The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (31 page)

The framed photograph crashed into the wall and fell to the ground in a shower of broken glass. Jonathon Nichols walked over to it and stamped on the broken frame, grinding the bits into the carpet. It was a photograph of Laura and Sam, holding each other and smiling. ‘I said I didn’t want you to go around to his house!’ shouted Nichols.

Laura was curled up on the sofa, crying. ‘It’s my mum’s house,’ she sobbed.

Nichols stood over her, his hands on his hips. ‘Oh, I misunderstood,’ he said. ‘Your father wasn’t there, then?’

Laura didn’t reply. She reached for a cushion and hugged it to her chest.

‘I knew it,’ said Nichols triumphantly.

Laura curled up into a ball. Nichols grabbed her by the collar and shook her.

‘They’re my family!’ cried Laura.

‘I’m your family,’ hissed Nichols, pulling her to her feet.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Laura, glaring up at him. ‘You don’t know anything about families. Your mum and dad sent you away to boarding school first chance they got. You know nothing about families!’

Nichols sneered at her and pushed her. She staggered back, lost her balance and screamed as she crashed through the glass-topped coffee table. She lay on the floor surrounded by bits of wood and glass, her arm over her face. Blood trickled down the side of her neck and she moaned softly.

Nichols knelt down next to her. ‘God, Laura. I’m sorry.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and held it against the worst of her cuts. ‘Laura, listen to me. Can you hear me?’

Laura’s eyes fluttered, then closed.

‘Laura, you mustn’t tell anyone I hit you, okay? You have to say you fell. Do you understand? You mustn’t say I hit you.’

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry walked down the hospital corridor, his footsteps echoing like pistol shots off the tiled walls. Sam looked up as he walked into the intensive care unit. Laura was lying on her back, hooked up to monitoring equipment. Terry rushed over to his daughter and looked down on her. Her face was black and blue and so swollen that he barely recognised her.

‘She’s okay,’ said Sam. ‘It looks worse than it is.’

‘What happened?’ asked Terry. He put out a hand and gently stroked Laura’s hair. The monitoring equipment bleeped slowly and regularly. Her right forearm was bandaged, and there were several dressings on her left arm and on her neck.

‘She tripped, she said,’ said Sam, standing up and walking up behind him. ‘Tripped and fell through the glass coffee table, the one in the sitting room.’ Tears welled up in Sam’s eyes and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. ‘He hits her, Terry.’

Terry frowned. ‘What do you mean, he hits her?’

‘He loses his temper.’

‘He hits her? I’ll kill him.’

‘You can join the queue.’

‘Where is he?’ said Terry.

‘He’s gone home.’

Terry’s face contorted with rage. ‘I’ll fucking kill him!’

Sam put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Calm down, Terry.’

‘Calm down? How long has this been going on, Sam?’

Sam shrugged. ‘A while, I guess.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You were in prison, remember.’ Terry glared at her and Sam pulled an apologetic face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t fair.’

Terry put his hands on her face and kissed her forehead. ‘I know, love. It’s not you and me should be fighting. We should just be glad it wasn’t worse, yeah?’

Sam hugged him and they stood listening to the bleep of the monitoring equipment.

‘What does the doctor say?’ asked Terry.

‘She’s lost some blood. Not enough to need a transfusion. And he doesn’t think that she’ll be scarred.’

Terry tensed again. ‘Scarred? For fuck’s sake!’

‘Terry, can you watch your language?’

‘It’s a fucking hospital here, not a church.’

‘Terry!’

Terry softened. He kissed her on the forehead again. ‘I’m sorry, love. Good as gold, I promise.’

‘I’ll hold you to that, Terry,’ said Sam, looking deep into his eyes.

Terry smiled down at her. ‘Yeah, I bet you will, too,’ he said.

They stayed with Laura for an hour, but she didn’t wake up. A doctor examined her and said that she was asleep, she wasn’t unconscious or in a coma, that she just needed rest. She’d be out of intensive care the next day and probably home within forty-eight hours, he said. At nine o’clock a nurse came in and said that they’d have to go, that visiting hours were over.

When they got home, Trisha was sitting on the stairs, her face streaked with tears. ‘How is she?’ she asked.

‘She’ll be fine,’ said Sam, closing the front door.

‘What happened?’

‘She fell,’ said Sam, flashing Terry a warning look. ‘It was an accident.’

Terry went through to the sitting room and poured himself a Scotch.

‘Has Jamie gone back to Exeter?’ asked Sam.

Trisha nodded. ‘Yeah, he said he’s got exams tomorrow. He’ll call you tonight, he said.’ She nodded towards the sitting room. ‘Is he staying the night?’

‘He’s your father, Trisha. And he’s still my husband.’

‘He’ll let you down again, Mum. You know he will.’ Trisha stood up. ‘It’ll end in tears. It always does.’ Trisha went up to her bedroom. Sam watched her go, wondering if her daughter was right. Would it end in tears? And would she ever know the truth about where Terry had been the night that Preston Snow was murdered?

She went into the sitting room. Terry handed her a tumbler of whisky. Sam shook her head. ‘Take it,’ said Terry.

Sam was too tired to argue. She took the tumbler from him and sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Terry sprawled in an easy chair and put his feet up on the coffee table. They sat in silence, listening to the tick of the brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam rolled over and opened her eyes. Terry was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his trousers. ‘What time is it?’ she said, sleepily.

‘Go back to sleep, love,’ said Terry. He stood up and zipped up his trousers.

Sam peered at the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was just after two o’clock in the morning. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘Duty calls,’ said Terry, slipping on a black polo-neck sweater. ‘Mountains to climb, rivers to cross.’

‘It’s starting again, isn’t it?’ said Sam, trying to sit up.

Terry sat down on the bed. ‘It’s business, love,’ he said, and moved to kiss her.

Sam pushed him away. ‘Just go,’ she said. She rolled over in the bed and turned her back on him.

Terry reached out to stroke her but she shrugged him away. He put on a jacket, went downstairs and let himself out of the front door.

Pike and Russell were waiting for him, standing next to the BMW. Ryser was in the driver’s seat, wearing a baseball cap the wrong way around.

Terry climbed into the back seat. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked. ‘And when are you going to shave off that beard, Ryser? It gives me the willies.’

They drove for half an hour to a warehouse in Clapham. A car was waiting for them, and it flashed its headlights. It was Fletcher and Ellis. ‘Right, let’s get this over with,’ said Terry.

They piled out of the BMW. Pike opened the boot and handed out axes and pickaxe handles.

Fletcher and Ellis walked over, Fletcher carrying two red cans of petrol and Ellis holding a cardboard box with a mobile phone taped to the side. They were all wearing gloves.

‘You sure that thing’ll work?’ asked Terry, nodding at the box.

‘I just hope we don’t get a wrong number while we’re setting it up,’ said Ellis.

‘I hope you are fucking joking, Pete.’

Ellis grinned. ‘Yeah, boss. It’s switched off.’

‘Yeah, well, make sure it stays that way until I’m well out of it, okay?’ He looked around the team. ‘Okay?’

They all nodded.

‘Let’s do it, then.’

They walked together to the wooden door at the side of the main delivery area. Pike swung his axe and the wood around the lock splintered. Another whack with the axe and the door hung on its hinges and Ryser booted it open. They rushed in and fanned out. Two Kosovans were sleeping on camp beds among the hot dog trolleys. Ellis and Ryser set about them with pickaxe handles while Pike started smashing up the trolleys.

Terry and Ellis walked to the middle of the warehouse and put the cardboard box on a shelf surrounded by bottles of whisky. ‘Seems like a terrible waste of booze, boss,’ said Ellis as he checked the mobile phone on the side of the box.

‘We’ll get a bigger bang,’ said Terry. ‘Besides, this isn’t about stealing booze, it’s about teaching that bastard Poskovic a lesson he won’t forget.’

Fletcher began slopping petrol over the shelves. The two Kosovans had been beaten unconscious and Ellis and Ryser dragged them outside.

Terry went over to the office in one corner of the warehouse and kicked in the door. Checking through the drawers of the two desks inside, he found a wad of twenty-pound notes which he stuffed into his pockets.

By the time Terry went back into the warehouse, Fletcher had emptied the two petrol cans and the air was thick with fumes. ‘Right,’ said Terry, ‘everybody out.’

They got back into their vehicles. Ellis leaned in through the window of the BMW and handed a mobile phone to Terry. ‘Just press send,’ he said, grinning.

As the BMW pulled away from the warehouse, Terry pressed the send button. The phone at the other end rang twice, then there was a dull thudding noise that they felt as much as heard, followed almost immediately by a loud explosion that tore up through the roof of the warehouse and blew out the windows.

Ryser, Pike and Russell all ducked involuntarily, but Terry didn’t even flinch. He laughed uproariously and slapped Ryser on the back. ‘That’ll let the bastards know that Terry Greene is back,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go get us a drink.’ He tossed the mobile phone out of the open window as the BMW sped away.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam opened her eyes sleepily. ‘Terry? Is that you?’ she asked. There was no answer. She rolled over and saw that the door was open. She couldn’t remember whether or not Terry had closed it when he’d left. She squinted at the bedside alarm clock. It was just before four o’clock. ‘Damn you, Terry,’ she muttered to herself and closed her eyes.

She heard a rustling sound and jerked awake. ‘Terry?’ No answer. She sat up. ‘Trish?’ A figure stood by the window and Sam widened her eyes, trying to accustom them to the dark. The figure moved towards her, and Sam still half thought that it might be Terry, fooling around, but as the man moved closer she recognised his features. It was Luke Snow, wearing a long black leather jacket and brown trousers that had faded at the knees, and a shapeless peaked leather hat from which his dreadlocks dangled like bits of old rope. And he was holding a sawn-off shotgun.

‘Where is he?’ hissed Snow. He pointed the shotgun at Sam’s face and she flinched.

‘He’s not here,’ said Sam, pulling the quilt around her.

‘I can see that. Where’s he gone?’ He was sweating, and looked around nervously as if expecting Terry to appear at any moment. He waved the shotgun back and forth, his finger tight on the trigger.

‘I wish I knew,’ said Sam.

Snow glared at her. He lifted the butt of the shotgun to his face and aimed it at her chest, squinting along the stubby barrel. ‘You’re his wife, aren’t you?’ he snarled.

Sam didn’t say anything. She swallowed, but her mouth was so dry she almost gagged. She put a hand up to her mouth, but dropped it and held on tightly to the quilt when she realised how much it was shaking.

Snow took a step towards her, the butt of the shotgun pressed against his cheek. ‘When’s he coming back?’ he whispered.

Sam stared at the twin barrels. They seemed huge enough to swallow her up. She could barely imagine the damage the weapon would do if Snow fired it at short range, and her heart was now pounding so hard she feared it would burst. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. ‘I don’t know if he is,’ said Sam. She could see the look of disbelief on his face. ‘I’m serious, I’m not sure where I stand with him at the moment. He says he’s back—’

‘I’m not interested in your marital problems,’ interrupted Snow, taking another step towards her. He raised the shotgun as if to strike the butt against her face, and Sam threw up her hands defensively. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ said Snow. ‘If you lie to me I’ll blow you away, I swear to God I will.’

‘I’m not lying,’ said Sam, her voice trembling. ‘Why would I lie? You can see he’s not here.’

Snow aimed the shotgun at her again. ‘Yes, I can see he’s not fucking here. Now I’m going to ask you one more fucking time, when’s he coming back?’ Sweat was pouring down his face and he wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Look, you’re Preston Snow’s brother, aren’t you? Luke Snow?’

Snow jabbed the end of the shotgun at her. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ he hissed.

‘This is about your brother, isn’t it? It’s not me you want to hurt, is it, Luke?’

‘Shut up!’ he repeated. ‘I’ll use this. I will.’

Sam stared at the barrel of the gun. Her legs were shaking under the quilt and her mouth was so dry that every breath hurt her. She kept picturing the explosion and the blood and the mess, and she held the quilt tighter even though she knew it offered no protection. She brought her knees up towards her chest in an attempt to stop them shaking. ‘Look, my daughter’s asleep down the corridor,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want her woken up. She’s got school tomorrow.’

Snow’s dreadlocks swung from side to side under his leather hat as he shook his head. ‘What?’

Sam nodded at the shotgun. ‘They go bang if they go off.’ She forced a smile, trying to put Snow at ease.

‘Don’t fucking patronise me!’ he hissed. ‘I’ll shoot you and I’ll shoot your slag of a daughter.’