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  Welch said nothing, but he grinned triumphantly.

  The Crown Prosecution Service’s barrister walked by and gave Welch a thumbs-up. “Thanks, Frank. Wish all my cases were as open and shut as that.”

  Welch’s grin widened as he walked past Sam, and Patterson steered her away into a corner. “It’s important, Samantha. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

  “Okay. Fine. Whatever. I’ll be there.” She looked around the wood-panelled entrance hall. “Is there a back way out, Laurence?”

  “I’m afraid not. Not for members of the public.”

  “What about for wives of convicted murderers?”

  Patterson smiled thinly and shook his head.

  Sam took a deep breath and walked towards the double doors that led out to the street. She heard the click-click-click of cameras and the buzz of questions before she even pushed the doors open. The Press were huddled around Welch and Simpson, whose faces were white in the glare of television camera lights.

  Sam kept her head down but it was useless, they were waiting for her, and like hounds on a fresh scent they bore down on her, throwing questions from all sides. How did she feel, what were her plans, how had her husband taken the sentence, had she lied?

  Sam tried to push through them. “Please, I’ve nothing to say,” she shouted. “Nothing.”

  Two figures barred her way. A man and a woman. Sam raised her head and looked at them. It was Mr and Mrs Snow, the victim’s parents, dressed as if they’d just come from church. They were both in their late fifties, he in a dark tweed suit and highly polished brogues, she in a blue flowery print dress and a dark blue coat, with a matching blue hat with a wide band into which had been tucked three silk daisies.

  Sam tried to get by them, but Mrs Snow moved to block her way. “How could you?” she hissed at Sam. “You gave your word before God and you lied. How could you do that?”

  Sam shook her head. Mrs Snow raised a gloved hand and Sam stared at her unflinchingly, waiting for the blow. The older woman lowered her hand and burst into tears. Her husband put an arm around her shoulders. His eyes were dull and flat, as if he wasn’t even aware of Sam or the near-constant barrage of flashes as the photographers clicked away.

  Sam pushed around them.

  The questions continued. Did she know why her husband had killed Preston Snow, had her husband asked her to lie for him, where was she the night Snow was shot? Sam tried to blot out the shouts, tried to imagine they weren’t there. A television camera appeared at her side and a bleached blonde with too much make-up thrust a bulbous microphone in her face. Sam pushed the microphone away. “Don’t you understand – no comment”! she shouted.

  She reached her car, a black convertible Saab. It was penned in by two almost-new saloons and Sam knew instinctively that the Press had done it, cutting off her avenue of escape. She whirled around. “Can someone please move this car!” she yelled, but she could barely hear her own voice above the noise of the Press pack.

  A battered old Land Rover roared up, smoke belching from its exhaust. “Mum! Get in!” It was Jamie. He threw open the door and Sam climbed in gratefully.

  “Jamie, you’re a life saver,” she gasped.

  Jamie grinned and accelerated. As he roared away from the still-shouting journalists, a bottle smacked into the windscreen, cracking it down one side. Through the side window Sam saw Luke Snow screaming and shaking his fist.

  Jamie slammed on the brakes. “Bastard!”

  “Leave it, Jamie,” Sam said.

  “Look what he’s done.”

  “Forget it.”

  Jamie looked as if he was going to argue, but Sam patted him on the leg. “Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee. And a new windscreen.”

  Jamie accelerated away, still cursing.

  She rubbed the back of his neck as he drove. “You should go and see him, as soon as you can.”

  “I will. Laura wasn’t there.”

  “Yeah. Probably too upsetting for her. You know what your sister’s like. It’s Trish I feel really sorry for. They’re bound to give her a hard time at school.”

  Jamie drove them to a coffee bar and they sat in the window sipping cappuccinos in silence.

  “Why did you lie for him, Mum?” Jamie asked eventually. “After everything he did to you.”

  “We’re neither of kids, Jamie. Anyway, who says I lied?”

  “The judge for one. Come on, the forensic alone was enough to convict him. Plus they had an eye witness. I don’t know why you bothered.”

  Jamie had a smear of frothy milk across his upper lip. Sam reached over and wiped it away with her thumb.

  “What are you going to do, Mum?”

  “Been asking myself the very same question.”

  * * *

  A cheer went up as Frank Welch walked into the CID office flanked by Detective Inspector Doug Simpson and Detective Sergeant Fred Clarke. Welch raised a hand in acknowledgement. There were two cases of lager on a side table, along with half a dozen bottles of red wine, stacks of paper cups and a few packets of crisps. Clarke headed straight for the lager.

  “Drink, Frank?” asked Simpson.

  “Get me an orange juice and lemonade, Doug. I’m going to have a word with the governor.”

  Welch went down the corridor and was waved through to Superintendent Simon Edwards’ office by his secretary. “He’s been waiting for you, Chief Inspector,” she said.

  Edwards was buried in paperwork, but he stood up and shook Welch’s hand as soon as he walked in. “Great work, Frank. First class. Pass on my congratulations to the team. I took the liberty of arranging a small libation.”

  “Much appreciated, sir.”

  “Not every day we see a villain like Terry Green sent down.”

  “No, sir.”

  Edwards sat down and picked up his fountain pen. When Welch didn’t move towards the door, Edwards put his pen down again. “Something on your mind, Frank?”

  “Greene’s wife, Samantha. She lied through her teeth. The judge gave her a tongue lashing, but I’d like to send the file on to the DIP.”

  Edwards winced. “I’m not convinced that’s in anyone’s best interests, Frank. You’re not married, are you?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Edwards was well aware that Welch had never been married. Welch answered anyway.

  “No, sir.”

  “Wives stand by their husbands. That’s what they do, bless ‘em. For better or worse.”

  Welch put his hands on the superintendent’s desk and leaned towards him, but he could see from the look on his boss’s face that he resented the territorial encroachment, so he stood up again and folded his arms. “The judge said he thought there was a case of perjury to answer, that’s all I’m saying. She lied in court.”

  “But it didn’t do any good, did it, Frank? Greene still went down. Let sleeping dogs lie. Okay?”

  Welch said nothing. He wanted to argue the point, but he had worked with Edwards long enough to know that there was no point. Once the superintendent had made his mind up, it was like a steel trap. Nothing would budge him, and he’d regard even reasoned argument as a challenge to his authority. Welch nodded slowly. “Okay, sir.”

  “Good man,” said Edwards, and returned to his paperwork.

  Back in the main CID room, Simpson held out a paper cup to Welch. “There you go, boss.”

  Welch took it but didn’t drink.

  “What’s up?” asked Simpson.

  “Difference of opinion with the governor,” said Welch. “He thinks Sam Green’s a sleeping dog. I think she’s a lying bitch.”

  The Stretch continues with Sam Green taking over her husband’s criminal empire, trying to recover his money while at the same time keeping her family together. It’s a delicate balancing act that is much harder to pull off then she at first realises. And there’s a cop on the case who wants her behind bars with her husband.

  THE TUNNEL RATS

  The old lady muttered to herself as she walked along the
street pushing a supermarket trolley, and passers-by gave her a wide berth. She had a red woollen scarf tied around her head and a thick tweed coat that reached down almost to her ankles. She was wearing scuffed leather boots with bright yellow shoelaces and from around her ankles protruded pieces of newspaper. One of the wheels on her trolley kept sticking and she had to concentrate hard to keep it moving in a straight line. The trolley contained everything she owned, packed into plastic carrier bags which were stacked on several sheets of cardboard.

  She stopped next to a rubbish bin and began searching through it. Her first major find was a copy of the Daily Telegraph, rolled up tightly. She unrolled it carefully and flicked through it. She beamed with pleasure as she saw that the crossword hadn’t been done, and refolded it, slipping it into one of the carrier bags. Deeper inside the bin she came across a Burger King carton containing a barely touched cheeseburger and a pack of French Fries, along with an unopened sachet of tomato ketchup. She giggled and did a little jig around the bin, then packed her treasure into another carrier bag and resumed her journey. There were more than a dozen rubbish bins along the one-mile stretch of road and she checked them twice each day.

  Small drops of rain began to patter around her and she glared up at the leaden sky. A raindrop splattered on her spectacles and she took them off and wiped the lenses with a pale blue handkerchief. After she’d put her glasses back on she untied a large golfing umbrella from the side of her trolley, unfurled it, and jammed the handle down among the carrier bags so that she had some shelter as she walked.

  * * *

  The train lurched to a halt, throwing a Japanese tourist off balance. Her husband steadied her by the elbow as the doors opened and half a dozen passengers spilled out on to the platform. The doors closed and the Tube train swiftly accelerated towards the next station. Tommy Reid rested the back of his head against the window and exhaled through clenched teeth. He’d been riding the Circle Line train for more than two hours and he was dog tired. He had a bottle in a brown paper bag, which he raised to his lips, taking a couple of swallows. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the map on the wall of the carriage opposite him. Bayswater was the next station. He sighed mournfully. The muscles in his backside ached and his ears hurt from the near-constant noise. He scratched the two-day growth of beard with the palm of his hand and grinned across at the blind man sitting opposite him, a thirty-something man in blue wrinkled linen jacket and black jeans, holding a white cane between his legs.

  The train began to slow as it reached Bayswater. Reid’s earpiece crackled. “We have a possible contact,” said a voice. “Three white males. Black motorcycle jacket, red baseball jacket with white sleeves, green anorak.” The three muggers had struck four times in the last week. Reid sniffed and took another swig at the bottle as the train slowed then stopped.

  “Fourth carriage,” said the voice in his ear. Reid was in the fifth carriage from the front. He swivelled his head. Through the window in the connecting door he saw the three teenagers board the carriage and huddle together, laughing at something Anorak had said.

  The doors closed and the train lurched forward again. Motorcycle Jacket took a stopwatch from the back pocket of his jeans and nodded at Anorak and Baseball Jacket. All three of the teenagers pulled out black objects from inside their jackets, the size of flashlights with small metal prongs on the end, and spread out along the length of the carriage. Baseball Jacket clicked the trigger on his and blue sparks arced across the prongs.

  Reid got to his feet and went over to the connecting door. Two schoolgirls moved away uneasily. He slowly buttoned up his thick overcoat, figuring it would offer at least some protection again the stun guns. Reinforcements would be waiting at Paddington, and all Reid had to do was to make sure that no one got hurt.

  A businessman handed over his wallet. Anorak took it and put it into a green Harrods carrier bag. A housewife fumbled in her shopping bag while Baseball Jacket stood over her menacingly. An elderly black man was waving his hands and shaking his head, clearly unwilling to give up his money. Anorak walked quickly over to him, thrust the prongs of his stun gun against the man’s thigh and pressed the trigger. The man screamed and then stiffened, his whole body shuddering involuntarily.

  “Oh shit,” said Reid. The muggers had never actually used their stun guns before  the threat alone had always been enough to frighten their victims into submission. He gripped the metal handle and pulled open the door. The noise of the rolling gear rattling down the rails was deafening. He opened the door leading to the adjoining carriage and stepped across the gap.

  The three teenagers looked up. Reid held out the bottle and grinned blackly. “Wanna drink?” he asked, pretending to lose his balance. Reid figured they were about thirty seconds away from Paddington  all he had to do was to keep them distracted.

  Suddenly the door at the far end of the carriage opened and two men in leather jackets and jeans burst in. Reid cursed. They might as well have been wearing uniforms.

  “Cops!” yelled Motorcycle Jacket. “Run for it!”

  All three teenagers hurtled down the carriage, towards Reid. Anorak reached him first. Reid stepped to the side and slammed his bottle against the teenager’s head. Anorak slumped to the side, falling against two young men in suits who grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground.

  Reid tried to bring up the bottle for a second time but Baseball Jacket ran into him, slamming him against the carriage door, then stabbed the stun gun against Reid’s shoulder and pressed the trigger. Reid felt as if he’d been kicked by a horse. He tried to breathe but his lungs wouldn’t work and the life seemed to drain out of his legs. Baseball Jacket yanked open the door and he and Motorcycle Jacket spilled into the next carriage. Reid heard the brakes begin to bite as the train approached Paddington.

  They rushed along the carriage, pushing the two schoolgirls out of the way, the two plainclothes policemen about ten paces behind. Ahead of them the blind man was getting to his feet, one hand gripping his white cane, the other outstretched. The train burst out of the tunnel and the platform flashed by.

  “Out of the way!” Baseball Jacket shouted, pushing the blind man to the side as the train came to a halt and the doors opened. Baseball Jacket stepped out, but as he did so, a hand grabbed his hair and yanked him back.

  “You’re under arrest,” said the blind man, slamming Baseball Jacket against the side of the carriage. The white cane dropped to the floor.

  Motorcycle Jacket skidded to a halt and held out his stun gun. “You’re not blind!” he shouted.

  “It’s a miracle,” grinned the blind man, jerking Baseball Jacket’s arm up behind his back until the teenager yelped in pain.

  Motorcycle Jacket glared at the blind man, then spat at his face and jumped out of the carriage. The blind man pushed Baseball Jacket towards the two plainclothes policemen, who grabbed his arms, then he tossed his sunglasses away and chased after Motorcycle Jacket.

  * * *

  The uniformed inspector shook his head in frustration as he stared at the closed-circuit television monitor. The teenager in the motorcycle jacket was cannoning down the platform, pushing people out of his way and waving his stun gun in the air. Nick Wright was in pursuit, his arms pumping furiously as he ran. On another monitor Tommy Reid stumbled out on to the platform, still holding his bottle, and was almost bowled over by the fleeing mugger.

  “Keystone bloody Cops,” muttered the inspector.

  “Sorry, sir?” said the shirtsleeved officer sitting in front of him.

  “Where are the reinforcements?” said the inspector, putting his hands on the back of the officer’s chair and leaning closer to the rank of monitors.

  “Main ticketing area, sir,” said the officer. He pressed a button on the panel in front of him and the image on the central monitor changed to show half a dozen uniformed British Transport Police officers sprinting towards the top of the escalators.

  The inspector straightened up and ran a hand through his t
hinning hair. He watched the mugger run into one of the exits, closely followed by Wright. At least Wright appeared to be gaining on him.

  * * *

  Nick Wright exhaled through clenched teeth as he ran, his lungs burning with each breath. He swung around a corner just in time to see Motorcycle Jacket collide with a guitar-playing busker, scattering a tin can of coins across the tiled floor.

  “Stop him!” Wright shouted, but no one moved to help. His quarry sprinted to the escalators and ran up, pushing people out of the way.

  “Police!” yelled Wright. “Move, people, please!” Again his pleas were ignored and he had physically to force his way up the escalator after the teenager.

  Motorcycle Jacket was halfway up the escalator when a group of six uniformed officers appeared at the top and fanned out. The boy snarled at the waiting officers, then leaped off the escalator and on to the concrete stars. He sped down the steps, taking them five at a time, as the policemen rushed to the down escalator.

  Wright vaulted off the escalator and on to the stairs, twisting his leg as he landed. Passengers on both escalators watched in amazement as the teenager cannoned down the steps with Wright in pursuit.

  As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Reid appeared around the corner. His jaw dropped as he saw Motorcycle Jacket running towards him, and before he could react, Motorcycle Jacket ran into him, knocking him to the side.

  The teenager was a good fifteen years younger than Wright, and Wright cursed the age difference as he ran. He took a quick look over his shoulder, flashing Reid a sympathetic smile. In his earpiece, Wright could hear the inspector giving instructions to his men, but there was no sign of the uniformed officers. Motorcycle Jacket reached a crossroads and dashed off to the left, forcing his way between two students with rucksacks. The tunnel led to a platform which Motorcycle Jacket sprinted along. Closed-circuit television cameras stared down at them as they ran along the platform.