The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (6 page)

Welch rocked back in his chair, stunned by her outburst. Sam shook her head contemptuously.

Before Welch could say anything, the door opened. It was the police doctor, holding two specimen bottles. Welch stood up and hurried out of the room. ‘Make sure she fills both of them,’ he snarled as he brushed past the doctor.

Sam smiled sweetly at the doctor and held out her hand for the bottles. ‘Shall I do it here or can someone escort me to the ladies?’ she said. ‘I’ve taken the piss out of Raquel, least I can do is make a donation myself.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Trisha came tottering downstairs on high heels and grabbed her backpack from under the telephone table in the hall. She’d tied her long blonde hair back in a ponytail and her school tie was loose around her neck.

Sam came out of the kitchen holding a plate of toast. ‘Hey, breakfast.’

‘Not hungry, Mum. I’ll get something at school.’

Sam held out the plate and raised an eyebrow.

‘Mother, I’m not going to clog up my arteries with cholesterol.’

‘It’s Flora. High in polyunsaturates. Whatever they are.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘On your mother’s life.’

Trisha took a slice and sniffed it suspiciously. ‘Smells like butter,’ she muttered.

‘A miracle of modern science. Are you going to school like that?’

Trisha frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You look like you’ve just fallen out of bed. And you’re wearing too much make-up.’

‘Mum, everyone wears make-up these days. Even some of the boys.’

Sam couldn’t help smiling. Trisha had her mother’s high cheekbones and fiery eyes and looked older than her fifteen years. Sam had been the same at Trisha’s age. Even in her mid-teens she’d been able to pass herself off as a twenty-something and had never had a problem getting into nightclubs and pubs. However, even Sam would never have thought of wearing pink glossy lipstick and eyeliner to school.

‘And the earrings are okay?’

‘So long as they don’t dangle. That’s the rule.’ Trisha could see from the look on her mother’s face that she didn’t believe her. ‘It’s true, Mum,’ she protested.

‘How is it, school?’ asked Sam, brushing a stray lock of Trisha’s hair over her ear.

‘School’s school.’

‘Did they give you any grief over Dad?’

Trisha scowled. ‘No more than usual.’ She looked at her chunky fluorescent-green wristwatch. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘What time are you getting home tonight?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve got to go out.’

‘Again? You didn’t get back until almost eleven last night.’

‘Business. I’m trying to tidy up your father’s affairs.’

‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’

‘His financial affairs.’

‘Speaking of which . . .’ Trisha held out a hand. ‘Can I have a tenner?’

‘I gave you twenty last week,’ said Sam.

‘Exactly. Last week.’

‘What do you need it for?’

Trisha sighed theatrically. ‘Tampons . . . actually.’

‘That’s what you said last week.’

Trisha groaned. ‘Fine. Okay. Whatever.’

Sam picked up her purse off the hall table and gave Trisha a twenty-pound note.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Trisha and kissed Sam on the cheek. ‘Any chance of a lift?’

‘Do you see a chauffeur’s cap on my head?’

‘Kidnappers and child molesters use the bus. You might never see me again.’

Sam opened the front door. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’

Trisha stuck her tongue out playfully, then tottered out of the door.

‘And those heels are too high,’ Sam called after her. Trisha waved without looking back.

Sam closed the door and picked up the mail. There were several brown envelopes that were obviously bills. A letter from the Inland Revenue addressed to Terry. A letter from American Express that Sam hoped was junk mail and not a demand for payment. A padded envelope with her name on it, written in capital letters. Sam carried them through to the kitchen. She used a breadknife to slit open the padded envelope and put her hand inside. She screamed as she touched something cold and damp and she jerked her hand out.

She turned the envelope over and shook it. A bloody chicken’s head dropped out and slapped on to the draining board. Sam put a hand over her mouth and stared at it in horror.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

There were two dozen men lining up for breakfast, holding plastic trays and chatting as they waited for their turn. Terry grabbed a tray and walked to the head of the queue where a prison cook was slapping greasy bacon and blackened sausages on to a plate.

A short man with pockmarked skin reached out for the plate, but Terry leaned across him and took it. The man protested, but fell silent when he saw that it was Terry. He nodded and Terry gave him a tight smile.

‘How about another sausage, yeah?’ Terry asked the cook.

The cook nodded and used plastic tongs to hand Terry a sausage, then spooned a dollop of baked beans on to Terry’s plate.

‘Oi, there’s a fucking queue here!’ shouted a prisoner halfway down the line.

Terry turned to look at him. He was a black guy in his twenties and he was looking around for support from the prisoners next to him. Most avoided meeting his gaze. One of the men leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. The man’s body language changed immediately: he seemed to sag at the waist and he swallowed nervously. He gave Terry a half wave, then looked at the floor. Terry continued to stare at the man for several seconds before turning away.

He reached over and picked up three slices of toast. The rule was one slice of toast per prisoner, but none of the cooks said anything. Terry picked up a mug of tea and headed back to his cell. Several of the prisoners in the queue nodded and wished him a good morning. The two prison officers who were standing on the landing looking down had watched Terry push into the queue but it was clear they weren’t going to intervene.

Terry wasn’t particularly hungry, and he certainly hadn’t wanted the extra burnt sausage. It was all about establishing his place in the pecking order, demonstrating to the prison population that Terry Greene wasn’t to be messed with.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

There were three bouncers at the entrance to the club, big men in dark coats with their hands clasped in front of their groins like bit players in a low-budget gangster movie. Behind them a thick purple rope ran between brass poles, the barrier through which customers had to pass to get inside Lapland.

Sam walked to the head of the line. It had been more than two years since she’d last visited the club, and that had been with Terry. It wasn’t her favourite place, but George Kay had said that he was too busy to get away and that if she wanted to see him it would have to be there.

One of the bouncers moved to bar Sam’s way, but another put a hand on his shoulder and nodded. He removed the rope and waved for Sam to go through. ‘Mrs Greene,’ he said, in a throaty Glaswegian accent. ‘Long time no see.’

Sam frowned at the man. He was well over six feet tall, in his early thirties and with close-cropped receding hair and a strong jaw.

‘Andy McKinley, Mrs Greene, I used to drive your husband.’

‘Andy. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Greene. You were only in the Lexus one time and you probably only saw the back of my head.’

‘It’s not that, Andy, it’s just that I didn’t expect to see you on the door.’

‘Needs as needs must, Mrs Greene. I’ll show you through.’

Sam followed McKinley down a dimly lit corridor and into the club. Three busty girls, two blondes and a brunette, were dancing around silver poles on a stage while dozens of other equally well-endowed girls moved among the predominantly male clientele, accepting drinks and performing one-on-one lapdances. There were lots of bottles of champagne in ice buckets and men in suits shoving ten-pound notes in the garters of the dancing girls. It was, thought Sam, a hell of a way to earn a living.

‘Busy night, Andy,’ she said, as McKinley led her through the tables to George Kay’s office.

‘It always is, Mrs Greene,’ said McKinley. He knocked on a door and opened it. ‘Mr Kay. Mrs Greene to see you.’

McKinley stepped to the side to let Sam go in, then gently closed the door behind her.

George Kay was sprawled in a leather executive chair, his feet up on a cluttered desk reading a copy of
Exchange and Mart.
‘Sam, darling, lovely surprise.’ He swung his feet off the desk and waddled over to greet her, planting a wet kiss on each cheek.

‘I did say I was coming, George.’

‘Of course you did, darling, of course you did.’

He waved her over to an overstuffed sofa opposite a large window through which they could see what was going on in the club. McKinley had moved away a rowdy group of men in shirtsleeves who were giving one of the dancers a hard time. McKinley quietened them with a few words and they dropped back into their seats as meek as mice.

Sam sat down and George went back behind his desk. He gestured at a chipped mug by a computer terminal. ‘Coffee, Sam?’ Sam shook her head. ‘Something stronger, then? Shall I get a bottle of bubbly sent in?’

‘No, thanks, George. I’m driving and I’ve already had to piss in a bottle once this week.’

Kay’s brow furrowed. He ran a hand through his greying goatee beard. He was at least ten stone overweight and was sweating despite a large air-conditioning unit on the wall behind his desk.

‘How long’s McKinley been working for you?’ asked Sam.

‘Since they arrested Terry, pretty much.’ Kay looked uncomfortable, as if he might have said the wrong thing. ‘Least I could do, you know? Help the lad out.’

Sam nodded and took a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag. ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you, George?’

Kay looked even more uncomfortable. He picked up an inhaler and showed it to her. ‘Rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind. Asthma. Since I was a kid. Smoke shuts my bronchioles down.’

‘Can’t have that, can we?’ said Sam, putting the cigarettes away. She tapped her fingernails on her handbag. ‘The thing is, George – Terry has asked me to run things for him while he’s away.’

Kay stiffened. He pointed a finger at her. ‘Now just a fucking minute . . .’

‘It’s all right,’ interrupted Sam. ‘I’m not doing it. Don’t worry. But I’ve got money problems. Cashflow.’

He shrugged. ‘You and me both.’

Sam gestured at the window. ‘Place is packed.’

‘Overheads, Sam.’

Kay opened one of his desk drawers and took out a cheque book. ‘If it’s a loan you want, I’m more than happy to help out.’

‘It’s serious money, George.’

Kay dropped the cheque book back into the drawer. ‘Terry’s never been short of a bob or two.’

‘Yeah, well, times have changed. Look, Terry owns half the clubs, right? This place, the one in Clerkenwell, the one south of the river. Can’t you buy him out?’

‘It’s not a good time, Sam. I can barely keep the wolf from the door myself.’

‘Come on, George, you’re not pleading poverty, are you?’

Kay took his inhaler and sucked on it, then patted his barrel-like chest. ‘It’s not a question of poverty, Sam, but I’m over-extended with the banks. And it’d need a big chunk of change to buy Terry out.’

‘What about getting someone else to buy his stake?’

Kay pulled a face. ‘That’s possible, but I wouldn’t want to get into bed with just anyone.’ He smiled at the double entendre. ‘If you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want the wrong sort of people in here. There’s the licence to think of.’

Sam stood up. ‘That’s it, then. I guess there isn’t anything else to be said, is there?’

‘Come on, Sam, there’s no need to rush. Let’s have a drink. Catch up on old times.’

‘We don’t have any old times, George,’ said Sam.

Sam lit a cigarette as she walked towards the exit. She was sure George Kay was deliberately being unhelpful. If the clubs were making money, he’d have no problem getting a loan from the banks, no matter how extended he was. He probably assumed that with Terry behind bars, he’d be able to keep the lion’s share of the profits. Sam trusted Kay about as far as she could throw him.

Andy McKinley undipped the rope to let her out and slipped a business card into her hand. ‘You need anything, Mrs Greene, anything at all, you call, hear?’

‘Thanks, Andy,’ said Sam, gratefully. McKinley was the first friendly face she’d seen in a while.

She got into her Saab and drove home, checking her rear-view mirror regularly, convinced that the police would pull her in again. The fact that she was driving away from a nightclub would give them all the excuse they needed to breathalyse her again.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

The curtains at Trisha’s window were moving as Sam got out of the Saab and let herself into the house but the light in her room was off. Sam went upstairs and knocked on her door. ‘Trish? You awake?’

There was no answer.

‘Good night, love. Sleep well.’

Sam went downstairs and opened a bottle of chilled Chardonnay. She poured herself a glass and lit the flame-effect gas fire in the sitting room. She sat on the floor, her back against the sofa, and stared at the flames as if hoping to find the answer to her problems there. The phone rang, startling her, and she spilled wine down the front of her dress. She picked up the receiver as she dabbed a tissue against the wet patch. ‘Yes?’

‘You are fucking dead meat. You hear me? Dead fucking meat. I know where you live and I’m gonna fucking cut you. I’m gonna fucking take a knife to you, do you—’

Sam banged the receiver down. She didn’t recognise the voice but guessed that it was one of Preston Snow’s relatives, probably the brother, the one that had thrown the bottle at Jamie’s car. Under normal circumstances she’d go to the police, but she doubted that they’d bother to do anything, and there was no way that she was prepared to give Raquel the satisfaction of asking for his help.