lay a single bullet.

  Kay frowned, not understanding. Then realisation dawned.

  Terry, Pike and Fletcher laughed out loud.

  ‘Your face, George,’ Terry said. ‘A fucking picture.’ He leaned over the table and gently patted Kay on the cheek.

  Kay started laughing, too, but it was a nervous, disjointed sound.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Terry, Fletcher and Pike left Lapland, laughing and joking. ‘He damn near pissed himself, did you see him?’

  ‘He’s an arsehole,’ said Pike.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s like they said in The Godfather, right? Keep your friends close and your arseholes closer.’

  ‘What is with all these movie references, Terry?’ said Pike.

  ‘It’s his new DVD player,’ laughed Fletcher.

  Terry tried to slap the back of Fletcher’s head, but he ducked away, chuckling. Terry pushed him, and as Fletcher staggered against a wall, three men in donkey jackets and ski masks rushed from behind a parked four-wheel drive. They had guns. Automatics.

  ‘Down on the ground, now!’ hissed one.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ said Terry, a gun jammed against his throat.

  ‘Do as you’re told or we’ll end it here,’ said the man. He had wide shoulders and cold brown eyes that stared out of the two holes in the mask. Terry could smell garlic on the man’s breath. He had an Irish accent. Northern Irish.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked Terry.

  The gun was jammed harder against Terry’s neck. The man was wearing leather gloves and Terry watched his finger tense on the trigger.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Terry. ‘Keep cool, yeah?’

  One of the other two men pistol-whipped Pike and kicked him to the ground. ‘I said get on the fucking floor!’ he snapped. Like the man with brown eyes, he had an Irish accent, but harder and more guttural.

  Fletcher got to his knees, then lay down with his hands outstretched. He turned his head towards Pike. ‘You okay?’ he whispered.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ shouted one of the men.

  Terry started to kneel down, but the man with brown eyes kicked him in the stomach and pushed him to the ground. He kept the gun pointing at Terry’s face. Terry stared up at the man, refusing to show fear. The brown eyes glared back at him, unblinking, and Terry realised that h
e was looking into the eyes of a killer.

  One of the other two men tore strips of insulation tape off a roll and used them to gag Fletcher and Pike, then he wound the tape around their wrists and ankles, binding them securely.

  The man with brown eyes kept the gun aimed at Terry’s face as he roughly searched through his pockets. He found the Smith & Wesson and stuck it into the belt of his trousers.

  Terry relaxed a little. If they were going to kill him, there’d be no point in searching him first. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘What is it you’re after?’

  The man backhanded Terry across the mouth. ‘Shut the fuck up, Greene, or I’ll put a bullet in your head here and now,’ he hissed as he went through the rest of Terry’s pockets.

  One of the other men came over and slapped a piece of insulation tape across Terry’s mouth, and another across his eyes. His arms were twisted behind his back and he was bundled into the four-wheel drive. He tried to struggle but a gun was pushed against the back of his neck. ‘Be still now,’ said an Irish voice. The doors of the four-wheel drive slammed shut and the vehicle sped off, leaving Fletcher and Pike on the ground, bound and gagged.

  Terry lay with his face pressed against the floor of the vehicle. He had trouble breathing through his nose so he used his tongue to push the insulation tape away from his mouth. He sucked in air gratefully.

  The four-wheel drive accelerated. They drove in a straight line and Terry figured they were on a motorway. He had no idea where they were going, or who the men where. When he’d first seen the men in ski masks, his first thought had been that it was the Kosovans, but the Irish accents put paid to that notion. So who were they? The only Irish that Terry had crossed swords with were a group of Liverpool-based gangsters who’d tried to double-cross him a few years back, but they’d ended up behind bars after they’d been caught with a container-load of cannabis en route to London.

  Whoever these men were, it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. The brown-eyed man had called him by name, and they’d snatched only Terry. Whatever it was about, it was personal.

  They drove along the motorway for the best part of half an hour, then along rougher roads, twisting and turning. Eventually the four-wheel drive came to a halt and Terry was dragged from the vehicle and half carried, half dragged across rough ground. He was thrown forward, and he pitched on to wet grass and dead leaves.