The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Read Online Free PDF

with two Everton fans in a pub car park. He’d won the fight by giving one of the men a bear hug that had broken three ribs, and fallen down on top of the other one, bursting the man’s spleen. The judge who’d sent Hoyle down had what passed for a sense of humour and had referred to Hoyle’s body as ‘an offensive weapon, in more than one way’. Even Hoyle had been chuckling as he was led away from the dock. He was a nice enough guy, but Terry was already finding it a nuisance to flatten himself against the wall every time Hoyle wanted to move around the cell.
    The springs above him groaned and Hoyle’s face appeared over the side of the bunk. ‘You all right, Tel?’
    ‘I’m fine, Charlie. Cheers.’
    ‘You want any wacky backy?’
    ‘Not right now, thanks.’
    ‘Anything else you want, you just ask.’
    ‘Thanks, Charlie. I will.’
    Hoyle heaved himself back on to his bunk and was soon snoring loudly. Terry grinned. His hands were interlinked behind his head on top of the wafer-thin pillow he’d been given, and both blankets were threadbare and stained. He figured Riggs was doing as much as he could to make him as uncomfortable as possible, but Terry could take whatever was thrown at him. If everything went to plan, he wouldn’t be behind bars for long.
    ∗      ∗      ∗
     
    Frank Welch dropped a stack of newspapers on his desk and sat down. He unwrapped his croissant and broke off a piece and chewed as he read through the Daily Mail. He’d given the chief reporter an exclusive off-the-record briefing on the Greene case, and the journalist had done him proud.
    There was a photograph of Sam on one of the inside pages, looking directly at the camera, her chin slightly up. There was an air of defiance about her, as if she knew that she’d be staring out of the pages of a newspaper and didn’t care. She was wearing a pale green suit with a thin gold chain and a crucifix around her neck. Welch smiled at the crucifix. It had been a nice touch, that. She’d worn it every day in court, even though she’d never worn the same outfit twice. Whatever she wore, she always made sure that the collar was open so that the jury could see the crucifix and just a hint of cleavage. The skirts were always cut just above the knee, showing off her shapely legs. Her heels were high enough to keep the male members of the jury interested, but not high enough to offend the women. It had been a delicate balancing act, but Sam Greene had pulled it off.
    She’d been a professional singer in her early twenties, and flirted with acting, and Welch had seen her give the performance of her life in court. Supportive glances across to her husband in the dock. The occasional dab of a handkerchief. Steely glares at the main prosecution witness. Slightly flirtatious smiles at the male jury members if the judge wasn’t looking. And every day the walk to and from the court, head up, shoulders back, looking defiantly at the clicking cameras. It had been an outstanding performance, but Terry Greene had still gone down for life and that was all that mattered to Welch.
    The Mail had also used a picture of Greene’s family home, a modern five-bedroom detached house on the outskirts of Chiswick, complete with heated swimming pool and three-car garage. It was the sort of house that Welch could never hope of coming close to owning. The most Welch could afford was a two-bedroom flat in Maida Vale and the way that London property prices were surging there was little chance of him ever climbing higher up the property ladder. There was no swimming pool in Welch’s immediate future. Or three-car garage. Welch smiled to himself. But at least he wouldn’t be spending the rest of his life in prison so maybe there was some justice in the world after all.
    Doug Simpson pulled the Telegraph from the pile and flicked through the pages. ‘Page four, boss,’ he said.
    ‘Uh-oh,’ said Detective Constable Colin Duggan, scratching his fleshy