Read Online The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) by Stephen Leather - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Leather
Ads: Link
Grace’s care. I have extremely good contacts within the state sector. It won’t be a problem, I can assure you.’
Sam stood up. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Mrs Hancock – Grace is not going into the poor house.’
‘Mrs Greene, you’re over-reacting. I was simply pointing out that the private sector isn’t for everybody.’
‘You’ve been happy enough to take our money for the past three years. Now just because we’re late with a couple of payments, you’re threatening to throw an old woman out on the streets.’
‘Mrs Greene, please . . .’
‘You’ll get your money, Mrs Hancock. Don’t you worry.’
Sam hurried out of the office, tears of rage burning in her eyes.
∗ ∗ ∗
Terry walked along the landing. A young prisoner slipped him two telephone cards and Terry nodded his thanks. Terry had made it known that he was prepared to pay twenty times the face value of telephone cards, the money being paid on the outside to family or friends. He’d been inundated with prisoners wanting to exchange their cards for cash and Terry had taken all he could get.
He slipped the cards into the back pocket of his trousers. Ahead of him two large prisoners, one black, one white, were lounging against a wall, their eyes scanning back and forth, taking in everything that was happening on the wing. Both were well over six feet, broad shouldered with bulging forearms. They straightened up as Terry got closer, and stood in front of him, their arms crossed, their faces set like stone.
‘Hello, lads,’ said Terry. ‘Is he in?’
‘You got an appointment?’ said one of the prisoners in a thick West Country accent.
‘No, just wanted to pay my respects, that’s all,’ said Terry.
The other prisoner knocked on the cell door behind them, then disappeared inside. A few seconds later he reappeared and nodded at Terry. ‘You can go in,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thanks, lads,’ he said.
The two men moved to the side and Terry walked into the cell. There was a single occupant, a black man in his late twenties with close-cropped hair and a runner’s build, thin and wiry. A thick raised scar ran from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth. He wore a dark blue Nike T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms and a pair of gleaming white Nike training shoes. He acknowledged Terry with a slight nod of his head. ‘Settling in, Terry?’ he said.
Terry shrugged. ‘You know how it is, Baz.’ Baz Salter had run a major drugs crew south of the river before being sentenced to life for an arson attack on a Brixton drinking club that left four Jamaicans dead and more than a dozen horrifically burned. Terry had never met him on the outside but he knew him by reputation. The four arson deaths were the tip of an iceberg – Baz was rumoured to be responsible for more than a dozen gangland slayings in the struggle for the dominance of the South London crack cocaine market.
‘Have a seat,’ said Baz, waving Terry to a chair by the single bunk. The cell was the same size as the one that Terry shared with Hoyle, but Baz had it to himself. There was a CD player and a selection of books on a shelf, and a green and black quilt on the bunk. Baz effectively ran the wing and was allowed privileges that reflected his status.
Terry sat down. ‘I wanted to drop by and let you know I was here.’
‘Jungle drums said you were coming,’ said Baz.
‘If there are going to be any problems down the line, I wanted to get them out in the open here and now,’ said Terry. ‘I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulder.’
Baz nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.
‘Jungle drums told you why I’m here, right?’ continued Terry.
‘It was in all the papers. Major celebrity, you are.’
Terry smiled thinly. ‘So are there going to be repercussions?’
Baz leaned forward and put his head on one side. ‘Of what nature?’
‘Preston Snow was one of yours.’
Baz smiled. ‘Ancient history.’
Terry
Sam stood up. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Mrs Hancock – Grace is not going into the poor house.’
‘Mrs Greene, you’re over-reacting. I was simply pointing out that the private sector isn’t for everybody.’
‘You’ve been happy enough to take our money for the past three years. Now just because we’re late with a couple of payments, you’re threatening to throw an old woman out on the streets.’
‘Mrs Greene, please . . .’
‘You’ll get your money, Mrs Hancock. Don’t you worry.’
Sam hurried out of the office, tears of rage burning in her eyes.
∗ ∗ ∗
Terry walked along the landing. A young prisoner slipped him two telephone cards and Terry nodded his thanks. Terry had made it known that he was prepared to pay twenty times the face value of telephone cards, the money being paid on the outside to family or friends. He’d been inundated with prisoners wanting to exchange their cards for cash and Terry had taken all he could get.
He slipped the cards into the back pocket of his trousers. Ahead of him two large prisoners, one black, one white, were lounging against a wall, their eyes scanning back and forth, taking in everything that was happening on the wing. Both were well over six feet, broad shouldered with bulging forearms. They straightened up as Terry got closer, and stood in front of him, their arms crossed, their faces set like stone.
‘Hello, lads,’ said Terry. ‘Is he in?’
‘You got an appointment?’ said one of the prisoners in a thick West Country accent.
‘No, just wanted to pay my respects, that’s all,’ said Terry.
The other prisoner knocked on the cell door behind them, then disappeared inside. A few seconds later he reappeared and nodded at Terry. ‘You can go in,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thanks, lads,’ he said.
The two men moved to the side and Terry walked into the cell. There was a single occupant, a black man in his late twenties with close-cropped hair and a runner’s build, thin and wiry. A thick raised scar ran from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth. He wore a dark blue Nike T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms and a pair of gleaming white Nike training shoes. He acknowledged Terry with a slight nod of his head. ‘Settling in, Terry?’ he said.
Terry shrugged. ‘You know how it is, Baz.’ Baz Salter had run a major drugs crew south of the river before being sentenced to life for an arson attack on a Brixton drinking club that left four Jamaicans dead and more than a dozen horrifically burned. Terry had never met him on the outside but he knew him by reputation. The four arson deaths were the tip of an iceberg – Baz was rumoured to be responsible for more than a dozen gangland slayings in the struggle for the dominance of the South London crack cocaine market.
‘Have a seat,’ said Baz, waving Terry to a chair by the single bunk. The cell was the same size as the one that Terry shared with Hoyle, but Baz had it to himself. There was a CD player and a selection of books on a shelf, and a green and black quilt on the bunk. Baz effectively ran the wing and was allowed privileges that reflected his status.
Terry sat down. ‘I wanted to drop by and let you know I was here.’
‘Jungle drums said you were coming,’ said Baz.
‘If there are going to be any problems down the line, I wanted to get them out in the open here and now,’ said Terry. ‘I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulder.’
Baz nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.
‘Jungle drums told you why I’m here, right?’ continued Terry.
‘It was in all the papers. Major celebrity, you are.’
Terry smiled thinly. ‘So are there going to be repercussions?’
Baz leaned forward and put his head on one side. ‘Of what nature?’
‘Preston Snow was one of yours.’
Baz smiled. ‘Ancient history.’
Terry
Similar Books
