Ratline: Hamelin's Child, #5

By DJ Bennett

The DI handling Lenny’s trial seems to think he can control the rest of Lenny’s life too. He’s made him an offer – help the police pull in one of London’s biggest criminals and there might be a way to stay out of prison. 

Lenny knows that going after Jackson isn’t going to be easy. And finding a way back into his old life will be near-impossible. After putting his gangland boss behind bars, it looks like everybody is out to get him, but at least there’s the novelty of having the cops on his side for once. 

Jackson and Lenny have history between them, however, and in order to lure Jackson, Lenny has to dig deep into his own past and uncover secrets he’d thought were buried forever. And the chain of evidence he needs to bring Jackson down might just be the noose around his own neck. 

This thriller is set a few months after Rat's Tale and contains adult material. 

(approx 55,000 word novella)

• Language: English
• Publisher: DJ Bennett
• Release date: Apr 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519928948

DJ Bennett

DJ Bennett writes mostly dark and gritty crime. She claims to get her inspiration from the day job, but if she told you more, she’d have to kill you afterwards!

Book preview

Ratline

by

DJ Bennett

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www.debbiebennett.co.uk

copyright © 2014 DJ Bennett

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Digital Edition

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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All characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblances to real people, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

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Cover design by JT Lindroos.

Cover photos by Aaron Amat & Mark Ramsay

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Thanks to John Hudspith & John Males for their input and support

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This is a short novella continuing Lenny’s story and following on from Rat’s Tale.

Michael’s story can be read in the series of three novels:

Hamelin’s Child, Paying The Piper and Calling The Tune.

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Note this book contains adult material and is not suitable for minors.

1 – LENNY

It was like some corny made-for-television movie: Bad guy gets released from prison with just a small bag of personal stuff. Close-up of the gate banging shut, as he lights up a cigarette and turns his face to the sun, smelling freedom at last. And there’s a car waiting for him...

The gate did bang. He did light up – the novelty of having a cigarette lighter again was enough for that. It was early December and sunny, if barely a couple of degrees above freezing, and fuck did he appreciate being outside after three long and boring months.

And there was a car waiting for him.

Lenny hesitated. The CPS had dropped the cop-killer murder charge, but Joe Public could still be out to get him. And Phillips’ boys might still be gunning for him – possibly literally. At least prison had been relatively safe; banged up on remand and classed as vulnerable wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, but he’d come through it unscathed, half a stone lighter and considerably fitter.

Darwin had ticked off on his fingers with way too much glee the list of charges he was still facing: firearms offences, drugs, forged passports and dodgy bank accounts – but at least murder wasn’t one of them anymore. And that had given him a chance of a fresh bail hearing. Which had been unopposed. The silly bitch from the CPS had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, and even the magistrate seemed surprised by the lack of any police opposition.

It didn’t make sense. But Lenny wasn’t going to argue – not when they’d said he was free to go, albeit with a stern look and a string of bail conditions. Not even a tag this time and he’d almost laughed when it had come to the surrendering your passport bit. He’d never had a legitimate passport in his own name.

So what now? He had no keys for his flat. Mick Carlotti had cleared it out and for all Lenny knew, there’d be squatters in there by now. So where am I supposed to go, then? He’d visit his elderly neighbour eventually – see if Maureen still had the extra key he’d hidden in her apartment without her knowledge. And he’d need to grovel a bit, buy her flowers and sweeten the old dear up first, but he wasn’t up to that today.

For now, he was content just to be free.

But the car was still waiting, the engine was idling and the driver’s window wound down smoothly. ‘You getting in, or what, Dixon?’

What. He approached cautiously. Definitely what. No way was he jumping into an unknown car.

The driver was a young woman – possibly mixed-race – with black glossy hair cut short and spiky, and an air of bored arrogance. ‘Are you always this indecisive?’ she asked, tapping long blood-red fingernails on the steering wheel.

He couldn’t think; he was out of practice at making decisions for himself. For fuck’s sake – it’s been three months, not three years! Get a fucking grip. ‘And you are?’ He countered her question with his own, buying time to jump-start his brain and assess the threat level. She was no bimbo, she was assertive to the point of aggression, but he wasn’t getting any signals about who she was or why she was here.

She beckoned him closer, lowering her voice. ‘Stephanie Riordan. Detective Sergeant Stephanie Riordan. You can call me Steph.’

Yeah, right. ‘Warrant card?’

She snorted. ‘Like I’m going to be carrying fucking ID? Jesus – phone the guv.’ She looked at him. ‘No phone, right?’ She sighed, keyed a number into an iPhone and passed it out of the window.

Darwin answered within seconds. ‘Steph?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ah. You’re out then.’

‘Your concern for my welfare is touching,’ Lenny said. ‘And the lovely Stephanie is who, exactly?’

‘Your personal assistant. Go with her.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Non-negotiable, Dixon. Get over it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

‘And fuck you, too.’ Lenny handed the phone back. Without another word, he walked around to the passenger side and got into the car, tossing his bag onto the back seat awkwardly. He was still scared to use his right hand. When Carlotti had jammed it into the hinge of the shipping container on the scrapyard and shut the door, Lenny had seriously wondered whether he’d ever be able to use it again. Three operations later and he had a permanent assortment of pins and clips holding the bones of his fingers together. They’d told him he’d never regain full mobility, but he should be able to drive and write again eventually.

‘Good job I’m not a pianist then,’ he’d said, when they’d added that it might take years for all the nerve endings to work properly again, if they ever did. And what about being able to shoot the bastard who did this to me? he’d wanted to ask when they took the last of the bandages off. The fine scars on the underside of each of his fingers and across the back of his hand looked like somebody had flayed it and then sewn a new skin back on. The muscles were stiff; he couldn’t grip anything for more than a couple of minutes, and even a mug of tea was hard work. Fucking Carlotti. He’d make sure the tosser paid for it at some point. Some point soon.

Meanwhile, Steph was driving like a maniac, cutting through gaps he’d swear were half the width of the car, jumping red traffic lights and overtaking a bicycle with inches to spare. Lenny wondered whether she was trying to impress him; he assumed she was surveillance-trained rather than just an idiot, and he wasn’t in the mood to be impressed by anyone or anything, although it was reassuring to know she could get him out of any situation in a hurry. The chances of anyone being able to follow them were pretty much nil.

He wound the passenger window down, remembering the last time he’d been in a car with a mad woman driver – Carlotti’s tame doctor Samantha, who’d taken him to her posh private hospital, fixed up his hand the first time, shaved three days stubble from his face and then given him a blow-job. He wondered idly whether Steph would be up for sex.

‘Not a chance, honey.’

‘What?’ Are you a fucking mind-reader? He didn’t even fancy her – she just happened to be the first female he’d seen for a few months. It was only natural to think about it, wasn’t it?

She glanced sideways at him as the car stopped at red lights. ‘You’re fresh out of prison, and you’ve got that desperate for a drink and a shag look about you.’

Seen that a lot, have you? ‘You’re not my type, darling.’

She pulled away from the lights with enough acceleration to flatten him in his seat. He grabbed the armrest on the door as she smirked at him. ‘So what is your type, Dixon? Or do you have a problem with all women?’

‘I have a problem with you, sweetheart. The fact you’re a woman has fuck-all to do with it. Darwin said nothing about giving me a fucking minder.’

‘I’m not surprised. Lose the attitude.’ She picked up her mobile from where it was stuck with a lump of blu-tack on the dashboard and waved it at him. ‘One call and you’re straight back on paedo-wing. What were you doing on the rule anyway?’

‘You think I’m some kind of perv?’ Did Darwin tell you nothing? He snorted. ‘Too many people wanted me dead – probably still do.’ He gulped down the fresh air from outside, feeling faintly nauseous. A van in front was belching exhaust fumes, but even that was better than the institutionalised boiled-cabbage-and-sweat stink he’d been living with since the end of the summer. It’d be Christmas soon; he’d missed a whole fucking season. And for what? Darwin had promised to keep him safe and nearly got him killed.

‘You can tell me all about it over dinner.’

‘I’ll pass, thanks. Just stay out of my way.’ And put both hands on the wheel, for fuck’s sake.

‘I can’t do that. I’m supposed to protect you from the bad guys.’

‘I am one of the bad guys.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She laughed and pointed at his hand. ‘Just think of me as your right-hand woman.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Then I’ll let you know next time I need a wank.’

She shut up and Lenny allowed himself a small smile. Point to me, I think. But it wasn’t about point-scoring, was it? He didn’t need or want some woman hanging around and getting in his way – quite apart from the obvious conflict of interests. One step out of line and she’d have him in handcuffs and back in Wandsworth.

What was she doing with him anyway? Clearly Darwin thought of her as some kind of police protection, but Lenny didn’t think the Detective Inspector had ever had his best interests at heart. There was something else going on here; he was being manipulated and he didn’t know why. And why did the man want to talk to him tomorrow?

He was too tired to care right now. He had no idea where Steph was going and the motion of the car was bringing back unpleasant memories from when Carlotti had taken him off the yard and he’d known Phillips’ boys were intending to execute him – messily and painfully. He’d kicked his way out of the car and brought half of Essex to a standstill with an armed siege above a shop where Becky had stopped him turning the gun on himself.

Becky. He owed it to her to tell her he was out. She’d said she’d visit him inside, but he’d never sent a visiting order. He wasn’t sure he’d even know what to say to her now. Becky was possibly the only person who gave even half a shit about him; she’d seen him at rock-bottom and not backed away. As for Amanda – there was no point even thinking about her. Amanda was history.

‘You OK?’ Steph sounded concerned and Lenny wondered if he’d sighed out loud.

‘Fine,’ he said. Whatever. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt tonight – go wherever she took him – but he’d be up to speed tomorrow, sorting out his life and moving on. Fuck the bail conditions; he’d no intention of letting the cops know where he was living or what he was doing. A clean break with everything and everybody was what he needed.

Steph braked abruptly, swinging the car into a driveway and under a carport. She reached across him and pulled something from the glove box – a remote control, he realised, as the double garage door opened smoothly and she drove inside.

He got out of the car and retrieved his plastic bag of possessions: a few clothes and a radio, toiletries, a magazine about canal boats. None of it worth bothering with; he’d only read the magazine as he’d got to a point where he was so bored he’d read anything that had more than two sentences strung together. One of the pervs he’d been banged up with had been reading frigging romance novels and Lenny had got so desperate he’d even tried them, until the twat had decided he wanted payment in kind. Lenny had obliged by fondling the man’s balls and then squeezing until he screamed in agony, before blowing him a kiss and walking out of the cell without a backwards glance.

Steph was watching him. He wondered what exactly Darwin had said to her – what her brief was. Why would he call her a personal assistant? But he simply shrugged and followed her into the house through an internal door.

‘Safe house?’ he asked, chucking the bag into the corner of the kitchen. The place seemed clean, too tidy – sterile.

‘Something like that.’ She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Underneath – and over the top of a tight white T shirt, she was carrying what looked like a standard police-issue Glock in a shoulder-holster. It was rare to see UK cops routinely carrying weapons and Lenny was impressed. Despite his personal opinions, she must be good at her job.

It was kind of odd to be the one who wasn’t carrying the firearm. He was used to the reverse and he wanted to laugh out loud when Steph pulled the Glock from its holster.

‘Ever handled one of these?’

Lenny rolled his eyes. You really don’t know much about me, do you? But that could work in his favour. She was pointing it at the doorway and he had no idea if it was loaded, so he said nothing, but stepped around her as if to open one of the kitchen cupboards.

It would mean using his right hand. They’d said to use it normally but to be careful. Don’t overdo it and don’t carry anything heavy or awkward. It’s just a Glock. There was no time like the present to see if he actually could grip a gun properly since his hand had healed.

He spun on one foot, came up behind her and chopped his good hand sharply on Steph’s wrist. As she yelped and released her hold on the gun, he took it off her easily and stepped away. In one movement, he’d released the magazine, racked it back and checked the chamber was empty. He dropped the magazine onto the worktop and raised the gun as if he was about to fire, testing it in his hands.

Steph said nothing, but pulled the magazine towards her.

Lenny flexed his fingers carefully. He could feel the trigger, which was good; he squeezed gently and felt a shimmer of pain run through his finger. Not so good. The muscles in his hand were vibrating already.

He put the Glock down. Too soon? I’ll fucking kill you, Carlotti. I really will.

‘Okaaay,’ Steph said. ‘I apologise.’

He looked at her. ‘I was running Dell Farm at fifteen, you know?’ Martin Reilly had given him control of the north London estate as a present; he’d learned everything from the ground up and never forgotten where he’d started.

‘Were you?’ Steph took the Glock back but there was a new – if reluctant – respect in her eyes. Lenny wondered if she’d done any homework. If she knew as little as he suspected, she’d be more than a liability; she’d likely get them both killed.

He sighed. ‘I need a shower and a change of clothes.’ He wasn’t touching what he’d brought out with him – the bag could go straight out with the rubbish.

Steph gave him a tour of the house. They’d bought him basic necessities – underwear, T shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans and jogging pants. He’d never worn jogging pants in his life – not even indoors – and he wasn’t about to start now, but the jeans looked like they’d probably fit; he’d have preferred a bit more style but they were better than nothing. There were toiletries and towels in the bathroom. He shut the door, stripped and stood under the shower for a good ten minutes, washing off the last of Wandsworth prison, hopefully forever. Unless the CPS still wants to make an example of me. He couldn’t go back there again. Maybe he should run instead?