The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (20 page)

Sam smiled at his confusion. ‘It’s smalltime, Zoran. A vanload of booze? It’s nothing, right?’

‘If you didn’t have the goods, your customers would look for alternative suppliers. They would become our customers.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Sam. She took several sheets of paper from inside her coat and handed them to Poskovic. ‘These are the places we supply at the moment, and a list of places we don’t. You can see for yourself, the list of places we don’t sell to is a hell of a lot longer than the list of places we supply.’

Poskovic bit down on his lower lip as he scanned the lists. She was right.

‘They’re in the same geographical area, same sort of businesses. Indian restaurants, corner shops, drinking clubs. There’s plenty of scope for you there, Zoran. You don’t have to go poaching my business.’

‘But you will be expanding,’ said Poskovic.

Sam shook her head emphatically. ‘Oh no we won’t,’ she said. ‘I promise you that. As soon as my husband gets out of prison, we’re walking away from all this.’

Poskovic looked at her carefully, wondering if she was being totally honest with him.

She looked back at him, unfazed. ‘Oh, there are a couple of other conditions,’ said Sam.

Poskovic raised an eyebrow.

‘We’d like our van back. And the booze.’

Poskovic chuckled, then held out his hand. Sam accepted it. His hand dwarfed hers, but he shook gently, then stepped forward and gave her a bear hug, again using only a fraction of his strength as if he feared she might break. ‘You have a deal, Mrs Greene,’ he said, planting a kiss on her cheek. Sam’s feet were almost off the floor.

‘That’s a relief, Zoran, I was worried you might want to arm wrestle me for the van.’

Poskovic laughed even louder as he set her down. He walked her to the door, McKinley and the rest of Sam’s heavies following.

One of Poskovic’s men dropped an opened can of sausages on to the floor. He bent down and picked them up, putting them one by one on to his trolley, grunting apologetically at Poskovic.

‘Do people really buy those?’ asked Sam as the man wiped one of the sausages on his overalls.

‘We make a fortune,’ said Poskovic. ‘Japanese tourists pay ten quid for a hot dog. Germans’ll pay five quid. That’s why the Bosnians fought so hard for the business. We had to break a lot of heads, Mrs Greene. A lot of heads.’

Sam and McKinley headed for the Lexus while Pike, Fletcher, Russell and the rest went to their cars.

‘I didn’t realise your family were from Hungary,’ said McKinley.

Sam gave him a withering look. ‘Andy, do I look in the least bit Hungarian to you? Give me some credit, will you?’

McKinley stopped dead in his tracks and began to chuckle, shaking his head in wonder at Sam’s audacity.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Frank Welch showed his warrant card to the young constable standing guard in the foul-smelling lift lobby. ‘Third floor, sir,’ said the constable.

‘I know where it is, son,’ growled Welch. He stabbed a finger at the lift call button and popped in a couple of breath mints while he waited for one of the three lifts to arrive. He stared at the floor indicators. Two of the lifts weren’t working and the third showed the lift was on the third floor and not moving. Welch decided to walk up.

Two more uniforms stood in the hallway outside Morrison’s apartment, and a scene of crime officer in white overalls was taking fingerprints from the front door.

Welch showed his warrant card again and walked into the flat.

He found Simpson and Clarke in the sitting room. Simpson was flicking through a pornographic magazine, and he dropped it on to the sofa when he saw Welch.

‘Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?’ asked Welch.

‘Sorry, guv,’ said Simpson. He took out a pack of plastic gloves and ripped it open with his teeth.

‘This way, guv,’ said Clarke. ‘Bedroom.’

Welch followed Clarke through to the bedroom, where two more SOCO technicians were taking samples from the floor and walls. Morrison was hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Naked. The rope around his neck was looped over the top of the door and tied to the handle on the outside of the door.

‘Who found him?’ asked Welch, peering at Morrison’s neck.

‘His handler came around when he didn’t check in. Forced the door.’

‘Where is he now, the handler?’

‘Went to talk to his boss.’ Clarke gave Welch a card with the name and phone number of a police sergeant working with Paddington Green’s drug squad. ‘Morrison was supposed to be giving evidence in a drugs case tomorrow.’

‘This was supposed to be a fucking witness protection scheme,’ said Welch. ‘They shouldn’t have left him on his own.’

Simpson came up behind him. ‘One of the SOCOs said it might be an auto-erotic thing,’ he said. ‘Cutting off his air supply and playing with himself.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Welch.

‘There were no signs of a struggle,’ said Simpson. ‘Dirty magazines on the floor.’

‘And no note, so it doesn’t look like he killed himself,’ said Clarke.

‘He was murdered,’ said Welch emphatically.

‘Come on, guv, we don’t know that for sure,’ said Simpson.

‘I do,’ said Welch. ‘Somebody murdered the little shit. Question is, who? And how did they know where to find him?’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam was on her hands and knees cleaning the oven when the phone rang. She cursed and stood up, stripping off her rubber gloves. It was Blackie. ‘Remember the park near the office?’ he snapped. ‘Be there in thirty minutes.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘Just be there.’

The line went dead. Sam frowned and put the phone back. Wondered whether or not to call McKinley, but decided against it and drove the Saab to the park.

Blackie was already at the lake, pacing up and down, his face set like stone. ‘Have you heard what happened?’ he said.

‘What? Is it Terry? Has something happened to Terry?’

‘No, it’s not Terry. It’s Morrison. He’s dead.’

Sam’s jaw dropped. ‘Dead? How?’

‘They found him hanging on the back of a door.’

‘He didn’t look suicidal when I saw him,’ said Sam.

‘It wasn’t suicide,’ said Blackie. ‘That’s what it looked like, but a lowlife like Morrison isn’t going to kill himself. Jesus H. Christ. Twenty-four hours after he talks to you, he’s dead. That strike you as a coincidence?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean? Christ, if they ever find out that I gave you Morrison, I’ll be in so much shit they’ll need a submarine to find me.’

‘You’re a big boy, Blackie. I’m sure you covered your tracks.’

‘Did you tell anyone else where Morrison was?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What about Terry?’

Sam shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to Terry for a week.’

Blackie put a hand up to his forehead. ‘This is the last time I put myself in the firing line for you. Or Terry.’

Sam walked up close to Blackie so that her face was only inches away from his. ‘It’s the last time when I say it’s the last time,’ she said, her voice ice cold. ‘You’ve been on Terry’s firm since you were a woodentop pounding the beat. You do as you’re told or your career’s over and you’ll be spending your retirement on Rule 43 with the rest of the bent coppers behind bars.’

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ hissed Blackie.

‘I think I’m the woman who’s got photographs of you taking bungs from my husband. And I think I’m the woman who can walk into your boss’s office and tell him that you took me to see Morrison.’

‘Then you’d go down with me.’

Sam smiled thinly. ‘Really? You don’t think I could cut myself a deal, Blackie? Who do you think they’d rather put behind bars? A housewife and mother, or a detective superintendent? I mean, think of the pension money they’d save for a start.’

Blackie stared at her in near disbelief, his jaw set tight as the colour visibly drained from his face. ‘You’re a bitch,’ he said eventually.

‘I’m having to be, Blackie. I’m fighting for my life here.’

Blackie shook his head and walked away, keeping to the edge of the lake.

‘Look, Terry tells me that when he gets out, he’s going legit,’ said Sam.

‘Bollocks.’

‘I think he means it. He’s had a taste of prison and he won’t want to go back. Once he’s out, he won’t need you any more. You’ll be home free.’

‘Terry Greene isn’t ever going to go straight. Take my word on that.’

‘I’m just telling you what Terry told me. And I believe him.’

Blackie shook his head. He kept his eyes on the ground as he followed the path around the lake. Two well-dressed women with prams were walking their way, so they stopped talking until they’d gone by.

‘Terry said he was with some Irish heavyweights the night Snow was shot,’ said Sam.

Blackie frowned, then realisation dawned. ‘Paramilitaries? For fuck’s sake.’

‘That’s why he couldn’t say where he was. That’s why I had to lie for him.’

‘Have you any idea how dangerous those people are? What was Terry doing?’

‘Best you don’t know, Blackie.’

Blackie continued to shake his head.

‘Look, I need a name,’ said Sam. ‘Someone I can talk to.’

‘Talk to? Why?’

‘Seems to me that the more you know, the more you worry. Just give me the name of someone in London I can speak to. Then you can leave the worrying to me.’

Blackie looked at her as if she were mad, then he took a small black notebook out of his jacket pocket and scribbled a name and address. He ripped out the page and handed it to her. ‘For fuck’s sake don’t mention my name,’ he said, and walked away, still shaking his head.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam drove from the park to Oakwood House. She made her way to Grace’s room, but was surprised to find it empty, the bed freshly made. Sam frowned. Grace had been in the same room since her arrival at the home – it didn’t make sense that they’d move her after three years. She noticed that the framed photographs that Grace kept on her bedside table had gone, as had all her personal belongings. Sam rushed over to the wardrobe and opened it. All her clothes were missing. A sudden chill gripped her heart.

‘Mrs Greene?’

Sam whirled around. It was the friendly nurse who’d tipped her off about Mrs Hancock on her last visit. The nurse stood in the open doorway, her hands clutched in front of her. Her lower lip was trembling.

‘Where’s Grace?’ snapped Sam. ‘What’ve they done with her?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Greene.’

‘Sorry? What for?’

The nurse took a couple of steps into the room. ‘Grace is dead, Mrs Greene. I’m so sorry.’

Sam felt as is she’d been kicked in the stomach. The strength drained from her legs and she sat down heavily on the bed. ‘She didn’t look too bad last time I saw her.’

The nurse looked away, still wringing her hands, and Sam sensed that there was something wrong. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘You really should speak to Mrs Hancock,’ said the nurse.

‘Tell me,’ said Sam.

The nurse shook her head. ‘I can’t, Mrs Greene. Really, I can’t.’

Sam looked up at the nurse. ‘Did something happen to her?’

The nurse closed the door and went down to sit on the bed next to Sam. ‘She went out. She went out and there was an accident.’

Sam took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her eyes. ‘What do you mean she went out? Grace hasn’t been out for two years.’

‘She walked out,’ said the nurse. ‘No one seems to know when, no one saw her go. She went across the field and onto the road. Oh God, Mrs Greene, I’m so, so sorry.’ The nurse started to cry. Sam gave her the handkerchief and the nurse dabbed at her eyes. ‘She was run over. They said she died right away.’

The strength drained from Sam’s legs and she sat down on the bed. ‘When?’ she gasped. ‘When did it happen?’

‘This morning.’ The nurse blew her nose and wiped her eyes again. ‘I brought her lunch and she wasn’t here.’

Sam closed her eyes. She’d always known that Grace would never be going home, that she would be in Oakwood House until the day she died, and that there was no cure for her illness. But death, death was something in the far-off future. She’d never expected Grace to be snatched away suddenly, the life smashed out of her on a lonely country road.

The nurse gave her back the handkerchief. ‘She was a real lady, Mrs Greene. Always gentle, always kind. I’ll miss her.’

Sam nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ll miss her, too.’

On the way out, Sam went to the administrator’s office, brushing past the secretary’s desk and opening the door unannounced. Mrs Hancock was tapping on her computer keyboard, and the look of annoyance which flashed across her face when she saw Sam was quickly replaced by a professional smile. ‘Mrs Greene, I am so sorry about what happened.’ She spoke slowly and the smile never left her lips, but Sam could see the insincerity in the woman’s eyes.

‘What the hell was Grace doing outside?’ asked Sam.

‘Excuse me?’ said Mrs Hancock, icily.

‘I said, what the hell was my mother-in-law doing outside?’

‘This isn’t a prison, Mrs Greene. There are no bars on the windows, we don’t have armed guards on the gate. Residents are free to come and go as they please.’

‘Why didn’t anyone tell me what had happened?’

‘We tried to contact you, Mrs Greene, but there was no one home. I left two messages on your answering machine myself. And we asked the police if they would send someone round to leave a written message.’

‘I wasn’t home,’ said Sam quietly. ‘I had to see someone.’

‘There you are then,’ said Mrs Hancock. ‘It’s not as if we didn’t try.’

‘Didn’t try!’ echoed Sam. ‘It was a bit bloody late to be trying, wasn’t it? Why was nobody trying when she walked out?’