Hell's Kitchen (Cullen & Bain Book 3)

by Ed James

  ‘Drove in England once. Wouldn’t do it again.’ Holten eases off into the lane for another slip-road heading for the Long Island Expressway. ‘You sure you don’t want to talk about what happened back there?’

  ‘Damn sure. And damn sure you don’t want to hear it. Put it this way, Elrond won’t be chorying any more masks.’

  ‘Chorying?’

  ‘Stealing. Christ.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  ‘Christ no, but he’ll—’

  Then my blower goes again.

  I brush some more of the splintered glass away and it’s fuckin’ Sundance calling us. I put it to my ear. ‘Yellow?’

  ‘You’re in a good mood.’

  ‘I’m fine, Sundance. Just fine.’

  ‘Must be. You’re not calling me Scott again.’

  ‘Only do that when you’ve been naughty, which is most of the time.’

  He pauses, but it’s not the time or place for kicking me in the balls. ‘Your dad’s safe and well. If a bit drunk.’

  Fuckin’ old bastard. ‘See where I get it from?’

  ‘He was really a maths professor?’

  ‘Aye. What about Kieron?’

  ‘Your son’s in custody. He’ll do another ten years for what he’s been up to today.’

  I look out the window at the city passing by. ‘I don’t have a son.’

  ‘Brian, Kieron was taking revenge against his stepfather, Stephen Cordell. He thought he’d murdered your ex-wife.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘By accident. She was sick. He was giving her meds that turned out to be lethal.’

  Fuckwit. ‘Okay. What about Apinya?’

  ‘She’s safe too, Brian. And I’m sorry for all the shite I’ve given you about it. She’s lovely, not that it’s any defence if she wasn’t.’

  ‘I better go.’ So I hang up and watch the skyline in the rearview. All those Manhattan skyscrapers, feels like a million miles away now. Like it’s not real, like this is a dream.

  But it’s all fuckin’ real. Too real.

  Fuckin’ Kieron.

  I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my time, but that boy’s the biggest one. Letting him grow up in a toxic environment like that… Not being there for him when we divorced, not supporting him when it all went to shite. Disowning him.

  And I didn’t even know his mother was dead.

  ‘You okay?’

  I look over at Holten. ‘Fine and dandy.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  I give him a shrug.

  ‘Is Elrond still alive?’

  ‘He’s still breathing, aye. Might only be raiding ambulances with one hand and his baws are now located in his lungs, but he’s alive.’

  He fixes me with a hard stare. ‘Just so we’re clear, you’re not coming back into this country again. You hear?’

  ‘We’ve got to come back for our rearranged live shows in—’

  ‘I’m not messing around here, Brian. You’re fucking crazy, man, and I’ll help you get out of the country, but you can never come back. Elrond will lodge a report.’

  ‘Well, someone may have to help him with the big words, and hold the biro for him. Sure you can’t make it disappear?’

  ‘Not my precinct. And even if it was, I can’t just lose paperwork. Don’t know what kind of shitshow you guys run back in Scotland, but I’ve got enough of a bad name.’

  ‘I fuckin’ thrive off my bad name.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Listen to me. Quit it with the bullshit. He had your passport and wallet with all that ID. If he remembers your name and files a report, there’ll be a federal arrest warrant for a man matching your description. You can’t come back to New York if that happens. Probably the whole country.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Aside from my family in Scotland, those were some bad dudes you took down. It feels like an away win.’

  ‘You a football man?’

  He’s nodding. ‘Soccer, sure.’

  ‘Who’s your team?’

  ‘New York City.’

  ‘I mean, British.’

  ‘Oh. Uh, London Arsenal.’

  ‘London Arsenal? It’s just Arsenal…’ Fuck it, let the boy have it.

  Another sign for that expressway whizzes past and Holten gets into the right lane.

  Kieron. Fuck sake.

  I was sure he was going to take down the old man, sure he was going after the little lady. I had it arse about tit. Wrong fuckin’ way round.

  But he was a fuckin’ vigilante. Christ knows how many extra years on his sentence, just to punish the fucker who’d killed his mother.

  A lot of water passed under that bridge, I swear, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. In her own home, poisoned by a fuckwit.

  Kieron…

  I look over at Holten. ‘Can we go back to that hospital?’

  ‘What? In Hell’s Kitchen? Where you were tested?’

  ‘Aye, but I’ve got to get something back from Art Oscar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gave him a bottle opener. Wouldn’t mind getting it back. It’s got sentimental value.’

  ‘This about your son?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Holten narrows his eyes, but he’s not shifting out of the lane for straight ahead. ‘Just after my shift ended, I visited him and he seems to be recovering.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Mind if we—’

  ‘It was a heart attack, not Covid. He’s going to make a good recovery, thanks to you two.’

  ‘Thanks to you and all, but if we could—’

  ‘You could’ve just left him, and gone home. But you didn’t. That’s why I’m helping you. You’re good people.’ Holten reaches into his pocket for his house keys. ‘He gave me a little thank you, but I guess it’s what you’re looking for, huh?’

  I take his keys and it’s there. A bottle opener with “Dad” stencilled in. I ease it off the keyring and run my nails against the indentation. ‘Tell you, this thing has such a nice action.’

  ‘Here’s the thing, though. I’ll keep an eye out and I promise to let you know if a warrant actually does get issued. Chances are a wannabe gangster ain’t going to run to the cops because he got tuned up by a Brit.’

  ‘Aye, prick thought I was English. Should’ve done both of his hands.’ I grin at the boy, though. ‘Cheers, man.’

  25

  Cullen

  Cullen knocked on the office door and waited. Felt like it took a long time. Way too long. So he hit the door again.

  ‘Come!’

  Cullen entered and nudged the door shut behind him. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Ah, Scott.’ Methven was glugging from a can of WakeyWakey energy drink. Never a good sign. ‘Have a seat.’

  Cullen stayed standing. ‘Your text was somewhat cryptic.’

  ‘Sorry, but the walls have ears.’ Methven gestured at the chair in front of his desk. ‘Please, I insist.’

  Cullen sat this time. These chairs were impossible to get comfortable in. ‘Kieron’s in the hospital.’

  ‘Ah.’ Another sip, frowning. ‘How bad were his burns?’

  ‘Sounded and smelled a lot worse than it was.’

  ‘And is DS Flockhart okay?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. Made of tough stuff.’

  ‘Very true. Well, you’ll need to get a second Covid-19 test.’

  Cullen rubbed at his throat. ‘Already done.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Methven swung round in his office chair and reached over to the small inkjet printer on the table behind him. He took a couple of sheets, but focused on them instead of swinging back round. ‘Okay, well, given that DS Bain will be arriving back in Britain tomorrow, I think it’s important that we put our plan into action.’

  ‘So you’re going through with firing him?’

  ‘Would you blame me?’ Methven swivelled round and pushed the sheets across his desk. ‘Most leave was cancelle
d, Scott. DS Bain was prohibited from going to the US, and yet he went. I believe his exact words were, “I’m not letting the fuckin’ flu stand in the way of my big chance”.’ Methven’s impression was flawless. ‘Now, as much as I wish you were there to witness it, it was just my word against his.’ He licked his lips. ‘Until now.’ He nodded at the pages.

  Cullen picked them up. Three of them. The first looked like screenshots of text messages.

  Methven: Need I remind you that you are a policeman? You have a duty and this country is entering its direst emergency in seventy years if not centuries.

  Bain: Blah blah blah. I’m in Portland and my direst emergency is my next pint. Take your job and ram it.

  Cullen slid it back. ‘That’s not good, is it?’

  ‘No, and I have an exchange of emails between DS Bain and DS Gordon, vis-à-vis: Elvis, your leave is still authorised. Don’t listen to Sundance or Crystal. We’re leaving for the States, man! There were six exclamation marks in that one sentence alone.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t know what to say. That’s enough to fire him, but I think we should consider a middle ground here.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘You can argue dismissal all you like, but I think we should consider demoting him to constable.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s got hidden depths and skills.’

  Methven peered over the edge of his can. ‘Does he have anything on you?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Scott, the correct answer is that there’s no kompromat.’

  ‘I shouldn’t promise that there isn’t any.’

  Methven shook his head, but he was smiling. ‘If there’s something I should know?’

  ‘I’m joking. Well, aside from the fact DI Lennox doesn’t know that myself and DS Flockhart are romantically involved.’

  Methven snorted. ‘And you paired up, didn’t you?’

  ‘It made sense. Look, with what’s going on with Bain’s son and his father, not to mention having a baby daughter—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you either?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘He didn’t even take paternity leave?’

  ‘Well, no. I would’ve found out.’

  ‘Right, well.’

  Methven smoothed down his wild eyebrows. And failed miserably. They still stuck up like a pair of caterpillars. ‘First, you’ll be pleased to know that DS Caldwell’s Acting position is now official. Paperwork has been signed and delivered. I expect you to help her through the sergeant exams ASAP.’

  ‘Will do. Still doesn’t give me an answer as to what we should do about Bain.’

  ‘Look, Scott, I don’t think this should be a matter for me to decide. You’re an Acting DI, so you need to demonstrate that you’re at the requisite level.’

  And there it was, another carrot. Cullen actually missed Bain’s stick-first approach.

  ‘So I’ve got to throw another officer under the bus to maybe get my promotion made permanent?’

  ‘That’s not how I run things.’ Methven reached into his drawer. ‘But it can’t be my decision, as I’m no longer DS Bain’s people manager on the system, what with my DCI tenure now permanent.’ The humble-bragging wanker pulled out an envelope and set it on the desk. ‘You are.’

  ‘But I’m only an Acting DI, sir. I’m a sergeant, technically the same grade as him.’

  Methven paused, long enough to get Cullen’s gut flurrying. ‘So far, you’ve secured the arrest of, and obtained, a confession from one Kenny Falconer. He’s going down for murdering a prison guard. Next, you’ve got a confession from Keith Ross on a mass poisoning that will likely solve multiple manslaughters, including… well. And you’ve brought in a fugitive. That’s impressive work by anyone’s standards. Carolyn Soutar and Jim Turnbull are impressed.’ He slid the document over the table. ‘Congratulations, Detective Inspector.’

  Cullen sat in the ward’s waiting area, staring up at the ductwork on the ceiling. Similar to what you’d find in most modern police stations. Why did new buildings not have ceilings? Why was it okay to just put pipes through the place like that?

  Still, here he was, waiting for test results. He put a hand up to his forehead and he was sure he had a fever. And his lungs felt like they’d been crushed by a lorry.

  He rocked forward on his chair and opened the envelope again. He had to check the document just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. But there it was, full tenure as a DI. And a serious bump in his salary.

  ‘Scott?’

  Cullen looked over at the male nurse beckoning him over. He put the envelope away in his jacket and got up to follow him.

  The nurse – Clive, according to his name tag – was sitting in a sterile room behind a pale-white desk. ‘So, the test results performed by my colleague this morning came back.’

  Cullen took a chair, but could barely breathe. ‘And?’

  ‘They were negative.’

  Cullen exhaled slowly. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘The state of testing in this country is appalling. We can’t waste tests on police officers who decide to wrestle idiots to the ground. Nurses and other frontline workers need those tests more urgently. I’ve lost two colleagues to it already.’ The nurse raised his eyebrows. ‘So to have to perform two tests in the same day on the same officer?’

  Cullen still gagged just thinking about sticking the swab deep in his mouth. ‘And that’s negative too, right?’

  Cullen walked down the corridor, rubbing his throat. Felt like he needed to clear his throat, but each cough just left something in there.

  Evie was sitting in the waiting area, frowning. ‘You okay?’

  ‘No.’ Cullen kept a good distance from her. ‘I’ve caught it.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘One negative test this afternoon, then a positive now.’ He frowned. ‘Have you—’

  ‘Positive.’ She got up and walked over. ‘Technical term is pre-symptomatic, apparently.’

  ‘How the hell could we have caught it from them? We weren’t in close proximity for that long, were we?’

  ‘Long enough. Plus the stress of the situation must’ve expelled more viral load. Maybe.’ She smiled. ‘The good news is that it’s most likely to be a really bad flu for us. Right?’

  ‘As long as you don’t just mean a cold but flu flu. Influenza. It can be really bad. And if this is even worse? It’ll be no picnic, that’s for sure.’

  ‘We’ll get through it together, Scott. You can stay at mine. I wasn’t very understanding when you called me about it earlier. It’s just… After what happened with Craig and my last relationship, and then you and Sharon, I just didn’t want to have to move in together until we knew this was it. But all I’ve thought about is you not having anywhere to stay. And I want to protect you, Scott. So if we self-isolate together, then maybe it can be a trial run?’

  ‘That sounds perfect.’ And it did. Right down in the pit of his stomach. He got out the piece of paper. ‘Some good news, for once. And… I’ve got a really tough decision to make.’

  Epilogue

  Bain

  The next day

  Fuck me, these proper respirator masks are a fuckin’ ballache. Just will not sit comfy, will it?

  And there’s no sign of Elvis. Trying to get his fuckin’ steps in, isn’t he, so he’s walking around the terminal. Doesn’t matter that he’s slap bang in the epicentre of a viral pandemic, does it? Ten thousand steps. Every fuckin’ city we were in, exact same thing.

  ‘Just need to get my steps in, Bri.’

  Fuckin’ roasting in Phoenix. Lucky he didn’t get pulled up for it by some local cop.

  I finish my IPA and leave my last five dollars as a tip. Woof ya, that was pretty strong. My legs are like jelly, but fuck it.

  I’ve got my passport, my bottle opener and we’re heading home.

  I walk off down the corridor and I swear that same bookshop is every three units. Same one. Same boo
ks. Same selection of hoodies and none of them fuckin’ fit.

  And there’s a door marked for dogs. I mean, are they pissing and shitting in there? Dog litter? I mean…

  Fuck, there’s our gate and Elvis is there, tapping his watch.

  Can’t see the time on my knackered phone, can I? And I can’t be arsed hurrying. Not that I can with these jelly legs. ‘What’s up, Paul?’

  ‘Bit of an issue.’ Elvis looks over at the flight desk. Not much of a queue getting on. ‘The lassie says we’ve both got fevers so she won’t let us on.’

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake.’ That’s it. I fuckin’ storm over there and lock eyes with her.

  Nice-looking lassie but frosty with it. Blonde hair that looks expensive. Could do with smiling, mind. ‘Sir, as your friend says, I’m afraid that I can’t let either of you board.’

  ‘Listen, we were tested yesterday morning. Mount Sinai in Hell’s Kitchen.’

  ‘And have you got the results?’

  ‘I just need to get back to Scotland.’

  She clicks her tongue a few times. ‘Sir—’

  ‘Look, the hospital must have them.’

  ‘Have you got a contact for the doctor?’

  I frown. ‘It’s a Dr Santiago, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sir, I suggest you get in touch with your healthcare provider.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ I get out my phone and it’s more like a fuckin’ smashed-up watch than state-of-the-art technology. ‘Let me see.’ I hit dial and stand there. Never shift when you’re at the head of the queue. Or line as they’d say over here. I mean, what’s wrong with—

  ‘Welcome to the Mount Sinai customer care line. We’re sorry, but due to high call volumes we are unable to take your call.’

  And it just dies.

  Fuck sake.

  I’m stuck here. And I need to get home.

  I look at Elvis. ‘You got your results?’

  He’s looking at his phone, then at me with a grin. ‘Negative.’

  ‘So it’s just me stuck here? Fuck sake.’

  ‘Bri, we can—’