The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (22 page)

Trisha was walking up the drive as McKinley drove away.

She stormed into the sitting room and gave Sam’s brandy glass a disparaging look. ‘What was he doing here again?’ asked Trisha.

‘Business.’

Trisha rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘Come into the kitchen, Trish.’

‘I’ve got homework.’

‘We’ve got to talk.’

Trisha sighed. ‘Now what?’

Sam took a deep breath and told Trisha about Grace.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

McKinley brought the Lexus to a stop outside the modern glass and steel tower that housed the offices of the merchant bank where Jonathon Nichols worked.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Mrs Greene?’ he asked.

‘Good idea or not, I’m doing it, Andy. You wait here.’

A security guard in a uniform more befitting a rear admiral told Sam that Nichols worked on the twelfth floor. She went up in the lift and walked up to a sour-faced receptionist. ‘I’m looking for Jonathon Nichols,’ she said.

‘He’s in a meeting,’ said the woman. ‘Can you tell me what it’s in connection with?’

‘It’s in connection with him beating the shit out of my daughter,’ said Sam. ‘Now where is he?’

The receptionist looked to her left, down a corridor. ‘He’s busy,’ she said. She turned to look back at Sam, but she was already walking purposefully down the corridor.

Through a panel of glass next to one of the doors, Sam could see Jonathon Nichols on his feet, talking to a group of half a dozen suits. A blonde woman in a short skirt was taking notes.

Sam threw open the door and stormed in.

Nichols stopped mid-sentence. ‘Sam?’ he said, confusion written all over his face. He was standing next to an overhead projector, and on the wall was a series of financial calculations.

‘Don’t fucking “Sam” me,’ she shouted, walking up to him. ‘If you ever lay a finger on my daughter again, I’ll kill you. As sure as I’m standing here, I’ll kill you.’

Nichols took a step back and bumped into the projector.

‘I don’t know where you get the nerve to think it’s okay to hit a woman!’ continued Sam, pointing her finger at his face. ‘Any woman! But to beat your wife black and blue, to have her living in fear of you, that’s not being a man.’

Sam took another step towards Nichols, and he raised his hand as if to push her away.

‘You want to hit me?’ she shouted. ‘Go on. I fucking dare you.’ She glared at him, her face contorted with rage.

Nichols lowered his hand.

Sam turned to look at the suits sitting around a rosewood table, their mouths wide open. ‘How does it feel, doing business with a wife-beater?’ she said. Several of them looked embarrassed. ‘He knocks my daughter around. His own wife. Beats her up and he’s twice her size. She’s wearing dark glasses to hide the black eye he’s given her. Think about that, yeah. Think about the sort of man you’re dealing with.’ Sam walked out, her head held high.

The receptionist was waiting in the corridor. ‘Security are on their way,’ she said, but Sam ignored her and carried on walking.

McKinley had the door of the Lexus open for her. ‘How did it go, Mrs Greene?’ he asked.

‘Just fine, Andy,’ said Sam. ‘I feel much better now.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry sat on the one chair in the cell, staring at the wall, while Charlie Hoyle lay on his bunk. Ever since the death of Terry’s mother had become public knowledge, Hoyle had barely said a word to him. Prison was a pressure cooker, and inmates who received bad news were generally left alone in case they exploded. Not that Terry was in danger of lashing out. His mother’s death had been an accident, but he’d known for some time that she didn’t have long to live. In many ways the accident had been a godsend: at least it had been quick compared with the gradual deterioration that the Alzheimer’s had caused.

It was almost time for lock-up. Terry heard booted footsteps coming along the landing, and looked up as the door opened. It was Riggs, carrying a clipboard, with another prison officer behind him.

‘On your feet, Greene,’ he said.

The springs of Hoyle’s bed springs squealed as he sat up.

‘You stay where you are, Hoyle. Don’t want your bunk collapsing, do we?’

Hoyle settled back in his bunk with another squeal of springs.

Terry stood up.

Riggs made a play of looking at his clipboard, even though he obviously knew what he was going to say. ‘Your request to attend your mother’s funeral . . .’ he kept Terry in suspense for several seconds, a sly smile on his face . . .‘has been denied.’ Riggs drew himself up to his full height and sneered.

Terry had his hands clasped behind his back, and he dug his nails into his palms so hard that he could feel the flesh tear. He gritted his teeth, refusing to show Riggs his pain and anger. He forced himself to smile. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘there’s always next year.’

Riggs glared at Terry, hatred pouring out of him. The atmosphere was so charged that Terry felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, but he continued to smile as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Riggs turned on his heel and marched out of the cell. The other prison officer closed the door and locked it.

Terry turned and slammed his fist against the wall. ‘Bastard!’ he hissed, refusing to shout because he didn’t want anyone on the landing to hear him. He hit the wall again and again until his knuckles were bruised and bloody.

Hoyle said nothing, just turned over and lay facing the wall, leaving Terry alone with his grief.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

The taxi office stood in a row of rundown shops near Kilburn High Street, a yellow light flashing above the door, which was propped open with a rolled-up newspaper. The windows of the first-floor office had been whitewashed so that no one could see in, and ‘Murphy’s Cabs’ had been stencilled in black paint.

McKinley squinted up at the windows. ‘I think I should come up with you, Mrs Greene.’

‘What, and leave the Lexus on the street? It’d be stripped in minutes.’

‘Aye, but even so . . .’

‘Andy, I’ll be fine.’

She climbed out of the back of the Lexus and up the bare wooden stairs to the first floor. An anorexically thin man with a mop of red hair was talking into a radio mike and eating a cheeseburger at the same time. On the wall behind him was a chart of drivers and their call signs next to a large-scale map of London.

‘Where do you want to go, love?’ he asked.

‘Brian Murphy?’

The redhead jerked his thumb towards a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor as he took a large bite out of his cheeseburger.

Sam went up the stairs, which led on to a small landing. One door was open, revealing a foul-smelling toilet, the other, with a frosted-glass window, was shut. Sam knocked, and a gruff Northern Irish voice told her that the cab office was downstairs.

Sam opened the door. A large man with a receding hairline sat behind a desk, reading the racing pages of the
Daily Telegraph,
pen in hand. ‘Brian Murphy?’ she asked.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Sam Greene. My husband’s Terry Greene.’

‘So?’

Sam closed the door behind her. ‘So I’d appreciate a word.’

Murphy waved her to a chair. Sam took an envelope from her handbag and put it down in front of Murphy before sitting down. She crossed her legs and waited while Murphy picked up the envelope and opened it.

Murphy raised his eyebrows when he saw the thick wad of fifty-pound notes.

‘A donation,’ said Sam. ‘For the Cause.’

Murphy smiled thinly. ‘Haven’t you heard? There’s no cause any more.’

Sam held out her hand for the envelope. Murphy held her look for several seconds, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk, dropped the envelope in and took out a bottle of Bushmills whiskey and two glasses.

He showed the bottle to Sam and she nodded. ‘Might I ask where you got my name from, Mrs Greene?’ said Murphy as he poured two large measures.

‘I’d rather not say,’ said Sam, ‘but it’s not public knowledge, I can tell you that.’

Murphy offered her one of the glasses and she took it.
‘Slainte,’
he said.

‘Slainte,’
said Sam. They both drank, then Murphy waited for Sam to speak.

‘My husband’s doing life for a murder he says he didn’t do,’ she explained. ‘He says that on the night of the murder, he was doing business with some of your people. Laundry business. But your people being the way they are, Terry says he couldn’t tell the cops.’

Murphy topped up their glasses. ‘Sounds a bit fanciful, truth be told.’

‘Can you check?’

Murphy looked at her for several seconds, then held out his hand. Sam assumed he wanted more money and she fumbled for her purse. Murphy shook his head. ‘Your handbag, Mrs Greene.’

Sam gave him the bag. Murphy opened it and took out her purse. He went through it, examining her credit cards and identification, then took her driving licence out of its wallet and copied down the details on a notepad. He didn’t have to explain to Sam the significance of what he was doing: he knew where she lived. He put everything back in the purse, put the purse back in the handbag, and gave it to her. ‘I’ll ask around, but hackles might be raised.’

‘I’ll have to risk that,’ said Sam.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry walked down the landing towards the phone. He had six phone cards in his pocket that he’d bought from various inmates on the wing, men who valued tobacco or drugs more than contact with the outside world.

Prison Officer Dunne was standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the ground floor, his face impassive as he watched two prisoners playing chess. Terry stood next to him and Dunne acknowledged his presence with a slight nod of his head.

‘What do you think?’ asked Dunne. ‘The bishop, yeah? Mate in three for white?’

Terry shrugged. ‘Not my game, Mr Dunne.’

‘Strategy,’ said Dunne. ‘It’s all about planning ahead.’

‘Yeah, well, if I was a bit better at planning ahead, I wouldn’t be in here, would I?’ said Terry.

Dunne smiled.

‘I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile, Mr Dunne,’ said Terry. ‘You wouldn’t want to make a habit of that. People might think you’re human.’

‘We’re all human, Terry.’

‘Even Riggs?’

‘Yeah, well maybe there’s the odd exception. About the only time he cracks a smile is when he talks about his Morris.’

‘What, he’s got a gay lover, has he?’

Dunne’s jaw tensed as he tried not to grin. ‘A Morris Traveller. One of those cars with wooden bits on the side. It’s his pride and joy. Rebuilt it from scratch. Spent thousands on it. Bores us rigid in the canteen showing us photographs. Relates more to the car than he does to people, if you ask me.’

They stood watching the game for a while. The prisoner playing white put his finger on his queen and Dunne tutted.

‘Do you know if the governor got my request for a pass to my mum’s funeral, Mr Dunne?’

Dunne pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Between you and me?’

‘Sure.’

‘I think Riggs blocked it.’

Terry cursed under his breath.

The prisoner took his finger off the queen and scratched his head.

‘The bishop, you twat,’ Dunne muttered.

‘Could you put in an application for me?’ Terry asked quietly. ‘Direct. Go around Riggs.’

‘Wouldn’t be easy,’ said Dunne, out of the side of his mouth.

‘There’s a monkey in it for you on the outside.’

Dunne’s face hardened, and for a moment Terry wondered if he’d crossed the line, if he’d managed to misjudge the prison officer. Eventually Dunne slowly nodded. Down below the prisoner moved the queen and Dunne hissed softly. ‘Moron,’ he said. He turned to look at Terry as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Have you put any noses out of joint on the wing?’ he asked.

‘Not that I know about,’ said Terry. ‘Why?’

‘Word is there’s someone gunning for you.’

‘You know who?’

Dunne shook his head and started to walk away. ‘Just watch your back, yeah?’ he whispered. ‘A death on the wing’s going to look pretty shitty on my CV.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam looked at her watch. It was a Cartier, a gold one that Terry had bought for her after Trisha had been born. ‘Mum, we’re going to have to go in,’ said Jamie, putting a hand on her shoulder.

‘I know. I just thought . . .’

‘It’s not likely they’d let him out, Mum. Even for this.’

Sam nodded.

Trisha linked her arm through Sam’s. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

‘I’m fine, love. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.’

They were standing outside a church in West London, a modern church with a squat spire and wire mesh over the stained-glass windows to protect them from vandals. It wasn’t an especially pretty church, but Grace’s husband, Terry’s father, was buried in the graveyard next to it, and before Alzheimer’s had robbed her of her mind, Grace had always insisted that she wanted to be buried next to him.

Andy McKinley was close by in a black suit and a black overcoat, his hands clasped in front of his groin as though he were standing guard outside a nightclub, shoulders squared and chin up.

Sam, Jamie and Trisha were also dressed in black, and all wore thick coats to protect themselves from the cold. The sky was almost white overhead, and a chill wind blew across the churchyard, swirling dead leaves and empty crisp packets and faded confetti.

The vicar appeared at the door to the church. He was in his sixties with a mane of white hair. The flecks of red in his cheeks and nose suggested to Sam that he had more than a passing acquaintance with strong drink. Sam nodded at him. ‘Okay,’ she said to her children. ‘In we go.’