Hell's Kitchen (Cullen & Bain Book 3)

by Ed James

  Hell's Kitchen

  Cullen & Bain 3

  Ed James

  Contents

  Other Books By Ed James

  Friday

  1. Kenjo

  2. Bain

  3. Cullen

  4. Bain

  5. Cullen

  6. Bain

  7. Cullen

  8. Bain

  9. Cullen

  10. Bain

  11. Cullen

  12. Bain

  13. Cullen

  14. Bain

  15. Cullen

  16. Bain

  17. Cullen

  18. Bain

  19. Cullen

  20. Bain

  21. Cullen

  22. Bain

  23. Cullen

  24. Bain

  25. Cullen

  Epilogue

  Bain’s Kitchen

  Next book

  Copyright © 2020 Ed James

  The right of Ed James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design copyright © Ed James

  Other Books By Ed James

  SCOTT CULLEN MYSTERIES SERIES

  GHOST IN THE MACHINE

  DEVIL IN THE DETAIL

  FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  STAB IN THE DARK

  COPS & ROBBERS

  LIARS & THIEVES

  COWBOYS & INDIANS

  HEROES & VILLAINS

  CULLEN & BAIN SERIES

  CITY OF THE DEAD

  WORLD’S END

  HELL’S KITCHEN

  GORE GLEN (November 2020)

  CRAIG HUNTER SERIES

  MISSING

  HUNTED

  THE BLACK ISLE

  DS VICKY DODDS

  TOOTH & CLAW

  FLESH & BLOOD

  SKIN & BONE (May 2021)

  DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES

  THE HOPE THAT KILLS

  WORTH KILLING FOR

  WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU

  IN FOR THE KILL

  KILL WITH KINDNESS

  KILL THE MESSENGER

  CORCORAN & PALMER

  SENSELESS

  Friday

  20th March 2020

  1

  Kenjo

  Can barely sit upright, man. Strapped in tight here, cuffed through the bars in front. Another cough and my throat burns. My chest rattles an’ all. Swear it’s like that guard is sitting on us again.

  The exact same guard prick is standing over us, snide and wide, as my old boy used to say. Snide and wide. Carl Kelleher. Reckons he’s a boss in here now, but I think he’s just kidding himself. Thinks he’s the top boy, though. Big guy, bigger belly, and the most stupid beard thing you’d see outside a gay bar.

  Not that I’ve been in that many, likes.

  Most of his beard is hidden behind one of those masks, though, like he’s scared of catching this lurgy off yours truly. But that seems to be all they’ve got to protect them, likes. Thought they’d have those big suits on like in some sci-fi film about a plague, but no. Not even got proper goggles on, man.

  Way I planned this, I was expecting a wee bit of privacy, you know? But this fanny isn’t leaving us on my Jack Jones any time soon, is he?

  His left hand’s tucked into his belt, next to his stick. ‘Going to be a nightmare disinfecting this after you’re out of it.’

  I force out another cough, and it’s like my old man’s death rattle. Christ, I thought this whole corona-wotsit thingmy was supposed to be just like the flu, but maaaaaan.

  Hurts like buggery, too, and I know what buggery feels like. People say prison’s a better place these days, and in a lot of ways it is, but you try looking this good in HMP Edinburgh and taking a solo shower, then you’ll see how quickly some big caveman moseys on over to your stall and forces himself on you. It’s not pretty.

  Carl The Boss does up the last strap and I can barely move. Chest feels tight as all hell. He’s frowning at us. ‘You okay there, Kenny?’ His voice is like that boy in those Star Wars film. The big guy in the black suit, turns out to be the hero kid’s father or something. Never watched them as a kid, they were for nerds like, but I’ve seen them all now. Classics. Lot of time on my hands at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

  ‘Just fine and dandy, knobhead.’ The sour expression on his puss makes us laugh. And that’s a big mistake, likes. Makes us cough – bang, bang, bang – but nothing comes up. This wee radge virus is giving my lungs absolute laldie and it’s not pretty.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you’re fine, Kenny.’

  I roll my eyes at the big wanker. ‘Might need to take us to hospital, eh no?’

  He actually laughs. ‘Be there soon enough, Kenny.’ He looks out the window and frowns again. Got a perpetual one, like he wants people to take him seriously or something, show that he’s always thinking about something. But this is deeper, like a normal frown.

  Out the smeary windows, the car park is absolutely sodden, soaked like that time I had to lie low near Pitlochry when the filth were after us. Camping’s shite at the best of times, but when it’s absolutely pelting down for a solid fortnight? Can still taste those beans and sausages, too. Minging.

  Anyway, what he’s frowning at?

  Something squeaks and grinds. Another big fat bastard is pushing another wheelchair towards the van, and the guard boy is waving his hand to get Carl’s attention.

  So obviously, Carl is that kind of arsehole, wants to look like a Secret Service agent protecting President Fucknut in some shitey film, only he’s not got the earpiece or the thingamajig in his sleeve, so he has to put his radio up to his bonce. ‘Aye, Davie, receiving.’

  Can’t make out what he’s getting from the other screw, but he’s not happy about it. Takes a long look at us, then scans around the empty prison van and you can see the cogs whirring in there, trying to conjure up some excuse, but there’s no excuse the fanny-mouthed chimp can come up to get out of this.

  Carl turns his back to us. If I had a knife, I’d stick it between his ribs. Just to the left a wee touch, slide the blade in until it tickles his heart, then he pops his clogs, just have to free myself and bingo, I’m gone, baby.

  But another wave of shivers goes right through us. It’s like when you’re running from the filth and you have to jump into a river to get away, then you get out and it’s like the middle of December and absolutely brass monkeys weather and your three layers of clothes are drenched and the cold just hits you. Your body says, “Cheers, boss, I’ve got this,” and starts shivering. Not teeth-chattering bad, but that whole thing. Absolute nightmare, man.

  Carl stares right at us, deep into my eyes, but he’s just seeing a sack of coughing meat, not a human being. Whatever I’ve done in my puff, I deserve some respect and dignity. ‘Listen, Davie, I’ve already got one Covid-19 transfer. Two feels like too much risk, know what I mean? Over.’

  Boy’s right an’ all. Transferring one lag to the hospital, cool beans. Two? Bad news.

  Old cellie explained it to me once
. Doesn’t just double up the problem, but makes it like four times worse. Least, that’s how Big Dunc explained it to me. Chaos theory and all that.

  Carl’s listening hard to the other screw, his forehead creasing that wee bit harder, and eventually he nods. Doesn’t say anything, likes. If he is actually a boss now, no matter how much power this fanny thinks he now has, he’s still got a boss of his own, and that boss has one too. And there’s like this whole global pandemic thing kicking off, load of bats eating people in China and making them cough or whatever.

  Still, I’d heard I was getting ghosted. Shoved up to Perth in the middle of the night, cutting me off from my brief just as another appeal comes up. Cutting me off from my old dear, too. Not happening.

  But this is happening. Just you watch.

  ‘Fine, then. Over.’ Carl stomps across to the back door and sticks his card in the reader, then puts the code in the wee machine. Can’t get a good look at it, likes. But timing’s everything. Absolutely everything. Big bastard is muttering some shite under his breath, which let’s be honest is heavier than the graffiti in a truck stop bogs.

  Win-win.

  ‘Okay, son, you can walk the rest.’ His buddy steps back. Such a lazy arsehole, standing there with both thumbs tucked into his belt, nodding away like he approves of the operation.

  Footsteps thump into the back of the van. Kegsy, and he looks ill. His shaved head is the least of it. Eye bags like golf balls and his skin’s all grey.

  And sure enough, Davie the guard is huffing and puffing. Big wobbly faced bastard who just stood there while that punk raped us. Makes me feel okay about what’s coming to him.

  Kegsy sits in front of us and Davie cuffs him in same as me, in front and over the bar. Barely enough slack to breathe and, with what we’ve got, we need it. And he shoots a wink when the screws aren’t looking.

  Ho, ho, we’re in business.

  His cough sounds bad, though. Even worse than mine. Rasping and rattling like he’s got mice running around in his lungs.

  Carl slaps Davie on the back. ‘That’s us good to go now, then, before any others start coughing.’ Boy huffs out this massive sigh. ‘Let’s get out of here before they send any more over.’ Both screws waddle up to the back and it obviously takes the pair of them to lock the back door.

  Still pishing it down out there.

  ‘Right, Kenjo?’ Kegsy’s voice is thin and I can barely hear it.

  The guards have their backs to us now, waddling down to the driver’s bit.

  Kegsy’s pushing back, sticking his scrawny arse up in the air like a dug in heat.

  And I know what’s coming.

  My fingers are acting quick, without thinking. I haul his breeks down and rummage around in nature’s boot. Bingo, he’s shoved a big lump of plastic up his jacksy.

  ‘Careful.’ His voice is a hiss.

  I take hold of it, warm plastic all sticky from that bugger’s germs, and ease it out. I haul his breeks up again and the van stinks of shite now.

  Pair of clowns must spot that something’s up here.

  Right?

  But the engine goes.

  So I sit back. Used to be a toothbrush, but it’s like a work of art now. I run my thumb across the sharpened end. Nice. Almost cut myself, eh?

  The other end, though, has been filed to a handcuff key.

  Ho, ho, this is going to be fun.

  Sounds like the van stops again. Can’t see shite, though. I mean, I’m trying to, likes, but this cough, Christ. It hits when I least expect it.

  Man, we’ve been at this for hours. Are we at the hospital yet? Can’t bloody see anything out there, just Kegsy in here, and he’s looking like he already died. Eyes shut, head listing to the side. Then he coughs, like someone shooting a rifle. Crack, crack, crack. Wakes him up, but he’s hardly compos mentis.

  Carl and Davie are on their feet now, so that must mean that we’re here. Right? They’re looking at Kegsy first, mind, probably more worried by that cough of his than my wee tickler. Hope they’ve got a pan handy cos it sounds like his lungs are coming up any minute.

  I ease the shiv round and pop the key into the lock. Bingo, the cuffs pop open. Far too easily, if you ask me. This shiv is the business. Kegsy’s played a blinder here, though. Who designs these things?

  The pair of fannies step out of the driving compartment and walk past.

  I sit there like I’m still cuffed in. Now I just have to wait. Still ramming it down out there, but there’s no sign of anybody. Car park’s completely empty, man.

  Carl eases his big fat arse around and wanders over to the door and does the old chip and pin, then slides it to the side. ‘You want to start opening the cuffs, Davie?’ He steps out into the pissing rain and gets out his moby, then starts talking to someone.

  Poor Davie doesn’t get a chance to answer.

  I’m on my feet and slide the shiv into that sweet spot, unblocked by bone or muscle. Just my blade piercing the prick’s heart. Shame to do this to anyone, but then you stand there whistling while some big animal rapes someone in the showers, you’re going down. Just regret not getting my rapist, too, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh no?

  Outside, Carl’s making a right royal arse of laying the ramp out, leaving it all higgledy-piggledy.

  I sit the boy down on my seat. He’s still alive, still hanging on, but he’s struggling to speak, struggling for breath. This is the best bit, like, when you watch that light go out behind their eyes. But I’ve not got time for it today, so I ease off his mask and snap it on myself. Covers everything, doesn’t it? Breathing like that big bastard from Star Wars. Just need a light saber. Don’t want the old dear catching this plague, I tell you. Bad enough on a boy like me or Kegsy.

  Davie’s boots are nice. Big shiny black things. I pull the tongue down and, oh ho, I’m in luck. Size nines. Quick untie job and my feet are in them. The boots are warm, from a dead man, but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, eh no?

  ‘DAVIE!’ Carl’s shout is like a dog barking but like, huffing and puffing through the mask. ‘What’s stopping you?’

  Just the wee matter of dying, Carl.

  I head over to the back door and Carl’s still fannying about with the ramp.

  And he looks up at us.

  Bad move. I crack my left boot into his jaw and it’s like Leigh Griffiths hammering one in from outside the box.

  Take that, you Tory fud!

  He rolls off down the ramp, completely out of the game. I take a peek outside and it’s still quiet as the prison library, so I grab Carl by the ankles and pull him back up the ramp. I yank off his mask and walk over to Kegsy. ‘You okay, bud?’

  ‘I’m dying, mate.’ Another cough, so deep it’s like it’s torn his bowels apart. ‘You go without me.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ I unlock the cuffs and help him up to standing. ‘Here.’ I snap the mask over his lugs and pull it over his face.

  ‘Bit late for this, man.’

  I’m trying not to laugh here so I don’t cough, but I can’t help it. Another ten seconds of coughing my guts up. ‘It’ll be a decent disguise, okay?’

  ‘With you now.’

  ‘You good?’

  Kegsy looks at us, like death warmed up. ‘Mate, just leave me here.’

  ‘No, no, we’re doing this, bud. Come on.’ I haul him up to standing and wrap his arm over my shoulder.

  And he’s okay, actually, now he’s upright. Walking on his own steam. ‘Cheers, Kenjo. Come on.’ He steps over to the door, and the old Kegsy’s back, baby!

  Now, we just need to find that motor and the keys.

  2

  Bain

  This hotel room is way too fuckin’ small for this. Over this tiny wee table, rammed full of shite, I can smell Elvis’s onion-y breakfast. I mean, who eats a fuckin’ burrito at this time of day?

  Actually there was that one London cop. ‘Lunch? Oh, there’s a great Mexican down Bumclench Lane.’ Not a bad sort, but he had a real darkness to
him.

  My phone goes. Sundance calling…

  I’ll be fucked if I’m answering that. Takes Cullen a few seconds to leave a voicemail, then he’ll be another few to tap out a text and fire it across all those pipes under the Atlantic. At least, that’s how Elvis explained it. Could be satellites. Who knows?

  I tap my finger off the microphone. ‘So, you just about ready here?’

  Elvis flicks his nails into my paw. ‘I told you to stop touching it.’ Those stupid sidies are now almost meeting at his chin after two weeks with yours truly. I mean, he thinks he looks like that boy from the X-Men films, but he’s more like that clown from Slade. ‘It’s not been the same since you dropped it in that swimming pool.’

  ‘That was an accident.’

  ‘Never an accident with you, Bri.’

  And here it is, that text from Sundance:

  Brian, you need to answer your phone. You’re facing an HR investigation. Call me. Scott.

  Cheeky bastard. He can ram his HR investigation so hard it comes out his fuckin’ mouth.

  So I look over at Elvis.

  Only, he’s holding up his phone. ‘Text from Cullen. Says you’re to phone him.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be chocolate.’ I chuck mine on the bed. ‘We going to do this, or what?’

  Elvis winces. Not sure what at. ‘I’m not sure us still being in New York is the smartest move.’