The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) by Stephen Leather

wall behind his desk.
    ‘How long’s McKinley been working for you?’ asked Sam.
    ‘Since they arrested Terry, pretty much.’ Kay looked uncomfortable, as if he might have said the wrong thing. ‘Least I could do, you know? Help the lad out.’
    Sam nodded and took a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag. ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you, George?’
    Kay looked even more uncomfortable. He picked up an inhaler and showed it to her. ‘Rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind. Asthma. Since I was a kid. Smoke shuts my bronchioles down.’
    ‘Can’t have that, can we?’ said Sam, putting the cigarettes away. She tapped her fingernails on her handbag. ‘The thing is, George – Terry has asked me to run things for him while he’s away.’
    Kay stiffened. He pointed a finger at her. ‘Now just a fucking minute . . .’
    ‘It’s all right,’ interrupted Sam. ‘I’m not doing it. Don’t worry. But I’ve got money problems. Cashflow.’
    He shrugged. ‘You and me both.’
    Sam gestured at the window. ‘Place is packed.’
    ‘Overheads, Sam.’
    Kay opened one of his desk drawers and took out a cheque book. ‘If it’s a loan you want, I’m more than happy to help out.’
    ‘It’s serious money, George.’
    Kay dropped the cheque book back into the drawer. ‘Terry’s never been short of a bob or two.’
    ‘Yeah, well, times have changed. Look, Terry owns half the clubs, right? This place, the one in Clerkenwell, the one south of the river. Can’t you buy him out?’
    ‘It’s not a good time, Sam. I can barely keep the wolf from the door myself.’
    ‘Come on, George, you’re not pleading poverty, are you?’
    Kay took his inhaler and sucked on it, then patted his barrel-like chest. ‘It’s not a question of poverty, Sam, but I’m over-extended with the banks. And it’d need a big chunk of change to buy Terry out.’
    ‘What about getting someone else to buy his stake?’
    Kay pulled a face. ‘That’s possible, but I wouldn’t want to get into bed with just anyone.’ He smiled at the double entendre. ‘If you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want the wrong sort of people in here. There’s the licence to think of.’
    Sam stood up. ‘That’s it, then. I guess there isn’t anything else to be said, is there?’
    ‘Come on, Sam, there’s no need to rush. Let’s have a drink. Catch up on old times.’
    ‘We don’t have any old times, George,’ said Sam.
    Sam lit a cigarette as she walked towards the exit. She was sure George Kay was deliberately being unhelpful. If the clubs were making money, he’d have no problem getting a loan from the banks, no matter how extended he was. He probably assumed that with Terry behind bars, he’d be able to keep the lion’s share of the profits. Sam trusted Kay about as far as she could throw him.
    Andy McKinley undipped the rope to let her out and slipped a business card into her hand. ‘You need anything, Mrs Greene, anything at all, you call, hear?’
    ‘Thanks, Andy,’ said Sam, gratefully. McKinley was the first friendly face she’d seen in a while.
    She got into her Saab and drove home, checking her rear-view mirror regularly, convinced that the police would pull her in again. The fact that she was driving away from a nightclub would give them all the excuse they needed to breathalyse her again.
    ∗      ∗      ∗
     
    The curtains at Trisha’s window were moving as Sam got out of the Saab and let herself into the house but the light in her room was off. Sam went upstairs and knocked on her door. ‘Trish? You awake?’
    There was no answer.
    ‘Good night, love. Sleep well.’
    Sam went downstairs and opened a bottle of chilled Chardonnay. She poured herself a glass and lit the flame-effect gas fire in the sitting room. She sat on the floor, her back against the sofa, and stared at the flames as if hoping to find the answer to her problems there. The phone rang, startling her, and she spilled wine down the front of her