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

  Cyril would start handing over the completed reports, which would then be logged into HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Each would be allocated a unique message number opening a line of enquiry. The more details added would mean that clues or coincidences would not be overlooked.

  ***

  On the opposite side of his office, two charging batteries for his electronic cigarette dangled listlessly from the plug sockets like small, cylindrical rodents. Each sported one glowing red light-like eye indicating it was low on energy. Sitting temptingly on a small plate was a large pork pie and three pickled onions. Cyril pushed at the pie with a knife and fork considering the number of calories it held. His will power was fighting a significant battle against his grumbling stomach. He knew that his waistline had increased steadily over the last year and he had, for the first time in his life, started going to the gym. He should eat only half, he thought, before he continued to maul it like a cat with a portly mouse. He ate the onions. His mobile phone rang and he could see it was Owen. He picked up the plate, tipped the pie into the bin and decision made, answered the call.

  “Bennett.”

  “The dog has located what might be the part of a hand much further away from the rest of the pieces. It’s going to the lab but it seems there’s nothing else here. We’ll do one more sweep and then open the road.”

  “Keep the roadside area taped and coned and have a patrol car on either side to keep the press and the public away. Any damaged vehicle reports?”

  Cyril leaned over and looked at the pie in the bin. He could feel his mouth salivate. His stomach rumbled as if protesting over his rash decision. He needed a coffee.

  “A local bus but the destroyed bollard speaks for itself. Will keep you updated. I’m releasing a press statement in an hour and that might harvest some witnesses.”

  The press release hit the local television and radio stations that afternoon and in turn filtered to social media. It gave a brief report of finding a male body and asked for anyone who had been in the area to report anything suspicious. To Owen’s surprise there was an immediate response from a female taxi driver who had been travelling home at 01:30 the previous night. She had noticed a flatbacked truck stopped on Pannal Road.

  “She’s coming in this evening, she’s a…” He looked at his notes. “Vicky Hutler.” Owen stumbled over the last name.

  Cyril turned and looked inquisitively at Owen. “Hutler or Hitler?”

  “Says here…” Owen lifted the paper and looked with great care, “Hutler, Sir.” He spelled out the name. “Here in about half an hour.”

  “Hungry, Owen?” Cyril knew better than to ask. “Had you been back earlier there was an Appleton’s pork pie begging to be eaten but…”

  “Enjoy it, Sir?” Owen’s voice and facial expression showed his disappointment.

  “In the bin. I was tempted but I’d rather miss half a gym session than consume unnecessary calories. In the bin.” Cyril pointed feeling very self-righteous and was naïvely surprised by the response.

  Owen moved to the bin and looked in. Cyril’s bin was always empty and Owen bent and picked up the pie. He turned it through three hundred and sixty degrees inspecting it. A small piece of fluff was removed before he took a bite.

  He looked at Cyril and smiled, his mouth full of pie. “Do you mind? My mum’s always saying, waste not, want not.” Small pieces of crust cascaded from his lips landing on Cyril’s desk.

  “And mine said that there’s nothing wasted where you keep a pig.” He took a tissue from the box and wiped away the projectile detritus.

  Owen looked affronted and lowered the pie, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Cyril took another tissue and handed it to Owen.

  “Owen, I was joking for Christ’s sake, just enjoy it, you’ve a bigger frame to fi….” He then stopped himself mid sentence realising that he was digging himself into a deeper hole.

  ***

  The interview lounge was designed to be less intimidating than the standard, naked interview space, a more open room; pictures on the walls, a Yucca plant in the corner made for a more relaxed ambience. Vicky was sitting nursing a cup of coffee when Cyril and Owen entered. A WPC to her left would stay throughout the interview.

  After introductions, Cyril explained to Vicky that the interview would be videoed and she was given a small booklet on her rights as far as data protection was concerned.

  “As I said before, I was going home. I finish at 1am and as I travelled down Pannal Road there was a truck parked at the side of the road. A man was standing by the open driver’s door, he waved me past, and another man was on the grass verge. I thought they were Council workers. The amber flashing roof lights were on and so were the hazard lights so it was easy to spot.” Vicky drank more coffee.

  “The men, did you notice anything unusual?”

  “No. Yellow fluorescent jackets, hats and gloves. Nothing out of the ordinary, as I said. One waved me by after checking up the road; they looked as though they were inspecting the area. I’ve a forward in-car camera but it’s been playing up. Sometimes it comes on with the ignition and other times it doesn’t, seems to have a mind of its bloody own. I checked it but I only have the view into the car. Keeps a watch on passengers. You can never be too careful.”

  “Could you give a description of either person you saw?”

  Vicky thought briefly and shook her head. “It was dark and I was tired. Long day!”

  Owen leaned towards her. “Any chance we could borrow your camera? One of our technical lads might be able to sort it for you.”

  “No probs, brilliant, do you want it now?”

  Vicky left after handing over the camera and Owen smiled. “If she passed the truck it might show through the rear window and our lads should be able to enhance the images. Who knows what they might find on the disc.”

  Cyril and technology did not make good bedfellows. “I’ll leave you with your devil’s work. I take it we didn’t have a Council van or truck out on that stretch between 1 and 2am?”

  Owen just shook his head.

  “Thought not.”

  Cyril left.

  Chapter Nine

  Angel walked towards the prefabricated cabin that was positioned to the left of the farmyard. Wires protruded from the lip below the flat roof and linked to the stone wall like limp umbilical cords. He mounted the two steps and entered. A single strip light illuminated the space providing a harsh light; a Formica table and a chair added to the lack of ambience. The single window was boarded with plywood and a photograph of a semi-clad girl curled at the corner as if protecting her modesty. Angel turned to look at Rares who sat bolt upright, his face flushed. The snake tattoo that started behind one ear and finished behind the other was lost in his bright, red skin. A young man stood to either side, one hand securely resting on each of Rares’ shoulders; he was going nowhere. Angel paced the single room, initially ignoring the occupants but since his arrival the atmosphere had grown far more claustrophobic.

  “What the fuck happened? We lose two dogs and two pups as well as a safe house all because you cannot control your fucking woman’s habit! The police are all over that place as if we didn’t have enough to worry about. My father, believe me, is not happy with you and I guess you know the implications? It could cause you much pain, my friend, much pain.”

  Angel moved towards Rares and nipped his cheek before twisting his hand. Rares squealed as the twist was increased. “You know what this business is about, that we need to keep things calm and smooth.”

  From the timid boy who had chased his kite without a care in the world apart from the pangs of hunger, he had been moulded and formed into a strong, brutal young man, so much so, his nickname, Angel, had stuck and the name Wadim had been surrendered to the mists of time. Father and son had bonded beautifully.

  “The Police have already visited the kebab shop and you can thank my father that all your tax and employment affairs are in order. You were told to kennel the
dogs with her, not live, not co-habit. You knew that! The child is not yours, you know that too.” He struck Rares in the chest. “In here you know Christina is not yours. Stella gets paid for her services. It’s part of the business. If they get a whiff that she has a partner who co-habits then they’ll snoop and discover her other skills. She loses those benefits, we lose or should I say you’d lose. You know The Chase? You’d be the one in The Darkie.”

  One of the two young men lifted his hand to the red marks around his forehead and shivered as Rares nodded frantically, his eyes wide with fear and the pain in his cheek.

  “Our animals are getting more hungry and more fierce. They are silent. They’ll catch you quietly, all you’ll hear is heavy, excited breathing getting closer and closer. They are, my friend, harbingers of great pain, suffering and eventually a very slow death. You know that, you make them so, they are your babies whereas Christina is not.”

  Angel released his grip on Rares’ cheek and the mark was angry and red.

  “One more chance for your freedom is more than most would get. We’ve already had one lucky bastard.” He looked at the young man who was rubbing his forehead.

  Both hands lifted from Rares’ shoulders in unison and Angel left the room. The two sentries stayed with Rares and they immediately relaxed a little before the door opened and Angel re-entered with another man.

  “You’ll listen and listen good.” Angel looked Rares straight in the eyes. “This man’s here to tell you what you’re to expect and what you have to do.”

  The stranger, dressed in a smart suit, was in total contrast to the others. He put a small case on the table and leaned on it before addressing the attentive audience in their native tongue.

  “The police will be watching you from now on so you demonstrate how much you care about Christina. You visit, if allowed. I doubt that’s possible but you try. If you go by the law and say you lived there before the incident, then you can see her but you open up a can of worms regarding Stella’s benefits. You make polite enquiries at the hospital, that’s all. No fuss, nothing. You work at the kebab shop and you go home. A routine. You don’t change it. You don’t come here until you’re brought. You might find Christina’s put in the care of a foster mother, which is normal under the circumstances. You mustn’t try to find her if that’s the case, the foster carer will not tolerate any interference. Are you listening?”

  Rares nodded. The other two also nodded and Angel smiled inside.

  “If we feel at any time that you’re a threat to Mr Yau…” There was a pause that said more than a thousand words. “Well, I’ll say nothing further. You all know the consequences, we are family and we stick together, no one leaves.”

  Angel now spoke quietly and put a gentle hand on Rares’ shoulder. “Now go, the dogs in the barn need you. When your work with them is done you go back to your trailer.”

  Rares stood and thanked everyone, he was not sure why but it felt natural and as he left he thanked them again as he closed the door. The cool air brought relief from the pressure cooker he had just experienced.

  “When he’s done the dogs, take him back. Don’t take him to his trailer, drop him within walking distance and do not use the truck, that remains secure until we learn what the police know.” The two simply nodded.

  Angel crossed the yard and entered the stone farmhouse. His father had bought it with certain criteria in mind, the first being seclusion, the second his need for multiple outbuildings and the third, just enough land and woodland to offer total privacy. The barns, apart from one set to the south of the farmhouse, had been converted into temporary accommodation for the people who were working within his various business interests. Each person was given an initial six-month work placement and after that, depending on their ability and fortitude, they either stayed or were moved on, a profitable enterprise.

  With the opening of the new restaurant, another nine Romanian men and women were to be collected from the streets of major cities and towns, trained and given employment. Papers would be checked and if necessary created. Some migrants had a more natural ability than others. It all added to the positive statistics the Government wished to project, people were off the street and in work. After an induction, they would be moved away from the farm and if all went well, into houses and flats paid for with legitimate benefits. Hai Yau had the necessary staff to process claims and at the same time keep the claimants employed whilst relieving them of a large percentage of their benefit. Once they were in the system they would remain. Their passports were held and their freedom curtailed. Rumour and stories were enough to control most of them. Occasionally, only occasionally, they experienced a runner but the response and photographs of the outcome were enough to deter others. Besides, once trapped in the system, the workers quickly realised that they could trust no one. However, for many, this was still an improvement on their living standards back in Romania and many were now able to send money home. Each was encouraged to watch and listen. Rewards were offered for any information that might suggest someone was not happy with his lot. You did not leave voluntarily and you certainly did not run. Hai Yau and Angel, however, were not totally without heart. Some, once trusted, were allowed to return home for a short holiday to see family and friends but they knew that Hai Yau’s tentacles were both cruel and long and only occasionally did one not return.

  A large mesh fence had been secured around the perimeter of the farm and hung with signs warning that dogs were always loose. It kept away ramblers and nosey parkers.

  Chapter 10

  Cyril hated every moment of the gym session. He had organised six sessions with a personal trainer. Initially he had been extremely enthusiastic, eager to achieve his targets. His initial weight of 88kg was the heaviest he had been for as long as he cared to remember and what with his Doctor’s talk of body mass index and obesity often in the news, he had realised it was one area of his life that he had allowed to run off track. Cyril liked order, cleanliness and rigor, above all else, rigor ran his life. Did the PT have to be so pushy and equally so demanding? He could appreciate why, the results were showing and after four full weeks he was a respectable 85kg. His target was 78kg and he would have to confess that he felt a good deal better.

  The last of the spin session nearly proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. He began to hate the man who made such heavy demands on him. Dripping with sweat, Cyril sat back and sipped water. To his surprise he felt refreshed and strangely invigorated. After showering he caught himself stealing a furtive, sideways glance at his own naked body. It was reshaping and he was thrilled; he still breathed in a little though, he noticed and smiled, unembarrassed by his vanity. It was ever thus!

  Once home he cooked an omelette and ate before staring at the Major. “Just above Hades,” he said to himself as he looked more deeply at the dark, smoking mills and the reflected orangey-yellow light. “No wonder later in his career Theodore Major became obsessed with skeletons and devils.”

  ***

  It was 7am when Cyril locked the front door of his stone, Victorian terraced home and turned left down Robert Street through the snicket onto West Park before crossing The Stray; two hundred acres of open grassland, to Cyril the lungs of Harrogate. He turned up the collar of his black, quilted coat against the cold and set his usual morning course for work. He loved this time, it gave him space to think, to put things in perspective in readiness for the day. He mentally prioritised and compartmentalised his thoughts so that by the time he had arrived at his office and made a brew, he would be up and running. He took his electronic cigarette from his pocket and inhaled the minty flavour. It gave him an inner sense of pleasure.

  The traffic on Otley Road was busy but apart from stopping to buy a paper he strode out, all part of his exercise regime. The Beehive pub in which he had occasionally enjoyed a pint, had closed months earlier and was now going through the final stages of renovation. Cyril had been intrigued to watch its metamorphosis over the weeks. Smart, modern
grey window frames and doors had been fitted and he admitted to himself that they complemented the building’s stone façade. A new sign showed that it was going to be an Italian Restaurant, Zingaro. When it opens, he thought, he would give it a try and maybe even bring Julie. His mind butterflied to her and he visualised her trim figure moving to her car. A sharp blast from a car’s horn brought him up swiftly as he had inadvertently stepped onto one of the many side roads that crossed his route. The driver, obviously angry and frustrated by the morning traffic, shook his head and put a finger to his eyes. Cyril got the connection and mouthed, ‘Sorry’.

  Owen watched his boss move to his desk and place the cup and saucer onto the mat before hanging up his coat. He followed him in with a perfunctory tap on the door.

  “Morning, Sir. The guys had a look at the video camera and although there was nothing from the front we have these images from the rear.”

  Owen pointed to the laptop and held up the disc. Cyril sipped his tea and gestured for Owen to show him. The images were better than either had expected. They clearly showed the vehicle as the taxi passed and the driver moving to the rear of the truck. Owen announced that it was an Iveco that appeared to have had a hard life. He ran it again and stopped the film at a point where the driver was looking straight at the back of the taxi. Cyril put his cup down and slipped on his glasses before moving closer to the screen.

  “What on earth is he wearing?” Cyril tipped his head to one side as if to get a better view.

  “We were confused too, but on closer inspection it’s a skull bandana worn over the mouth and nose, usually by skiers or motor-cyclists.”