Hell's Gate: A gripping, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter 10

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Hell’s Gate

  By

  Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Copyright © 2016 Malcolm Hollingdrake.

  The right of Malcolm Hollingdrake to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Alan Doherty and Jack Dewar.

  Have you read Only The Dead? The first part in Malcolm Hollingdrake’s The DCI Cyril Bennett Harrogate Crime Series?

  Amazon UK

  Amazon US

  COMING SOON

  Flesh Evidence the third instalment in this brilliant series.

  “The better I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.”

  ― Charles de Gaulle

  Chapter One

  The cold had a cruel habit of creeping slowly into his bones once he was tucked away from the dissipating day’s heat. Even the new cardboard bedding he’d dragged in seemed suddenly damp. He twisted the cork from the bottle of cheap brandy and allowed the amber liquid to tumble to the back of his throat but even that failed to take away the insidious chill. At least he felt safe. This place was fairly secure and unaffected by the vagaries of the weather, although the constant, cutting draught that permeated through the grilled, yet open entrance seemed to constantly gnaw at him. He was, however, tucked well into the manhole that had been expertly crafted into the stone wall’s façade and this was, for him, a psychological cocoon that he failed to find out on The Stray.

  A small candle flickered weakly, illuminating dimly his grim surroundings. Bulging black bin bags of clothes were stuffed casually into the corners of his temporary accommodation. White needle-like stalactites hung from the brick, arched ceiling and the occasional flying bat distracted his eye. It was his fifth night in his new dwelling and he liked its darkness and security.

  It had been a squeeze getting through the entrance bars. He had attempted entry on other occasions but the grids were too secure. However, this time they had seemed looser. Had he been capable, metaphorically, of reading the illegible graffiti on the wall, he might not have entered. He might have turned and found another shelter, but the dry, secure home, despite the constant sound of dripping water, was worth the trouble and the degree of risk. He looked at his shaking hand in the flickering, yellowy light; nails black and grimy. He had not always been this way, once he had had a family, a job, a home and a car but…the drink and the gambling had seen an end to such comforts. He could not now recall which hurdle had tripped him first and really he did not care. He took out his wallet, empty apart from three photographs. He looked at each in the dim flicker of candlelight and the images brought him a degree of warmth that was sadly tainted by the bitterness brought to the lump in his throat by his own selfish immaturity. He pulled the wallet to his chest and whispered the words, “Forgive me!”

  It was the unexpected noise near the entrance that made the vagrant’s heart beat more strongly and instinctively he blew out the candle. Hot, molten wax spilled onto his hand. The last thing he wanted was a gang of youths pissing about and tormenting him. He cocked his head and looked towards the echoing, alien sounds. Lights, thin white beams, danced around the arched roof like ancient searchlights, enlarging and deforming shadows and human features. He squashed himself tightly into the corner and prayed they would leave. His anxiety was real and suddenly he felt no cold, just the warmth of the fear he had so often experienced; he knew all about man’s intolerance of man.

  The human snuffling and snorting sounded more porcine than human, growing deeper as the youth was manhandled through the grid. Even though the youth was fully aware that his efforts were useless, vapour streamed from both his nostrils, his chest heaved as he squirmed and struggled. Tears had already begun to blur his vision and streams of snot dribbled onto the knotted cloth that filled his mouth, blocking breath and conscious sound alike.

  Hands on the youth’s shoulders forced him downward. The discarded garden seat on to which he was dragged was wet and cold against his naked buttocks, the steel frame rusty and rough against his sweating skin. His clothes had been discarded some time ago. Mud oozed between his toes and he could feel the sharp pain where broken glass and pieces of stone had punctured the soft soles of his feet. The people around him proved difficult to see; each wore a powerful head torch that created a contrast between blinding lights, silhouettes and shadows. Occasionally, when one head turned to the other, he identified the familiar faces of those surrounding him, once his friends. Large, electrical ties secured his elbows behind him, pushing out his chest pigeon-like. All seemed to grow quiet apart from the occasional plop of water hitting some distant, dark puddle but it was the next occurrence that the frightened youth could never have anticipated.

  There seemed a moment of absolute silence where satanic forces grew more alive, co-operating fully with the present evil; even the falling droplets co-operated but the quiet was short lived. Hands forced the elastic band of a torch around his head holding it in position just above the eyebrows. The figure directly in front was handed a staple gun and immediately the sharp pain made his body twitch as the thin, metal staple penetrated the skin on his forehead and then splayed against his skull, trapping band to flesh. Blood trickled down his sweat-wet face and blended with the snail-path of snot, then another click of the gun, more pain and then another. Quickly the band was stitched to his head.

  “We’ll need to be able to see your progress, you shit! We’ll need to see where you go and we don’t want you to lose the light. The switch will be broken. There’s only one way to run and that’s what you do well, right little runaway? But you failed at that last time you were caught and brought home. This time you need to win or else…The way you run is that way. Get on top of the wall and you’ll be safe, you’ll be given another chance, just one more chance, but fail, and nobody will hear from you again.”

  The face moved closer and the garlic vapour, like a small cloud, filled his nostrils. It was pungent but somehow ridiculously reassuring that he had eaten the same meal. His mind spun, he recognised his error and his recklessness, definitely foolish and certainly inexcusable. Blood dri
pped onto his thigh before running down his leg to be diluted in the stinking mud. The penetrating beams of light hurt his eyes. It suddenly seemed that his senses had come alive and had increased ten fold, the pumping adrenalin and crippling fear had made sure of that.

  “You get four minutes, four. Run fast and keep running. You really don’t want what is behind you to find and catch you!”

  The speaker spat directly into the captive’s face.

  “That’s for your disrespect. You were treated like a son. It’s now up to you, bastard.”

  The torch on his head was illuminated and the switch snapped off before the straps holding his arms were cut.

  “Go!” they all screamed, the echo reverberating within the confined, black space.

  After a brief pause, his heart racing and his pulse thumping in his ears, he started his slippery run, arms pumping, and eyes wide, into the chasm, into the unknown. Mud oozed between his toes as he moved over the parallel indentations running across the floor, making movement difficult. He just had to get away, he had to escape. He was unaware that an unknown, unsympathetic pair of eyes would briefly watch his progress.

  “Run you little shit, run!” they all called, striking in him more fear and uncertainty of what was to come. Their sounds of laughter boomed as they bounced off the stonework

  “Get them ready!”

  Drew Sadler pushed himself as flat against the wall as possible, his breath instinctively held. Sweat now beaded his face as the heavy breathing and whimpering of the desperate youth grew louder as he approached. The cavernous space amplified the sounds that accompanied the naked figure running and stumbling past. Light beams danced on his back but it would be the next moment, the next split second that would bring the sudden and unexpected terror into Drew’s private world.

  Chapter Two

  Rares Negrescu sat with his feet on the edge of the Formica-topped kitchen table. They formed a ‘V’ as he brought his toes apart before bringing them back together, deliberately blocking the view of the empty vodka bottle and Stella’s tussled, blonde head. The snort from the end of the makeshift, rolled, paper straw that protruded from her left nostril could be heard even above the two growling, excited dogs in the next room. The thin line of white powder had disappeared, expertly vacuumed. He opened his feet. She looked up, wiping the end of her nose with her grubby, index finger before provocatively inserting it into her mouth. She looked directly at Rares, her suggestive finger slowly moving between her lips. The noise of the dogs increased and a child’s scream made him close his eyes. Whatever idea Stella might have had of seduction it was neither subtle nor enticing enough to distract him from the chaos that was taking place in the next room.

  “Fuck! If your brat is mauling with the pups again, I’ll give her something to scream about!”

  “It’s them evil fuckin’ dogs of yours, they shouldn’t be with her.”

  “Fuck you!” he yelled, bringing his feet against the edge of the table kicking it into Stella’s chest, causing the bottle to pirouette delicately before crashing, unbroken on the soiled floor.

  The tone of the dogs changed. The scream intensified bringing shivers to Stella’s body. Rares slid the bolt from the kitchen door and opened it. A large, growling Ridgeback burst through the gap, dragging Stella’s brat by the head and shaking the child. A track of shiny, red trailed wet onto the dirty lino. The scream stopped. Attached to the child’s badly deformed left leg was another Ridgeback, the bitch, who started pulling what looked like a saggy, rag doll in the opposite direction.

  As one scream died, a second, deeper, more animal wail echoed round the tiled room. Rares lunged for the dog, grabbing it by the ear, shouting a command before biting it hard. The dark coloured hair, running along its back was standing proudly. The dog stopped, shook the child one more time, then dropped her. The over-excited bitch dragged what seemed like a lifeless body back through the door to where her five pups played excitedly, Rares followed.

  Chapter Three

  The broken storm clouds swam round the, grapefruit-coloured moon, blackening an imaginary eye. Chimneys of various sizes and dimensions poked skyward, belching out black, grey and white smoke, which leaned awkwardly at various angles depending on its density. Fiery light escaped from the silhouetted, factory windows, orange and yellow before reflecting and spreading on the wet pavements. No figures moved. Cyril studied the catalogue photograph of the painting with care. He pushed his frameless, reading glasses further onto his nose. He liked what he saw. He inhaled the menthol vapour from his electronic cigarette. A day off mid-week was a luxury but a necessity considering the hours Cyril had put in.

  He loved the full auction experience from the moment a new catalogue arrived by post. He enjoyed the research, the copper in him was certainly in evidence, the study of the chosen artist, the viewing of a particular piece right through to the pulse-increasing anticipation of purchase. This would be accomplished, hopefully, at the lowest possible price. For Cyril, these were the elements that made up the heady, eager to swallow, art world cocktail. But it was not all plain sailing; he had been bitten on occasion, drawn along by other bidders, eventually paying over the odds. Generally, however, he had been lucky; he had now collected a small, but select group of paintings by Northern artists. If he had researched correctly, and bought wisely, the artwork would prove to be a reasonable investment. He had sold at auction, too, but that was a very different kettle of fish and was certainly not for the faint hearted, more of an extreme sport!

  The main auction room was full, a vast collection of potential purchasers along with the objects to be purchased sharing the same space; a large hangar-type building that had little character and no acoustics. The day’s auction seemed slow; Cyril inhaled more menthol nicotine vapour as he stood, immaculately dressed as always, looking towards the auctioneer’s dais. To his left sat four people either ready to, or in the process of taking phone bids. Those punters making the effort to attend the auction had three invisible rivals, the phone bidder, the Internet bidder and those who simply left a commission bid.

  Cyril looked at his watch and sighed. He shook his wrist before watching the second’s hand sweep, smoothly round. He loved this watch, a present to himself for his fortieth birthday; he’d always wanted an Explorer 2 and decided if he could not treat himself at forty, then he would never invest in a Rolex.

  Cyril stood to the side and glanced at the rows of bidders, each holding their specific bidder’s number. He could never really fathom who might bid for what, but he could guarantee that somebody amongst them was about to bid on his chosen lot. There would certainly be someone ready with a phone or watching, hidden within the Internet. Lot 686 was shown on the large screen next to the auctioneer and Cyril’s adrenaline level climbed along with his heart rate...

  “Let the battle commence!” he whispered to himself as he stood more upright and leaned forward in anticipation.

  “Lot 686 is this beautiful Theodore Major oil painting. Good provenance. You don’t see these every day and sadly he’s not painting any more... I have interest on the book. I have commission bids...and I can start straight in at... five thousand, five thousand five hundred. I welcome bids of six thousand pounds.” The auctioneer smiled knowing it was going to be a strong lot.

  Cyril was not surprised. He did not move but remained as calm as possible considering his heart jumped in anticipation and excitement. He stood now a little more nonchalantly, tucking his cigarette into his inside jacket pocket, not trying to signal that he was an eager buyer. A number of other regular bidders noticed his change of posture.

  “Six five, thank you, seven, seven five to the Internet bidder.”

  Cyril lifted his catalogue and those who had taken notice, simply smiled. It was good to know your enemy. One of those watchers now raised his finger, only a small twitch, but the auctioneer spotted it straight away. A regular!

  “Eight thousand pounds, new room bidder. Eight five now on the telephone,”


  The auctioneer turned and looked at Cyril. Cyril nodded.

  “Thank you, nine thousand pounds in the room, nine thousand to the gentleman here on my left. The auctioneer glanced at the other room bidder but received only a small shake of the head. I shall sell then, for nine thousand pounds. You are out on the phone and the Internet is quiet.”

  Cyril breathed deeply about to hold his bidder’s number up victoriously. His estimate had been about right. The auctioneer raised his gavel whilst glancing at the computer screen.

  “Nine five, new internet bid.” He lifted his head. “Just in time!” His smile was not becoming!

  The auctioneer turned to Cyril extending the gavel as if it were a begging bowl. “One more, Sir? Please, if you need, take a minute.”

  With a little hesitation Cyril held up his number, frightened that he was being caught in an auction moment of madness. He made a sign signalling to the auctioneer his intended bid, nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds.

  “Thank you, yes that’s fine, Sir. The next bid is ten thousand pounds,” he announced with a knowing smile, trying to coax more from the bidders in the room, whilst anticipating another bid on the computer screen that did not materialise.

  It had been Cyril’s last bid. He was already seven hundred and fifty pounds above his planned expenditure but then it was a stunning painting, besides this was one reason he went to work every day and that, as well as being single, had to have some rewards. The sound of the crashing gavel stirred him.

  “Nine thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds, thank you, Sir.”

  The auctioneer smiled and nodded before noting Cyril’s buyer’s number.

  Cyril could feel the perspiration, cold within his armpits and his mouth suddenly seemed dry. Spending was certainly hard graft. It was at this point within the process that uncertainty always seemed to creep in. The hammer price would probably come to thirteen thousand once the auction house and droit de suite costs had been added. Collecting his catalogue and his bidder’s number, Cyril left the room.