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

  “Not my dogs, not my dogs,” his voice growing more shrill.

  Maybe Cyril was only one up.

  Owen was waiting by Cyril’s office.

  “Stubborn, secretive, cowardly. Blames Stella, her child, her dogs. He’d warned her. He’s as guilty as sin. He says the child was left for a few minutes. Yes… right! Mother’s guilty he says, not the dogs’ fault. Rubbish!” Cyril slapped the file with the flat of his hand. “Any news about the home?”

  “Wouldn’t exactly call it that, Sir. It’s in a reasonable area. Very few homely comforts other than a big, flat screen TV and some second hand furniture. One room, the largest, seemed to be kitted out as a kennel. Good one too, that’s where the priorities were. Child’s room comprised little, a tiny cot, few toys and a black tarpaulin for curtains. Place could be technically classed as a shit ’oyl as my father would say! Forensics will be going through it. Interestingly too, there was little food in the house but there was quality dog food, lots of it.”

  Cyril lifted his eyebrow. “You’re not suggesting...”

  Owen simply shrugged his shoulders. “Medical report on the child will be here this afternoon, including photographs of her injuries. I’ve drafted this press release.” Owen slipped it onto Cyril’s desk. “There’s a request for bail. If Stella Gornall did place the child in harm’s way, against her partner’s warning, even if he were a guest in the house, then who should be here? Drug user and under the influence of alcohol or…?”

  “Owen, whose dogs? Why were they there? Why all the food and the front room kennel? If the child dies one is going to prison for longer than he or she would last year. Thankfully, the suspended sentences given out for fatal dog attacks are a thing of the past. Let’s hope Christina pulls through.”

  Owen could sense real concern, an emotion he had seldom seen in his boss.

  “Is Liz still with the mother?”

  Owen nodded the affirmative. “Social Services are liaising with Liz and the medics. Child Protection will probably ensure that Christina remains in hospital until investigations can decide a safe way to progress…that too can be a can of worms.”

  “I want to see Liz as soon as.”

  “He walks at the moment but we need to know his address.”

  Liz knocked at the door and showed her face. “Sir, Owen.” She nodded at them both. “Christina will be in hospital for some time. She’ll need one or two more ops to sort out the facial wounds but she’ll neither lose the leg nor is there any brain injury. Considering the two dogs, she’s been a lucky little girl. There’s been a strategy discussion and we’re applying for an Emergency Protection Order. If it’s successful, and there’s no reason to believe otherwise, this will give us eight days with the possibility of increasing it a further seven after that to apply for a Supervision Order. I’ll be attending. I want to watch out for this little lady.”

  Cyril smiled.

  Chapter Six

  The small French hotel nestled on the village street, two buildings separated by a car park. The old hotel had been recently modernised and the house next door converted into accommodation. It attracted people who were visiting the graves of those who perished in the Great War. It was a regular stopping place for Hai Yau.

  Three cars were parked shrouded by morning condensation, their windows opaque and their paintwork matt. One was registered in France, one England and the other Romania. Hai Yau sat at the breakfast table beneath the stuffed head of a wild boar and talked constantly into the screen of an iPad. He spoke without pause and without facial expression, his nose almost touching the screen until a couple came into the dining room and he nodded a polite greeting. Hai Yau’s wife, much younger than he, moved food around her plate, occasionally putting small morsels into her mouth. She turned and smiled at the couple before checking her mobile phone. Conversation over, Hai Yau moved back his chair and then walked out of the dining room.

  Within a month his fourth restaurant in the UK would open and he would be developing some of his extra curricular business interests with it; this latest news he had just received displeased him, could he trust nobody to do the simple tasks?

  ***

  Hai Yau removed his wallet and paid the hotel bill in cash. He neither spoke French nor made any attempt to; he bowed automatically and thanked the owner as he took the receipt and placed it in his wallet. He paused, eyes down, as he looked at the photograph of the boy who stared back proudly leaning on the roof of a small, yellow sports car. Hai Yau ran his thumb over the protective plastic, lifted the wallet to his lips and kissed the photograph.

  “My son,” he said proudly showing the hotel owner.

  ***

  Hai Yau had lived in Romania since 1991. He remembered that his first impression of the country was a poor one but then all ports seemed the same, just the flags, flavours and smells differed. When you had spent years at sea there came a time to settle down and Hai Yau found Romania, a country just released from the communist grip, ripe for change. As the cook on The Albion, a merchantman registered in Panama, he was well liked and a few of the crew who were Romanian suggested he could do worse than open a Chinese restaurant. Times were changing and horizons were broadening in their homeland.

  Although his first months proved difficult, his comparative wealth bought him a young Romanian bride, a restaurant in Constanța and a growing respect amongst the local business community. He employed his own, bringing people from his hometown, Wenzhou; they in turn brought skills and protection, a vital commodity. After three years he had four small restaurants and an even smaller protection racket. But one thing was missing, he had failed to father a child. That problem was soon solved as all problems could be providing the right people were contacted and the correct amount of money changed hands.

  ***

  How the time had flown by since his little miracle, his angel had arrived. Now he was a vital pin in the machine. He closed the wallet. As a parting gift, the owner handed Hai Yau two bottles of wine. By tomorrow he would be home in Romania, others would be looking after the Yorkshire business.

  Chapter Seven

  Wadim’s head hurt, it throbbed as he tried to focus. When he moved, the grazed flesh on his inner thigh made him whimper. He wanted to shout for his mum but something inside told him to be silent. Shutters blocked the light but he could just see the sky through a small crack from where he was lying. He moved quietly and put his eye to the gap before stepping back amazed at what he saw. Huge mansions were squashed together and painted in bright colours, each very individual, every one a small, architectural monstrosity. He had never seen anything like this and he was certainly not near home. He felt tears appear in his eyes and he began to sob as his thoughts drifted to his family and his home.

  The door opened and light flooded the room. The stranger, who had originally seemed so kind, but then had hurt him appeared and Wadim screamed, running to the furthest corner.

  “Brought you a friend, little Angel and I’ll be bringing you food later.” The man put the dog on the floor. “His name is Lupei and he’ll look after you.”

  The dog, tail wagging, crossed the room and began to lick Wadim’s legs. It tickled. He moved his feet in a half-hearted gesture to move the dog away but soon bent to stroke it. Lupei jumped to lick his face as if trying to take away the tears. The man gripped Wadim’s cheek and squeezed before twisting. “He’ll look after you.”

  He let go. Wadim rubbed his cheek, he hated that gesture and he told himself that he would not let it happen again. He looked down at the dog.

  “You’re not like a wolf as your name suggests.”

  At this, the dog rolled over and Wadim giggled, tickling its soft under-belly. A few minutes later the door opened again and a young woman entered carrying two bowls. In the half light Wadim could see her smile and he responded. She was no more than sixteen. Lupei stood and moved between Wadim’s legs and he felt the dog stiffen as if on guard, bringing a rush of fear to Wadim’s stomach.

  “A
re you protecting Wadim, Lupei?”

  The dog growled and gave a short, sharp bark.

  “Good, then this is yours.” She put the bowl of food down in front of the dog. “Wait!” The dog sat and did as it was told.

  “This is for you little Wadim, you must be so hungry.”

  Wadim could smell the stew and he could now see the steam rising from it. He could almost taste the large chunk of bread that nestled on the edge of the bowl as his mouth began to water. He took the proffered bowl with both hands.

  “Here’s a spoon. Enjoy it! Don’t give any to Lupei otherwise he’ll be your friend for ever.” She smiled and winked. “Let’s have some light in here.”

  Although the light stung his eyes it was good to see the room and the dog. Saliva dribbled from its chops as it stared at the food in front of it.

  “When you start eating you can tell Lupei to eat too but only after you have eaten some of yours.”

  She left and closed the door. The lock turned. Wadim was already eating. The dog turned, eyes pleading, saliva splashing Wadim’s legs.

  “Mânca!” sprayed Wadim as his packed mouth articulated the short word. Food shrapnel splatted the dog’s ear as it dived at the bowl. Neither took his time over the food but the dog won the race to finish and then turned to Wadim, eyes beseeching. It was a difficult decision but the dog won for the second time as the final morsels of food were tipped into its bowl. It was an easy decision, Wadim needed all the friends he could get. He also needed a toilet.

  The door opened again and the woman entered carrying a bowl of water and a mug.

  “That didn’t take you too long. Drink this.”

  Wadim informed her that he needed the toilet. She took his hand and led him down some marble stairs, across the hallway and through into a large yard. Lupei followed. At the bottom of the yard was a shed, the toilet. The dog ran ahead before cocking a leg and spraying the corrugated shed wall. No matter how grand the house, the more traditional Roma do not use the toilet and cook under the same roof.

  “Lupei was desperate too,” she giggled. The door was pushed open, Wadim entered and the door closed.

  “I’ll be here.”

  The smell was overpowering and the light dim. Wadim emptied his bladder. The door opened and he took the girl’s hand. He looked up at her and she smiled.

  “Don’t forget your drink, it should be still warm.”

  Wadim drank quickly and within minutes felt tired and a little dizzy. He lay on the bed and Lupei curled at his feet. He would not stir for a number of hours by which time he would be well on his way to his new home.

  Chapter Eight

  Three reports hit Cyril’s desk within the hour. The first confirmed that the child would live. The photographs proved distressing but Cyril was amazed that she was not as badly injured as had first been thought. The second report regarding the dogs contradicted Negrescu’s statement, there were more than two pups. Both adult dogs had been destroyed; the two pups were being looked after. The third file confirmed his guess that Negrescu had other accommodation albeit a mobile home, very Romany.

  Owen knocked at the open door.

  “Have you read these?”

  Owen nodded. He reached into his back pocket and removed a rather crumpled five-pound note and handed it to Cyril who held it between thumb and forefinger before inspecting it as if it were a soiled handkerchief.

  “Has it lived in there a while?”

  “Since I last had this suit cleaned. How did you guess he was a caravan dweller?”

  Cyril just tapped his stomach. “The wisdom of age, Owen. One day it will come to you.”

  The phone rang and Cyril answered. “Bennett.” He said nothing else but put down the phone, closed the files and dropped them into the top, left hand drawer.

  “Come with me Owen…no peace for the wicked and that statement clearly suggests you!” He smiled, more in disappointment than pleasure, took one inhalation from his electronic cigarette before marching through the door.

  “Close it behind you, we’ll be a while.”

  Owen let the door slam.

  As they drove down Pannal Road, Owen could see the familiar tape and white-clad team and stopped by the police car that straddled the road. An officer approached and Cyril showed his ID.

  “A motorist had a puncture and stopped, lucky really, chance in a million of finding this lot. It could have been here weeks if he’d not stopped.”

  It was true that the road was busy and the litter was only collected rarely.

  “Hope you advised the guy not to do the lottery if stopping and finding a corpse is considered luck,” Owen said to the officer and smiled.

  “Things today, for the poor guy, can only get better unless you believe that mishaps always come in threes, Sir.”

  “Got all his details?” The officer handed his notebook and Owen copied the information. “We’ll talk with the motorist later. How is he?”

  “Shaken, very, very shaken. It’s not pretty.”

  The body or body parts seemed to be strewn over a fairly wide area as if they had been discarded from a vehicle and it did not really take a trained eye to realise that it had either been butchered or torn apart. The SOCO team was busy taking photographs, measurements and samples. One of the attending officers moved towards Cyril.

  “Real mess, Sir. Definitely white male, naked. Main torso is here.”

  A finger pointed to what looked like part of a dressmaker’s mannequin, prostrate in long grass. “And various limbs are spread along the verge, mostly just over the hedge, no fingers and only parts of hands. The genitals have gone but that may be the result of foxes after the parts were dumped. We’ll know when they were dumped after the pathologist, whose sampling now, has some results.”

  “What’s all the rest of the stuff? Is it his clothing?” Cyril stared and pointed at various objects that were spread over a wide area.

  “Looks at first inspection like they are just bags of clothing.”

  “Could this chap have been hit by a fast moving vehicle and then been dragged along causing massive injuries?”

  Cyril did not seem to believe his own theory and his uncertainty was reflected in the question. Cyril recognised the Police Pathologist.

  “We’ll wait.” He knew better than to interrupt her work at this stage of the initial inspection.

  How anyone could refer to the mass of tangled pieces as he amazed him. There was not even a face as far as he could see and determining the sex, well, from what he could see he would not have liked a wager.

  Cyril opened the car door and sat, his feet on the road, head down. He began to vape, the menthol infusion tickling the back of his throat. Owen leaned on the wing and twiddled with his phone. Cyril looked up and smiled as Owen’s fingers danced on the small keypad.

  “Your thumbs will be knackered by the time you’re forty. Just put a call in for Traffic to be vigilant in all areas. We may be searching for a vehicle with excessive front-end collision damage. Probably a stab in the dark but then…”

  Owen finished his text, changed phones and made the call.

  The pathologist approached Cyril’s car.

  “Still taking unknown substances into the body, ‘Flash’?”

  Cyril smiled without looking up. He had collected the nickname early on in his career. Many believed it was because of his immaculate dress sense and keen eye for detail; they were wrong. Bennett was nicknamed Gordon originally after James Gordon Bennett, a very wealthy individual, promoter and patron of sports, especially those requiring impressive and expensive equipment. One such sport was motor racing and one of his main sponsorships was notably the Isle of Man Bennett Trophy races of 1900 to 1905. The TT races carry the name today. It was then that Gordon was linked with Flash Gordon after some drinking session in his early years and from then he was known as Flash. He still seemed to carry the moniker with him. It caused him little concern, however, as only certain individuals were brave enough to say it to his face.


  Cyril looked up and offered her his hand. “Not heard that for a while.” He held up the cigarette. “Only minty vapour, none of that bad stuff, oh and not forgetting the occasional pint of Black Sheep when work and the gym permits. Drawn the short straw Julie? Bit of a jig-saw this one!” Cyril smiled.

  Dr Julie Pritchett was one of four Home Office Pathologists working in the North East and had known Cyril for some time.

  She removed the paper suit and blue shoe covers, stuffing them into a plastic, yellow bag along with her gloves and facemask.

  “Always the lucky one. Your case?”

  Cyril nodded. “ALWAYS the lucky one Julie,” he repeated and she detected a degree of fatigue. “You’ve met? …DS Owen, known as Owen.”

  They shook hands.

  “Well, he’s been dead approximately four days give or take and not killed here. Body looks to have been washed down, smells like strong bleach so we’ll not anticipate DNA contamination. Interestingly, we’ve spotted a small tattoo on his right cheek but we’ll get clear images when he’s back at the lab. Quite a large proportion of, shall we say, the smaller body parts are missing so it would be worth a search both ways along the length of this road. A finger would be most helpful.”

  Julie smiled and walked towards her car.

  “Will ring when everything is in the lab. By the way that’s a paradox.”

  Cyril looked puzzled. Julie started the car and drove towards Cyril before pulling up next to him. She lowered the window. “Gym and beer.” She shook her head and smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Owen noted that the Crime Scene Manager was already organising a close area linear search to occur as soon as the body parts and various bags of detritus had been photographed, catalogued and removed. He was conscious of the time scale and he wanted it done as soon as possible. Pannal Road could not be closed off indefinitely. Before he had finished the call, the first specialist dog team had arrived but it would be a while before all the Forensic team had finished. Cyril just looked and smiled before mouthing, “Well done!”