The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (19 page)

‘Fuck me,’ said Russell. ‘It’s a stick-up.’

‘A cock-up, more like,’ said Fletcher, producing his monkey wrench. Russell brought a length of chain out of his jacket pocket and stepped to the side, swinging it around as he walked towards the four heavies. Fletcher banged his monkey wrench against the side of the van and the doors burst open. The four men inside leapt out, their cricket bats at the ready, yelling obscenities.

The four heavies stood rooted to the spot, their mouths open. The driver of the blue van had climbed out by now, but he stood by the van door, transfixed, his eyes wide with surprise.

Suddenly there was a roar of engines and two motorcycles screeched to a halt behind the blue van. The riders and passengers dismounted and advanced towards the heavies, brandishing a variety of weapons.

Fletcher continued to hum as the motorcyclists and the men with cricket bats laid into the heavies from the blue van. Barely had the fighting started when another two motorcycles arrived with four more of Terry’s footsoldiers.

The mêlée was over in minutes: the four men from the back of the blue van lay bleeding and moaning at the side of the road, and the girl was running back down the road, screaming. One of the motorcyclists grabbed her by her ponytail, but Fletcher shook his head and told him to let her go. This wasn’t about fighting girls.

Russell and one of the cricket bat wielders grabbed the driver of the blue van, a big, balding thirty-something with a lazy right eye and a scar on his left cheek. In heavily accented English, he pleaded with them not to hurt him. ‘I innocent standbyer,’ he kept repeating, much to the amusement of his captors. They threw him into the back of the white Transit van and pulled a sack over his head.

Fletcher and Russell climbed into the front of the Transit as the rear doors slammed shut, and they drove off. Fletcher was still humming as the men in the back went to work on their captive.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam picked up the mail from the doormat and took it through to the kitchen where Trisha was wolfing down a bowl of Alpen. ‘Anything for me?’ asked Trisha.

‘Not unless you want to take care of the electricity bill,’ said Sam, dropping one of the manila envelopes down on the kitchen table.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Trisha.

‘What’s the point? It’s not as if I’m in a position to pay it’

Trisha looked suddenly worried. ‘Is everything okay, Mum?’

Sam smiled thinly. ‘Money’s a bit tight, love. That’s all.’

‘How tight?’

Sam shook her head. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about.’

‘What do you mean it’s nothing for me to worry about? I’m a part of this family, what’s left of it.’

Sam ruffled her daughter’s hair. ‘I was making a bad joke, I’m sorry. Your dad being away has just made it a bit difficult, that’s all. But it’s temporary. There’s money on the way and everything’ll be okay, I promise.’

Trisha still looked concerned. ‘I guess I can cut back on stuff. If it’ll help.’

Sam laughed. ‘Like what? You want we should go on a diet of bread and water?’

‘It’d be okay, so long as it was Evian, I guess.’

They both laughed and Sam hugged her daughter, then kissed her on the forehead. ‘You’ll be late for school.’

Trisha picked up her backpack, blew Sam a kiss, and headed down the hall. Before she reached the front door the doorbell rang. Trisha opened the door to find McKinley in a dark overcoat buttoned all the way up.

‘Morning, Trisha,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ she said, brushing past him.

Sam came out of the kitchen and saw McKinley on the doorstep. ‘Andy? What’s up?’

‘We’ve got one of the guys who ambushed the van, Mrs Greene. The lads are having a word with him now.’

‘You think I should be there?’

‘I think it’d be best.’

Sam nodded. She picked up her coat and followed McKinley out to the Lexus.

McKinley drove her to the warehouse in Paddington where they stored the duty-free booze brought in from the Continent. He banged on the metal door, and after a couple of minutes it rattled open. It was Johnny Russell, the front of his denim shirt soaking wet.

‘Mrs Greene,’ Russell said. ‘You’re just in time for the fun.’

Sam and McKinley followed him through the warehouse. A hosepipe snaked across the floor from a tap on one wall. In the middle aisle Fletcher and Pike were standing around a barrel full of water. Above them, a man was suspended head first from the rafters, his head and shoulders underwater. A chain had been tied around his ankles and thrown over a rafter high above, and Ryser and Ellis had hold of the other end of the chain. The man in the barrel was struggling, but with his legs tied and his head underwater, all he could do was thrash around.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted Sam.

‘We’re making him talk,’ said Pike.

‘How’s he going to talk with his head under water?’ asked Sam.

Pike and Fletcher exchanged a worried look. Pike shrugged. The man in the barrel went suddenly still. All the men looked at Sam as if wondering what she wanted them to do.

‘For God’s sake, were you all bullied at school or something?’ said Sam. ‘Get him down.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Zoran Poskovic took a swig from the bottle of vodka on his desk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went back to counting the stacks of banknotes on his desk. From where he was sitting he could watch his men preparing the day’s hot dogs, opening cans of brown-skinned sausages and pouring them into metal trays, cutting rolls open and chopping onions. Like Poskovic, they were all Kosovans. About half had entered the country as refugees and were waiting for their asylum applications to be processed, the rest were illegals, brought in by Poskovic, usually hidden in specially built compartments in lorryloads of fruit shipped over from the Continent. More men arrived every week, and most ended up working for Poskovic. If they refused, they were beaten or betrayed to the authorities. Or both.

Poskovic usually started the new arrivals on his hot dog trolleys. He had more than fifty with pitches around central London. Poskovic would watch them carefully, and those who proved themselves he’d move on to his more illicit activities. He already had a dozen Kosovan prostitutes working for him in a chain of apartments on the Edgware Road, and he’d started using some of the women as drugs couriers, bringing in small amounts of heroin from his contacts back home.

Two men in their twenties pushed out a trolley and Poskovic nodded at them. His face fell, however, when he saw Petko stagger in through the door. He was soaking wet and his face was cut and bruised.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he shouted. ‘The rest got back hours ago.’

Petko shook his head. ‘They beat the shit out of me,’ he said.

‘Who did?’

A woman in a raincoat with the collar turned up walked in, flanked by two large men, one wearing an overcoat, the other a leather jacket. ‘That would be me,’ she said.

Poskovic stood up. ‘Who the fuck is she?’ he shouted at Petko in his own language. ‘You brought her here?’

Another four men appeared behind the woman, all wearing long coats. They all stood glaring at Poskovic.

Poskovic shouted over at his men and they stopped work. They came over carrying their knives and stood at his desk as Poskovic continued to stare at the woman, wondering who she was and why she had walked into his warehouse. Most of the men with her had their hands deep in their pockets. Poskovic had a gun, but it was in the drawer of the desk and he didn’t want to risk getting it out, not until he knew what exactly he was up against.

‘Don’t blame Petko, here,’ said the woman. ‘It’s not his fault. The boys got a bit heavy with him. You must be Zoran Poskovic, yeah? I’m Samantha Greene. It’s my husband’s vans you’ve been playing fast and loose with.’

She stepped forward and held out her hand. Poskovic frowned at the hand. She smiled patiently, her hand outstretched. Poskovic slowly wiped his right hand on his trousers, then shook hands with her. She had a surprisingly strong grip for a woman, though her hand was small and her fingers long and delicate.

Sam noticed the cases of beer and cigarettes and nodded at them. ‘That’s probably his stuff there, is it?’

Poskovic shrugged his massive shoulders but didn’t say anything. His men looked at him, wondering what he wanted them to do, but he continued to look at the woman.

‘Petko says you’re Kosovans?’

‘Petko talks too much,’ said Poskovic. ‘What do you want?’

‘What I want is for you to leave my husband’s booze runs alone, that’s what I want.’

Poskovic smiled, showing four gold teeth at the back of his mouth. ‘It’s a free market economy,’ he said. ‘The strong prosper at the expense of the weak.’

He looked across at his men, wanting them to be impressed by his use of English, but none of them had understood and they looked at him blankly.

‘Yeah, but you see that’s where your hypothesis starts to fall apart,’ said Sam. ‘My husband’s not weak. He’s in prison, I’ll grant you that, but he wouldn’t want you calling him a softie. And I wouldn’t want you thinking I was a pushover either.’ She looked at him with unblinking green eyes.

Poskovic had faced hundreds of men over the years, more often than not intimidating them by the mere threat of violence, with a long stare or a menacing look, but he could sense that Sam Greene wasn’t scared, and that it would take more than posturing to beat her down. He could see that she had been a very pretty woman in her youth, stunning maybe. She was still a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth, long eyelashes and flawless skin, but the prettiness had given way to an elegance and self-confidence that Poskovic found even more of a sexual turn-on than mere looks.

‘Terry’s going to defend what’s his,’ she said. ‘And so am I.’

Poskovic nodded slowly. She had eight men with her. Poskovic had almost twenty. Plus a dozen others who could be summoned within minutes. She was outnumbered and she knew it, but she was still unafraid as she faced him. Poskovic looked at the men behind her and wondered if they had guns in the pockets of their overcoats. And if they’d be prepared to use them.

Sam gestured at the bottle on Poskovic’s desk. ‘That vodka?’ she asked.

Poskovic nodded. ‘The real thing. Got it from a friend in St Petersburg. You are a vodka drinker, Mrs Greene?’

‘Zoran, I’ll drink whatever you’ve got right now.’

Poskovic grinned and told his men to fetch another glass, then he poured two shots and handed her one. They both knocked them back and Poskovic watched her closely to see how she’d react, to see if she really was a drinker or if it had just been bravado.

She licked her lips thoughtfully, then nodded. ‘Nice,’ she said, and held out her glass for a refill.

Poskovic laughed. He gave her another shot of vodka and toasted her. ‘I think you and I are going to be friends, Mrs Greene.’

She held up her glass. ‘That depends on whether or not you leave my husband’s vans alone.’ She drained the glass again. ‘Have you got anywhere to sit, Zoran, or do you do all your negotiating on your feet?’

Poskovic called for chairs to be brought over, and he and Sam sat facing each other. Their men were visibly more relaxed, but they still stood warily by, and Sam’s men kept their hands in their pockets.

‘So what’s Kosovo like, Zoran?’ Sam asked.

‘It’s a hard country,’ said Poskovic. ‘Poor like you would not believe. Everyone wants to get out.’

‘And come to England? To make a new life?’

‘To America. America is best. But if they cannot get to America, London will do.’

‘And that’s what you did? Got out and carved a new life for yourself here?’

Poskovic nodded.

‘I can understand that, Zoran. My family were economic refugees, if you go back a couple of generations. My great-great-grandfather was Hungarian.’

Poskovic nodded appreciatively. ‘Good people, Hungarians.’ He help up his vodka glass. ‘Good drinkers.’

Sam shrugged. ‘Yeah, maybe that’s where I get it from.’ She drank another shot of vodka. ‘So what are we going to do, Zoran? We don’t want to go to war over this, do we?’

‘War?’

‘Because that’s what’ll happen if we don’t get something sorted. You’ll keep on hitting my vans, my guys will hit yours, we’ll spend so much time fighting each other we won’t either of us be in a position to make any money. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?’

Poskovic shrugged. ‘It’s business, Mrs Greene. We have to take what we can, no one is going to give us a living.’ He waved over at the hot dog trolleys. ‘We had to fight the Bosnians for this business. And they’re hard bastards. If we’d just walked up and said please can we share your business, what do you think they would have done?’

Sam smiled. ‘It’s a dog eat dog world,’ she said.

Poskovic frowned. He didn’t understand.

‘It’s an expression, Zoran. It means things are so bad that even the dogs fight each other.’

Poskovic nodded. ‘Nothing to do with hot dogs?’

Sam threw back her head and laughed, and so did her men. Poskovic laughed too, though he wasn’t quite sure what she found so funny.

When she’d finished laughing, Sam took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Poskovic. He accepted and she lit it for him, then lit one for herself. ‘Why did you choose my husband’s vans, Zoran?’

Poskovic blew a cloud of smoke and waited for it to disperse before he spoke. ‘We thought that because your husband was in prison . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

Sam nodded. ‘And what was it you were after? A few grand’s worth of booze. You must have bigger fish to fry.’

Poskovic frowned again. His English was fairly good, especially compared with his compatriots, but he didn’t have a particularly good grasp of British slang.