She heard the whisper of the door against the carpet and she rolled on her side. Terry was standing in the doorway, wearing his old bathrobe. ‘Found it in the kids’ bathroom,’ he said.
‘Never got around to throwing it out,’ said Sam. ‘Go back to bed, Terry.’
‘You don’t mean that.’ Terry kept his eyes fixed on hers. He took a step forward. Then another.
‘Terry . . .’ Sam could hear the indecision in her voice, and as he took another step forward, she felt the resistance flow out of her. She sighed and lifted the duvet. Terry slipped off the robe and got into bed with her. Sam rolled on to her back and Terry reached for her, kissing her hard and sliding his hand between her legs. She opened for him, gasping as he touched her, ashamed at herself for being so ready for him and yet wanting him with all her heart. He moved on top of her and she cried out his name as he entered her, hard and forcefully, but his lips were gentle on hers and his hands never stopped caressing her.
She turned her head away so that she could speak. ‘Don’t hurt me again, Terry,’ she whispered, wrapping her legs around him.
‘I won’t,’ he said, thrusting into her so strongly that she cried out. ‘I promise,’ he said, and then he pushed his mouth on to hers and she surrendered herself to the kiss. It was as if they’d never been apart, Sam realised. Terry knew exactly how to move, how to touch her, how to do everything she craved until she was his, his alone, calling out his name and never wanting it to stop.
∗ ∗ ∗
Sam opened her eyes. Terry was looking at her, a sly smile on his face. ‘You still snore, then,’ he said.
‘You bastard,’ she laughed, and tickled him.
They kissed and Terry put his arm around her. Sam stroked his stomach. She frowned as she felt the scar on his stomach and she pulled the quilt down to see what it was. ‘Christ, Terry, what happened?’
Sam stared at the wound. It was almost four inches long and there were surgical stitches spaced along it at regular intervals. It had almost healed but there was still a thick ridge of red tissue. ‘That’s a knife wound,’ she said.
‘What, you’re a doctor now?’ laughed Terry.
‘It’s not funny, Terry. Doesn’t it hurt?’
Terry shook his head. ‘It itches a bit, that’s it. It’ll be fine in a few days. Superficial, the doc said.’ He grinned. ‘Come on love, you didn’t pay it any attention last night.’
Sam grinned and slapped his chest. ‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ she said. ‘I barely had time to draw breath.’
Terry snuggled against her. ‘You’ve got time now,’ he said. He pulled her close and kissed her. As he rolled on top of her, the bedroom door opened.
‘Mum, do you want a cuppa?’ asked Trisha. She froze as she saw Terry. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Sam looked pained. ‘Trisha . . .’
‘Morning, Trish,’ said Terry, unabashed.
‘You slut!’ Trisha yelled at Sam, then ran out of the room.
Sam pushed Terry off her. ‘Terry . . .’
‘Leave her, she’ll be okay.’
Sam got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. She went to Trisha’s bedroom and knocked on the door. ‘Go away,’ said Trisha.
Sam pushed the door open. ‘Trish . . .’
‘Go away!’
Trisha was lying face down on her bed, holding her pillow tightly. Sam sat down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Trisha shook her away. ‘Leave me alone,’ she said.
‘Trisha . . .’
‘How could you?’
‘Trish . . . he’s my husband.’
Trisha rolled over and looked at Sam tearfully. ‘He walked out on us. He didn’t give a shit about you or me or any of us.’
‘He didn’t walk out. I told him to go.’
‘So you say,’ said Trisha, her voice laden with bitterness.
‘That’s right. That’s what I say. But whatever the circumstances, he’s back now,’ said Sam firmly.
‘He’s not back, Mum,’ said Trisha. ‘He’s visiting. First bimbo he meets, he’ll be off again.’
Trisha dropped back on the bed and rested her chin on her pillow. Sam patted her on the back, but Trisha shook her off again.
Sam went back to her bedroom. The bed was empty. She heard running water. Terry was in the shower. She sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands.
∗ ∗ ∗
Frank Welch nodded at Clarke and the detective flashed a slide up on to the wall. Welch strode over and tapped his finger in the middle of Sean Kelly’s forehead. More than a dozen detectives were gathered for the briefing, and Welch knew that they were all familiar with the Greene case so he didn’t have to cover the basics. ‘Greene walked free yesterday because this little shit confessed to the shooting of Preston Snow. Sean Kelly. Blagger doing a seven stretch in the Scrubs.’
Welch nodded at Clarke and a second slide flashed up on to the wall. Terry Greene. ‘We all know that Terry Greene killed Snow. So first things first, I want to know why Kelly confessed.’
‘Didn’t he give up the murder weapon?’ asked a young detective constable who had recently joined the team.
Welch frowned at the man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. ‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Welch.
‘Wright,’ said the detective hesitantly, realising that he’d offended the chief inspector.
‘Why don’t you speak when spoken to, Detective Constable Wright?’ said Welch. ‘Unless you’d rather go back to being plain old Constable Wright.’
The detective nodded and flushed beetroot red.
Welch turned back to the huge projected photograph of Terry Greene. ‘So, before I was so rudely interrupted, I want Greene under twenty-four-hour surveillance. He’s just lost four tons of top-grade cannabis, so he’s going to be hungry for a deal. Any deal. Could be drugs, could be a robbery, but it’ll be something big and it’ll be soon. We put him under the microscope until we find out what it is.’
The lights flickered on and Welch scowled over at the door, wondering who had the temerity to interrupt his briefing. It was Superintendent Edwards. ‘Can I have a word, Frank?’
‘I’m actually in the middle of something, sir,’ said Welch.
‘I’m sure it can wait,’ said Edwards. He left without giving Welch the chance to say anything else. Welch cursed under his breath and followed Edwards to his office.
Edwards went behind his desk and stood there, his back ramrod straight. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, Frank. You’re suspended.’
Welch was stunned. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, Frank.’
‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’
‘It’s the forensics, Frank. With Kelly confessing to the Snow killing, the forensic evidence is called into question somewhat.’
Welch shook his head angrily. ‘There was a bloody footprint in Snow’s hall, and we found Snow’s blood on one of Greene’s shoes.’
‘Exactly my point,’ said the superintendent.
Welch’s eyes hardened. ‘You’re saying I planted the evidence?’
Edwards groaned as if that was the last thing on his mind. ‘Frank, please,’ he said. ‘You’re over-reacting. There’s to be an investigation, that’s all. Until then, it’s only prudent for you to catch up on a little gardening.’
‘My flat’s on the twelfth floor,’ said Welch. He could see from the look on the superintendent’s face that there was no point in arguing. He turned to go.
‘Frank?’
Welch stopped. ‘What?’
‘Your warrant card.’
Welch took out his wallet, tossed his warrant card on to the superintendent’s desk, and walked out.
∗ ∗ ∗
A young West Indian prisoner was on the landing phone, but Byrne clipped him on the back of the neck, and when he looked around, Hobson pulled out the man’s phone card and threw it over the railing. It fluttered to the ground. ‘Now fuck off or you’ll follow it,’ said Byrne.
Byrne’s arm was in a sling, but he was almost twice the size of the West Indian, so the man scurried down the stairs in search of his telephone card.
Hobson slotted in his own card and dialled a number. The phone was answered on the eighth or ninth ring. Hobson’s grandmother was deaf in one ear and it often took her a while before she realised that her phone was ringing.
‘Nan? It’s me,’ said Hobson.
‘Hello, love. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Nan,’ said Hobson. Byrne moved away, out of earshot, knowing that Hobson didn’t like anyone listening in when he spoke to his grandmother. It wasn’t that he ever said anything confidential, but he was well aware that sweet-talking his grandmother wouldn’t do much for his hardman image. ‘Did you get my birthday card?’
‘I did, love. Thank you.’
Hobson had made the card himself, and had spent hours copying the flowers from a picture in a book he’d found in the prison library. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t send you any flowers.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, love. Your friend brought some around.’
Hobson stiffened. ‘What?’
‘Your friend Terry.’
Hobson put his hand over the receiver and cursed loudly. Byrne looked over anxiously, but Hobson waved him away.
‘Do you want to talk to him?’ asked Hobson’s grandmother. ‘He’s still here.’
‘Okay, Nan, yeah. Put him on.’ Hobson gripped the receiver so hard that his knuckles whitened.
Terry Greene came on the line. ‘Hello, mate,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How’s the old place without me?’
‘You touch one hair on her head and you’re dead, Greene!’ hissed Hobson.
‘Of course I am,’ said Terry. ‘Your nan’s fine. I love the card. Didn’t realise that you could do joined-up writing.’
‘Get the fuck out of her house!’
‘I was just telling your nan, she should get a smoke alarm. Old houses like this, they can be death traps.’ Terry’s voice faded as he covered the mouthpiece. ‘I’m just saying, Mrs Hobson, you should get a smoke alarm.’
‘You bastard!’ hissed Hobson.
‘You know what I want,’ said Terry calmly. ‘The name. Then I’ll be on my way. Who paid you for that business in the showers?’
Hobson slammed the flat of his hand against the wall. He took a deep breath. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ he said.
‘The name,’ said Terry.
‘Kay. George Kay.’
‘See?’ said Terry. ‘That wasn’t so hard.’ The line went dead.
Hobson yelled and hit the wall again.
Byrne came up behind him. ‘What’s up?’ he said, putting a hand on Hobson’s shoulder.
Hobson yelled in frustration. He turned and headbutted Byrne then laid into him with his feet before two prison officers pulled him off and dragged him away, still screaming.
∗ ∗ ∗
Terry twisted around and looked out of the back window of the BMW. ‘Fuck,’ he said. Three cars back was a brown Rover. Welch’s car.
‘What’s that tosser playing at?’ asked Fletcher in the driving seat. Pike was in the front passenger seat, noisily chewing gum.
‘Fucked if I know,’ said Terry. ‘Maybe he thinks he’ll catch us robbing a post office.’
‘Do you want me to lose him?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Nah, let’s have some fun with him.’ Terry peered out of the side window. ‘Hang a left, then drive on to the estate there, yeah?’
Fletcher did as he was told. The council estate was a series of eight-storey buildings linked by walkways. Fletcher parked the BMW and the three men ran for a stairway.
∗ ∗ ∗
Frank Welch slowed as he saw the BMW pull into the council estate. It wasn’t a pleasant place, graffiti covered and home to drug dealers and prostitutes. It was a place the police visited in vans, never on foot.
He saw the BMW and braked sharply. It was parked near a skip overflowing with broken furniture and rolls of stained linoleum. The car was empty.
Welch climbed out of his Rover and looked around. He didn’t like leaving his car unattended, but he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to find out what Terry Greene was up to. He headed towards the nearest block, but kept looking over his shoulder to check that his car wasn’t being vandalised.
As Welch walked around the block he saw Greene on one of the overhead walkways. Greene raised a hand in salute and Welch cursed. He’d been spotted.
‘Oi, Raquel, over here!’ shouted Greene.
Welch stepped forward. As he did, water trickled down over his head and over the front of his coat. He looked up and it splashed over his face. His stomach turned as he realised that it wasn’t water pouring over him. It was urine. Fletcher and Pike were standing on the walkway above, urinating on him.
Welch jumped back, cursing. Fletcher and Pike roared with laughter and zipped up their flies.
‘Now piss off!’ shouted Greene.
Welch flushed with embarrassment. He took off his coat and went back to his car, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
∗ ∗ ∗
Sam was loading bags of groceries into the back of her Saab and thinking about Laura, which was why she wasn’t aware of the man’s approach until he was standing next to her. ‘Mrs Greene?’ he said, with a soft Irish lilt.
Sam looked up, frowning. The man was in his twenties, good looking with jet-black hair and piercing-blue eyes. He was wearing a well-cut black leather jacket and brown corduroy trousers. ‘Yes?’ she said, hesitantly.
‘My boss would like a word with you, if you’ve got the time.’ He smiled easily and brushed his hair away from his eyes. He had a boyish look about him that reminded Sam of Terry.
‘Your boss being . . . ?’ said Sam.
‘The guy who wants a word with you,’ he said.
‘That’s it?’
‘I think you know what it’s about, Mrs Greene,’ he said.
Sam nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ she said.
‘My car’s over there,’ he said, nodding at an old Ford Escort.
‘I’d rather follow you in mine, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve already been towed away once this month.’