The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (16 page)

‘The more the merrier, obviously,’ said Patterson, ‘but the people I’ve got on the case are going to need paying. And as we stand right now, you don’t have the resources for that.’

Sam lit a cigarette. ‘Warwick Locke said he’d give me five grand for Terry’s share of the modelling business. The cheque should arrive any day now.’

Patterson looked pained. ‘Five thousand pounds is a drop in the proverbial, I’m afraid. Ten times that would just about cover what it’s going to cost to get Terry’s case reopened.’

Sam’s face fell. Fifty thousand pounds? Where on earth was she going to get fifty thousand pounds from?

‘I know that’s a lot, Samantha. I’m sorry. But that’s what it costs. That’s not even including Richard’s fees or mine. We’re going to have to go over every court paper again, re-interview every witness, re-examine the forensics.’

Sam looked at them in turn. She could see the pity in their eyes and she refused to show how upset she was. She forced a smile. ‘I’ll get the money,’ she said. ‘Come hell or high water, I’ll get it.’

Patterson tapped the briefcase that he’d brought with him. ‘Terry’s spoken to you about the other thing?’

‘The counterfeit money? Yeah. I told him I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole, but that was before . . .’ She left the sentence hanging.

‘And now?’ asked Asher.

‘Now I don’t think I’ve got any choice. Do you know exactly what he’s got in mind?’

‘Arm’s length,’ said Asher. ‘Need-to-know basis.’

Patterson opened the briefcase. ‘But he did say that we were to give you this if you did decide to go through with it.’ He took out a notebook and handed it to her.

Sam took it and opened it. Asher walked over to the railing at the far end of the terrace as if wanting to distance himself as far as possible from the notebook and whatever was written in it. ‘Why do I get the feeling that my strings are being pulled?’ asked Sam.

‘It’s just Terry planning ahead, Samantha,’ said Patterson, closing the briefcase and clicking shut the two locks. ‘Anticipating problems before they arise.’

‘Yeah? Causing them, more like.’

‘Samantha, are you still driving the Saab?’ asked Asher, peering down over the railing.

‘Christ, now what?’ said Sam. ‘It’s not been vandalised again, has it?’

‘They’re towing it.’

Sam cursed and rushed back into the office, shouting over her shoulder that she’d be in touch. She dashed to the lift and tapped the notebook impatiently against her leg all the way down.

By the time she reached the Saab it was already being lifted on to the back of a flatbed truck. A West Indian traffic warden in a too-tight uniform was punching the keys of a handheld computer. Sam hurried up to him. ‘I’m sorry, I was in a meeting. I fed the meter, I guess I mustn’t have put enough in.’

‘Too late now, madam,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the computer.

‘I can’t have been more than ten minutes.’

‘Nothing I can do once the wheels have left the ground.’ He finished tapping on the computer keys and slotted it into a leather holster, like a sheriff putting away his six-shooter. ‘You can collect it from the pound in about an hour’s time.’

‘Can’t you just pretend I got here a bit earlier? I really am having one hell of a day.’

‘You and me both, madam.’

‘Will you stop calling me “madam”? You make me sound like a brothel-owner.’

The Saab banged down on to the truck and two other West Indians in overalls began attaching chains to the wheels.

‘Look, I need the car. I really need the car. Please don’t do this to me.’

The traffic warden folded his arms and looked at her dispassionately. ‘Madam, you’re wasting my time. I just issue the tickets. Once the car is collected, it’s out of my hands.’

Sam felt a surge of rage at the unfairness of it. ‘Your mother must be proud of you. Her son in uniform. Must warm the cockles . . .’ She could see from the look of smug indifference on his face that there was nothing she could say that would have any effect on the man. She figured that doing the job he did, he probably had the hide of a rhinoceros and had heard every possible insult there was. She turned and walked away, fuming.

She called Andy McKinley on her mobile. He said he’d be with her in thirty minutes, so Sam sat in a coffee bar with an espresso and read through the notebook while she waited.

Most of the notebook was blank: Terry’s cramped handwriting filled only the first six pages. It was written in a chatty style and she could imagine him saying the words. It was peppered with loves and darlings and apologies, but the gist of it was that Terry had paid a quarter of a million pounds to a syndicate in Malaga who had access to top-quality counterfeit twenty-pound notes. Terry was getting a ten-fold return on the investment – a total of two and a half million pounds was being delivered to him in Malaga. Once the counterfeit money was ready, someone would have to go over to Spain, collect the notes, and bring them back to the United Kingdom. ‘And with me banged up, love, I’m sorry to say it’s going to have to be you,’ Terry had written.

Sam shook her head. ‘You bastard, Terry,’ she whispered, and sipped her coffee. There was a phone number to call in Spain to confirm that the money was ready, and details of how Sam was supposed to bring the cash back, along with a list of possible drivers and their contact numbers. Sam looked around nervously. What she had in her hands was a do-it-yourself guide to counterfeit currency smuggling, and she could only imagine what would happen to her if the police found it in her possession. She slid it into her handbag.

She smoked a cigarette and drank another coffee as she wondered what she should do next. Getting Terry out had to be her first priority. If Terry was out, he’d be able to do his own dirty work and she could go back to having some semblance of a normal life. It was, however, a huge ‘if’, one that depended on her getting fifty thousand pounds, and the only way to get the fifty thousand pounds was to go and collect the counterfeit money. It was a vicious circle, and the more Sam tried to come up with a way out, the more her head began to swim.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Frank Welch signalled that he was leaving the motorway and drove to the car park behind the service station. Welch hated informers. Hated them with a vengeance. And he hated even more having to give them money. Welch knew that they were a necessary evil, but he felt soiled by having to deal with them. He was late, although he knew that the man he was there to meet would wait. He drove slowly around the car park until he saw the Rover, and pulled up next to it.

George Kay wound down the window as Welch got out of his car. ‘I thought we said two-thirty,’ said Kay, holding out his hand.

Welch ignored the outstretched hand and got into the passenger seat. ‘And I thought you said she was going to be there,’ said Welch.

‘That’s what she told us,’ said Kay, winding up the window.

‘Yeah, well, she wasn’t. And Reg Salmon and his team are saying nothing. I’ve got fuck all to pin on her.’

‘That’s not my fault,’ said Kay. ‘I told you when and where the stuff was coming ashore, gave you everything you needed.’

‘What I needed, you fat fuck, was to catch Samantha Greene in the act.’

Kay’s mouth fell open and he started to wheeze. He pulled his inhaler out of his coat pocket and took a long pull on it, his chest wheezing. ‘There’s no need to get personal, Mr Welch.’

Welch shook his head. ‘This
is
personal, Kay. I’m not going to allow Samantha Greene to take the piss out of me. I want to know what she’s up to. And l want you to tell me.’

Kay put away his inhaler. ‘That’s not going to be easy, Mr Welch. The cannabis, I was involved from day one. But whatever else she’s up to, I’m not involved.’

‘Well, get involved.’

Kay looked pained. ‘I’ll do what I can, Mr Welch, but Sam’s not stupid. If I press her too hard, she’s going to know I’m up to something.’

Welch looked at Kay contemptuously. ‘What
are
you up to, Kay?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How much did you lose on that cannabis deal? A hundred grand?’

Kay shrugged but said nothing.

‘What I’m paying you isn’t going to make up for that, is it?’

‘I’m not doing it for the money, Mr Welch.’

‘Oh, civic pride, is it? Do I have “fuckwit” tattooed on my forehead, Kay?’ He patted his jacket pocket. ‘Or are you saying I can keep this?’

‘Mr Welch . . .’ whined Kay.

Welch took the envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Kay.

‘How much is there?’ Kay asked, weighing the envelope in his hand.

‘What we agreed,’ said Welch. ‘Though you don’t fucking deserve it, not with Sam Greene footloose and fancy free.’

Kay put the envelope away as if he feared that the detective might change his mind. ‘It wasn’t a hundred grand, anyway,’ said Kay. ‘Nowhere near. Most of the money was put up by Terry and Micky Fox.’

‘Still must have put a dent in your pocket, though.’ Welch frowned. ‘You want Terry short of cash, don’t you? Why? So you can take over his team? See yourself as the new West London godfather, is that it? I do hope that’s not your plan, Kay, because if it is, you’ll end up behind bars with Greene. Being my grass doesn’t mean you can act with impunity. Selling duty-free booze and profiting from prostitution is one thing – you pick up Terry Greene’s reins and you’ll be for the high jump.’

‘I just want the clubs, Mr Welch. Swear to God, that’s all. It’s not as if I’m not asking for what’s not mine. I’m the one who runs them, Terry just drinks there.’

‘Not any more he doesn’t,’ laughed Welch.

‘That’s what I mean. With him behind bars, it doesn’t seem fair that I should be shelling out half the profits every month. I just want what I’m entitled to, that’s all.’

‘So you fuck Terry over, he’s short of cash, he sells out to you for a song? You’re a devious bastard, Kay.’

‘Coming from you, Mr Welch, I’ll take that as a compliment.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry wasn’t in the prison visiting room when Sam arrived, and she had to wait almost fifteen minutes for him. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down. ‘Sorry, love, they’re still pissing me around.’

‘What happened?’

‘Strip cell, they call it. Went through everything.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re supposed to be looking for contraband. Drugs, booze, telephone cards, stuff like that. But they weren’t looking for anything, they were just turning the cell over out of badness. Ripped a few photos, smashed my mirror, dropped my toothpaste in the toilet.’ He smiled. ‘But what the hell, it’s not supposed to be a holiday camp. How’ve you been?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about the booze runs, Terry?’

‘What booze runs?’

‘What do you mean, “What booze runs”? Don’t play the innocent with me, Terry Greene.’ She told him about the attack on Ryser and Fletcher, and the theft of the van.

Terry cursed and banged his hand on the table. Heads swivelled in their direction and Terry sat back, his hands up to show that he wasn’t being a problem.

‘You know what I hate, Terry?’

‘Fat men in high heels and suspenders?’ Sam glared at him and he put his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. What do you hate?’

‘I hate the fact that you’re only giving me little pieces of the picture. A bit at a time. First you tell me about the cannabis, then I get the notebook about the counterfeit money. I only found out about the booze runs because something went wrong.’

‘Yeah, well, I thought Russell and Pike had it under control. It was ticking over nicely.’

‘That’s not the point, Terry. It’s like you only tell me what I need to know. What you want me to know. Everything else is hidden away. What is it, Terry? Don’t you trust me?’

Terry reached for her hand but Sam wouldn’t let him touch her. ‘Of course I trust you. God, who else can I trust, hey?’

Sam put her hands up to her face. ‘I don’t know how much of this I can take,’ she said.

Terry leaned forward, clearly concerned. ‘Love, it’s going to be okay.’

She snorted softly. ‘That’s what Jamie said when the jury came back.’

‘It is. I promise.’

‘You can’t promise something like that, Terry.’ Sam took a couple of deep breaths and composed herself. Terry looked genuinely worried, but Sam shook her head. ‘I’m okay. Really. I’m okay.’

‘You sure?’

Sam nodded.

‘This booze thing, we’ve got to get it sorted,’ said Terry. ‘We’ve got to find out who did it and stamp on them, hard.’

‘That’d be the royal we, would it?’

Terry shrugged and showed her the palms of his hands. ‘There’s only so much I can do in here, love. And like I said, you’re the only one I can trust outside. Someone must have grassed us up on the cannabis.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended. Seriously, love, if we let this go, they’ll see it as weakness and they’ll hit us again and again. I’ll call Russell and get him started, but you’ll have to keep an eye on them. Andy McKinley’ll steer you right.’

Sam didn’t say anything. She desperately wanted a cigarette, but smoking wasn’t allowed in the visiting room.

‘Did Richard and Laurence give you the notebook?’

Sam nodded.

‘Piece of cake, Sam.’

‘Yeah, well, you said that about the other thing. Terry, if they’d caught me with Reg and the rest, I’d be going down for ten years.’ She leaned towards him and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Now you want me to smuggle in counterfeit money. Can’t it wait?’

‘Thing is, it’s not just my money tied up in the deal. There’s other investors, too. Micky Fox for one. He’s going to want to recoup some of his losses from that last fiasco.’

‘Terry, you don’t seem to understand how bad it is out there. They’re going to repossess the house. Jamie’s tuition fee hasn’t been paid, Oakwood House is threatening to throw your mum out on the street. We need cash now. Not next week or next month. Now. All I’ve got is five grand coming from Warwick Locke.’