The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (12 page)

There were more mutterings and Sam held up a hand to quieten them.

‘I know you’d rather have Terry in the driving seat, and I’m sure he’d have preferred to be here himself, but what’s done is done. Tomorrow night everything goes ahead exactly as planned. Exactly as Terry planned.’

‘Amateur hour,’ whispered a thickset man with a mane of greying hair. He had his thumbs stuck into the waistband of his trousers and his belly thrust out in front of him. His name was Micky Fox and Sam had met him a few years earlier at a boxing match that Terry had been promoting.

‘Well, Micky, I’ll be sure to pass on your reservations to Terry.’

‘Nothing personal, love, but I’ve a lot of money tied up in this.’

There were more mutterings from the group and a chorus of ‘Yeah, me too.’

Sam nodded and held up her hands to calm then. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, and gradually they fell silent again. ‘Look, lads, no one here’s got more at stake than me. Most of your cash is due on delivery, right? You’ve put a percentage on deposit, but the lion’s share is still to come?’

Micky Fox nodded. So did the men around him.

Sam put her hand on the briefcase and tapped it with her blood-red nails. ‘Anyone who wants out can say so now. I’ll give you your deposit back and you can be on your way. I’ve got buyers lining up for the stuff.’

Micky Fox frowned. He looked across at George Kay and Kay shrugged. The other men looked equally confused.

‘Well, Micky?’

‘No need to be hasty, Sam. The stuffs on its way?’

‘It just needs collecting. Reg Salmon’s doing the business, but if you want to supply some of the manpower, you’re more than welcome. You all are.’

Fox looked at the men around him. Several were nodding. Fox looked at Sam and grinned. ‘What the hell, go for it, Sam!’ he said. The men cheered and pumped their fists in the air.

Sam grinned over at McKinley and he smiled at her.

McKinley escorted Sam back to the Lexus. On the way she handed him the briefcase. ‘You’d better take care of this from now on, Andy,’ she said.

It was heavy. ‘How much have you got in here, Mrs Greene?’ asked McKinley as he dropped the briefcase in the boot.

‘Two
Yellow Pages
and a stack of last year’s
Vogue,’
said Sam, climbing into the back of the car.

McKinley grinned at her. ‘Mrs Greene, you are a class act,’ he said. He got into the front seat. ‘Where to?’

‘Trafalgar Square. I’m meeting that cop of Terry’s.’

McKinley drove out of the car park and on to the main road and accelerated. ‘Which one?’

‘How many are there?’ asked Sam.

‘That’s a good question.’

‘And that’s not much of an answer, Andy. Seatbelt.’

McKinley groaned and put on his seatbelt, annoyed at himself for being caught out again.

‘Blackstock, his name is. Mark Blackstock.’

‘Ah, Blackie. He’s a chief super. One of the old school. Tough, no nonsense, and as bent as a nine-bob note.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam sat at the front of the top deck of the tour bus. Behind her were half a dozen Japanese tourists, a German couple and a French family. They all wore headphones and looked around as the recorded commentary in their own language described the sights of Trafalgar Square. The bus had been Blackie’s idea for a meeting place and Sam could see the sense of it. Hardly anyone on board the open-topped bus spoke English, there’d be no one who’d recognise either of them, and they’d be too busy listening to the recorded commentaries to overhear what was being said.

Blackie climbed on to the bus just before it crossed the Thames close to the Houses of Parliament. He was a big man, bigger even than Andy McKinley, and Sam had to squeeze herself to the side to give him enough room to sit down. He had close-cropped hair and a square face with thin lips that looked as if they rarely formed a smile. There were deep frown lines across his forehead and his fingernails were bitten to the quick.

‘Thought you’d be sick of sightseeing by now,’ said Sam. ‘Eighteen years on the Met.’

Blackie scowled at her. ‘Terry had no right to give you my name. No bloody right. And you can tell him that from me.’

‘I’ll be sure to do that,’ said Sam, smiling sweetly. ‘You remember the grass that gave evidence against him? Morrison? Ricky Morrison?’

‘So?’

‘So Terry would be ever so grateful if you’d find out where he is.’ She paused for effect with a hand lightly touching her forehead as if trying to dredge up a long-forgotten memory. ‘Actually, no, that’s not how he put it. His exact words were “tell that wanker Blackstock to pull his finger out and get on the case.” Something like that.’

All the tourists on the bus peered to the right as they drove by Lambeth Palace. Blackie shook his head and grimaced. ‘Have you any idea how dangerous that’s going to be?’

Sam patted him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Compared to, say, fifteen years of taking bribes and kickbacks from my dear husband?’

Blackie looked like he was close to exploding. His face was red and eyes were wide and his breath came in short wheezy gasps.

Sam smiled. ‘Come on, Blackie, let’s not get off on the wrong foot here, hey? Terry just needs a bit of help, that’s all. He’s not asking you to do anything you haven’t done a hundred times before.’

Blackie relaxed a little and settled back in his seat. Behind him there was a flurry of camera clicks but Sam and Blackie stared straight ahead as the bus drove alongside the Thames.

‘What does he want?’ asked Blackie eventually.

‘He wants me to speak to Morrison. To get the truth from him.’

‘The murder guys did that. He told them everything and repeated it in court. It’s not like they had to strap electrodes to his balls. The way I hear it, they couldn’t shut him up.’

‘I just want to talk to him. That’s all.’

‘There’s not just the witness, though. There’s the forensic, too. The blood on Terry’s shoes. The footprint on the dead man’s carpet.’

‘Terry says that Raquel stitched him up. First we discredit Morrison, then we’ll see if we can show that he faked the forensic’

Blackie shook his head in disbelief. ‘For fuck’s sake, Sam, this isn’t an episode of
Murder She Wrote.
There were two dozen cops on that investigation, thousands of man hours. You’re not going to overturn his conviction by a bit of do-it-yourself snooping.’

‘It’s no skin off your nose, though, is it, Blackie? All I need is an address for Ricky Morrison. Then you’re free and clear.’

Blackie stood up and leaned over her. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Okay?’

‘Can’t say fairer than that,’ said Sam.

Blackie went downstairs and got off at the next stop, close to Waterloo Station, and Sam settled back for the return trip to Trafalgar Square where McKinley was waiting for her. She needed time to think.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette. She looked across at the bottle of White Horse whisky on the sideboard. She really wanted a stiff drink, but in view of what lay ahead, she figured she’d need a clear head. Her hand trembled slightly as she tapped the cigarette on the edge of an ashtray. The Filofax lay on the coffee table and she reached out for it, then pulled back her hand. There was nothing within its covers that she hadn’t read a dozen times already. Terry had thought of everything, covered every eventuality. All she had to do was to follow his instructions and all their financial problems would be over.

She lay back on the sofa and blew smoke up at the ceiling. There’d be enough money to pay off the mortgage, Jamie’s university fees and Grace’s nursing home bills, and Patterson would have the funds to start the investigation into Terry’s conviction. All she had to do was to bring four tons of cannabis ashore.

‘Easy peasy,’ she muttered to herself. She sat up as she heard a car pull up outside and was already halfway down the hall when Andy McKinley rang the doorbell. Sam heard Trisha moving around on the landing upstairs.

She opened the door. McKinley was wearing a thigh-length dark grey woollen coat and black leather gloves. ‘It’s a cold night, Mrs Greene, I’d wrap up warm if I were you.’

‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Andy. Thanks.’

Sam closed the door and went upstairs. Trisha’s bedroom door was shut. Sam knocked on it. There was no answer.

‘Trish?’

‘What?’

Sam pushed open the door. Trisha was lying across her bed face down, reading a book that she’d placed on the floor.

‘That’ll ruin your eyes,’ said Sam.

‘You came all the way upstairs to tell me that?’

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Trisha’s long blonde hair. ‘You’ve got beautiful hair,’ she said.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Trisha, her voice loaded with resentment.

‘Out.’

‘Where?’

Sam smiled and played with Trisha’s hair. ‘Last time I looked in the mirror I was the mother.’

‘Are you going out with him.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. Him with the Lexus.’

‘Actually, it’s your dad’s Lexus.’

‘Actually, I don’t give a shit.’ Trisha rolled off the bed and went to sit in front of her dressing table.

‘Hey, language!’

Trisha glared at her mother in the mirror. ‘God, Mum, everyone says shit. I could have said—’

Sam silenced her with a warning finger. ‘Watch your mouth, young lady. I’m warning you.’

Trisha held Sam’s look for a couple of seconds, then looked away. She picked up a brush and started to comb her hair with long, slow strokes.

Sam rubbed her cheek. She didn’t want to fight with Trisha, but she didn’t have time to make it right. ‘I’m going out for a while. Probably won’t be back until late.’

Trisha whirled around as if she’d been stung. ‘How late?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When
I
say I don’t know, you hit the roof.’

‘Which brings me back to my point about me being the mother and you being the dutiful daughter.’ She took a deep breath, forcing herself not to raise her voice. ‘Look, Trish, I might be all night.’

Trisha’s upper lip curled back in a sneer. ‘Slut!’

Sam felt as if she’d been slapped across the face. ‘Trish, it’s business.’

Trisha turned her back on Sam and started brushing her hair again.

‘Trish . . .’ implored Sam, but her daughter stared resolutely into the mirror. Sam looked at her watch. She was running late. ‘Look, I’ve been getting some nasty phone calls over the past few days. If the phone rings . . .’

‘What, I can’t answer the phone now?’

‘I’m just saying, if you get any hassle, leave the phone off the hook.’

‘I’m not a child, Mum.’

‘I know.’

‘And if you need anything, there’s someone sitting in a car outside. He’s got a mobile and I’ve left the number by the answering machine. Okay?’

Sam hadn’t liked the idea of leaving Trisha alone in the house, but when she’d suggested a baby-sitter, Trisha had refused point blank. They’d agreed on a compromise, a colleague of McKinley’s from Lapland had agreed to park outside the house and keep an eye on Trisha.

‘You’re getting as bad as Dad,’ said Trisha.

‘It’s not that. It’s just that your dad’s got enemies, people who’d like to get back at him.’ Sam put a hand on Trisha’s shoulder but Trisha shook her off.

‘Has he got a gun?’

‘Who?’

‘This guy who’s sitting outside the house.’

‘Of course not.’ Sam looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, love, I’ve got to go. Be good.’ She stood up, kissed Trisha on the top of her head and walked out, closing the door carefully behind her.

McKinley had the engine running and the heater on. ‘All right, Mrs Greene?’

‘Fine Andy.’ She was wearing a dark blue padded jacket that she’d last worn on a skiing holiday in Austria with Terry. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

‘Settle back, it’s a long drive.’

McKinley nodded at a man sitting at the wheel of an Isuzu Trooper as they edged out onto the road. The man nodded back.

McKinley meant what he said. They headed up north, and even though the motorway was relatively clear he stuck religiously to the speed limit. The last thing they needed was a speeding ticket, a written record of where they were.

He drove up as far as Newcastle then cut eastwards towards the Northumberland coast. Sam dozed in the back until the roads began to twist and turn. The headlights of the Lexus picked out a sign and the name of a village. Alnmouth. McKinley turned left before they reached the village and in the distance Sam saw the rippling ocean nudging against the blackness of the night sky.

‘Not far now, Mrs Greene.’

Sam peered out through a side window. There was the merest sliver of a new moon, just enough to silver the edges of the waves. ‘Andy. Change of plan.’

‘What’s wrong, Mrs Greene?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t want to be on the beach when the stuff comes ashore.’

‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Mrs Greene. Terry always said it was best to be on the spot. Inspires confidence, he said. And there was less chance of the hired help ripping him off.’

‘That’s as maybe, but I’m not Terry. Find me somewhere where we can overlook the beach, but not be seen. Okay?’

‘Whatever you say, Mrs Greene.’

Sam could sense that McKinley was disappointed that she hadn’t taken his advice, but she couldn’t explain why she’d had a change of heart. She’d had a sudden feeling of impending doom, and the only way of explaining it was to say it was women’s intuition. Somehow she didn’t think McKinley would take her seriously.

McKinley drove along the coast for about half a mile, then turned westwards and drove up a hill before turning off on to a rutted track that was clearly only used by farm vehicles. He stopped in front of a five-bar wooden gate and switched off the headlights before getting out of the Lexus and opening it.