The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (4 page)

The front door opened and then slammed shut and Laura winced. Jonathon Nichols walked into the sitting room and threw his briefcase on to a winged chair. ‘Have you any idea what sort of day I’ve had?’ he hissed. He went over to a table laden with bottles and poured himself a whisky. He drained the glass in one gulp, and refilled it before turning to glare at her. ‘There I am, trying to put together one of the biggest fucking deals of my career, and what happens? The fucking
Evening Standard
has me in its City gossip page.’ He took a rolled-up copy of the paper from the pocket of his suit and hurled it across the room at her. It flew apart in the air in a shower of pages.

Laura curled herself up into a tighter ball, keeping herself as small as possible, not wanting to provoke him.

‘Son-in-law of a convicted murderer, making a killing from dot com deal,’ he said. Whisky spilled out of the glass and on to the carpet. ‘How do you think that makes me look, huh? They’re laughing at me behind my back. Taking the piss. Because of your fucking father.’

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Laura, hugging a cushion to her chest.

‘Sorry. You’re sorry? How does you being sorry help me, huh?’

Laura turned her face away. She knew there was nothing that she could say that would placate him. She’d just have to wait until his anger had run its course.

‘Don’t fucking ignore me,’ said Nichols, striding across the room towards her.

‘I’m not ignoring you,’ she said, her voice trembling.

‘So look at me.’

Laura looked up at him tearfully.

‘And stop fucking crying. What have you got to cry about, huh? Your job’s not on the line. No one’s taking the piss out of you.’

‘My father’s in prison!’ shouted Laura.

‘And whose fucking fault is that!’ Nichols yelled back.

‘It’s not mine!’

Nichols threw his drink over her. The whisky stung her eyes but she refused to wipe it away. She let it run down her face and over her shirt. Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it, hard enough to taste blood.

‘Are you happy now?’ yelled her husband. ‘See what you made me do? See what you’ve reduced me to?’

Laura got up and tried to get past him, but he grabbed her by the hair and twisted it savagely.

‘You always do this, you always push me too damn far. It’s not enough that I have to go through hell in the office, you have to make my life a misery at home as well.’

Laura couldn’t contain the tears any longer and her body was wracked with deep, mournful sobs. Nichols pushed her to the ground and drew back his foot to kick her. Laura gasped in anticipation of the blow, and Nichols grinned at her, cruelly. ‘Now you’re sorry, aren’t you? Now you’re fucking sorry.’

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving Laura curled up on the floor in a foetal ball, the taste of whisky and blood in her mouth.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam tapped on Trisha’s bedroom door. ‘Trisha?’ There was no answer. Her daughter had gone straight up to her room as soon as she’d got back from school and had stayed there. Sam had heard her television go on and off a couple of times, and then she’d played CDs for a couple of hours. ‘Trish, do you want any supper?’

‘No, thanks.’

Trisha’s voice was flat and emotionless, as if it had been generated by computer. Sam knew it was her daughter’s own special way of punishing her. And she also knew that the only way of dealing with it was to ride it out, to pretend that it didn’t worry her. ‘Are you sure? I’m going to do pasta.’

‘I had something after school.’

‘Okay. Good night, then.’

‘Good night.’

Sam hesitated. Part of her wanted to push open the door and to confront her daughter, to try to talk through whatever it was that was upsetting her, but Sam knew there was no point, Trisha would simply retreat further into her shell. Besides, Sam already knew what the matter was – her father was serving a life sentence for murder, and there wasn’t anything she could say that was going to change that.

She went downstairs and lit a cigarette. She’d lied about making pasta. She wasn’t in the least bit hungry, and the way she felt, she’d probably never eat again. It was starting to go dark outside, and swallows were making their final swoops of the evening, wheeling and diving for insects and calling to each other.

Sam inhaled smoke deep into her lungs as she wondered how Terry was feeling. He’d been on remand for two months, but remand was one thing, the first night of a life sentence was something else. How would he be able to cope with that, with the days and nights stretching out ahead of him? He’d be an old man by the time he got out. Ten years older than Sam’s own father when he’d passed away, and he’d pretty much died of old age, a combination of liver failure, kidney trouble and several strokes. He hadn’t smoked, barely drank, and lived a relatively stress-free life. It was just old age that killed him. Sam shivered at the thought of what lay ahead of her. Of everyone. But at least she was free to make choices, to live her life as she wanted, and not kept behind bars being told what to do every minute of every day.

The telephone rang and she jumped at the unexpected noise. She picked up the receiver from its holder by the fridge. ‘Hello?’ She wasn’t expecting anyone, and it was well past the time when prisoners were allowed to use the communal phones.

‘I know where you live, you fucking bitch!’

Sam’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

‘I said I know where you fucking live, you bitch, and you’re dead meat. You’re a lying whore and you’re gonna get what’s coming to you.’ Sam put the phone down and took another long pull on the cigarette.

‘Sticks and stones,’ she muttered to herself.

Upstairs, Trisha opened her bedroom door. ‘Was that for me?’ she called down.

Sam went into the hall. ‘No, love, it was for me.’ Trisha’s door slammed shut. ‘It was definitely for me,’ Sam said to herself as she went back into the kitchen.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry lay on his back staring up at the bunk above his head. It was occupied by a twenty-two-stone Liverpudlian called Charlie Hoyle who was doing seven years for GBH. Hoyle had got into an argument with two Everton fans in a pub car park. He’d won the fight by giving one of the men a bear hug that had broken three ribs, and fallen down on top of the other one, bursting the man’s spleen. The judge who’d sent Hoyle down had what passed for a sense of humour and had referred to Hoyle’s body as ‘an offensive weapon, in more than one way’. Even Hoyle had been chuckling as he was led away from the dock. He was a nice enough guy, but Terry was already finding it a nuisance to flatten himself against the wall every time Hoyle wanted to move around the cell.

The springs above him groaned and Hoyle’s face appeared over the side of the bunk. ‘You all right, Tel?’

‘I’m fine, Charlie. Cheers.’

‘You want any wacky backy?’

‘Not right now, thanks.’

‘Anything else you want, you just ask.’

‘Thanks, Charlie. I will.’

Hoyle heaved himself back on to his bunk and was soon snoring loudly. Terry grinned. His hands were interlinked behind his head on top of the wafer-thin pillow he’d been given, and both blankets were threadbare and stained. He figured Riggs was doing as much as he could to make him as uncomfortable as possible, but Terry could take whatever was thrown at him. If everything went to plan, he wouldn’t be behind bars for long.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Frank Welch dropped a stack of newspapers on his desk and sat down. He unwrapped his croissant and broke off a piece and chewed as he read through the
Daily Mail.
He’d given the chief reporter an exclusive off-the-record briefing on the Greene case, and the journalist had done him proud.

There was a photograph of Sam on one of the inside pages, looking directly at the camera, her chin slightly up. There was an air of defiance about her, as if she knew that she’d be staring out of the pages of a newspaper and didn’t care. She was wearing a pale green suit with a thin gold chain and a crucifix around her neck. Welch smiled at the crucifix. It had been a nice touch, that. She’d worn it every day in court, even though she’d never worn the same outfit twice. Whatever she wore, she always made sure that the collar was open so that the jury could see the crucifix and just a hint of cleavage. The skirts were always cut just above the knee, showing off her shapely legs. Her heels were high enough to keep the male members of the jury interested, but not high enough to offend the women. It had been a delicate balancing act, but Sam Greene had pulled it off.

She’d been a professional singer in her early twenties, and flirted with acting, and Welch had seen her give the performance of her life in court. Supportive glances across to her husband in the dock. The occasional dab of a handkerchief. Steely glares at the main prosecution witness. Slightly flirtatious smiles at the male jury members if the judge wasn’t looking. And every day the walk to and from the court, head up, shoulders back, looking defiantly at the clicking cameras. It had been an outstanding performance, but Terry Greene had still gone down for life and that was all that mattered to Welch.

The
Mail
had also used a picture of Greene’s family home, a modern five-bedroom detached house on the outskirts of Chiswick, complete with heated swimming pool and three-car garage. It was the sort of house that Welch could never hope of coming close to owning. The most Welch could afford was a two-bedroom flat in Maida Vale and the way that London property prices were surging there was little chance of him ever climbing higher up the property ladder. There was no swimming pool in Welch’s immediate future. Or three-car garage. Welch smiled to himself. But at least he wouldn’t be spending the rest of his life in prison so maybe there was some justice in the world after all.

Doug Simpson pulled the
Telegraph
from the pile and flicked through the pages. ‘Page four, boss,’ he said.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Detective Constable Colin Duggan, scratching his fleshy neck. ‘You’re not going to like this, boss.’

Welch looked up from the front page of the
Mail.

Duggan threw over a copy of the
Mirror.
‘They spelt your name wrong.’

‘They did what?’ Welch grabbed the paper and read through the story.

‘Welsh, like the sheep-shaggers.’

‘For God’s sake, how could they fuck up my name?’

Simpson laughed but stopped abruptly when he saw that Welch was serious.

‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at, Simpson. You’re not even mentioned.’ Welch tossed the newspaper on to his desk, but it knocked over his coffee and the hot brown liquid went everywhere. Welch cursed and mopped it up with the
Mail.
‘Fuck you, Terry Greene,’ he muttered.

He dropped the wet newspapers into his wastebin, then stood up and bellowed at the dozen or so detectives in the CID room. ‘Right, everyone listen to this, please. Just because we’ve put Terry Greene away doesn’t mean we’ve put a stop to his organisation. Someone’s going to take over from him, so let’s find out who, shall we? You know who his associates are, so let’s put them under the microscope, rattle a few cages, call in a few favours. Let’s keep up the pressure.’

Heads nodded, but Welch sensed a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Unless you’ve got anything better to do with your time? And maybe you should all remember that I’ll be signing expense sheets today.’

Detectives started picking up phones and pecking away on computer keyboards, trying to give the semblance of productivity. Welch grinned and went back to his papers. At least the
Mail
had spelled his name right.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam found David Jackson on the touchline, shouting at twenty tracksuited footballers who were running around the pitch, breath feathering from their mouths in the cold morning air.

‘Can see you’ve had your Weetabix, Jacko,’ said Sam as she came up behind him. ‘I thought it was the manager’s job to do the shouting, and the chairman just pocketed the readies.’

Jacko was genuinely surprised to see her and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. ‘Samantha, love. Great to see you.’ His smile vanished and his face was suddenly serious. ‘I’m so sorry about Terry, love. Damn shame.’

‘Thanks, Jacko.’

‘Anything I can do, Samantha. Anything. Just ask.’

‘That’s sort of why I’m here,’ said Sam. ‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘Sure. Just let me get the boys started.’ Jacko cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled across the pitch to the footballers. ‘Three more laps, and if your arsehole of a coach hasn’t turned up by then, get a warm-up game started.’

Jacko thrust his hands into his overcoat and walked with Sam towards the tunnel that led into the belly of the stadium.

‘The thing is, Jacko, Terry’s got financial problems.’

‘Who hasn’t?’

‘No, real problems. I’ve spent this morning wading through bills, and the bank manager’s been on the phone already asking about the mortgage payments. Like sharks smelling blood.’

‘I thought Terry was well set up.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sam ruefully. ‘You and me both. His stake in the club’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it?’

Jacko sucked air through his teeth. ‘We’re not up there with the big boys, Samantha. The money stays with them, there’s no bloody trickle-down economics here.’

‘You’re pulling in the crowds though, Jacko.’ She could hear the desperation in her voice and hated herself for it.

‘It’s not about bums on seats any more. It’s about TV. And who’s going to pay to tune in to see us when they can watch Man U? Look, you’re not the only one with a bank manager on her back – we owe our banks well over a million and a half He shrugged his broad shoulders inside the overcoat. ‘I’m sorry, love, that’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?’