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

  He thought about the promises he had made to himself, his ambitions on leaving his home country, his parents and siblings. These thoughts, these aspirations had slowly eroded like markings in sand, washed by the tide of time. He felt disappointed, angry with himself for his entanglement with others but his inner guilt told him it was surely his doing. He wasn’t forced to be there, not at first. It was easier and more convenient initially. He welcomed the company, the hospitality and the promises of a better life, the life he had originally envisaged. It was the new life; it was the independence for which he yearned. Maybe he’d find an English wife, have kids and possibly be able to afford a house and a car of their own. He had Stella, she was sort of English, and she had Christina. He knew that Christina didn’t belong to him, it was just that he wanted to believe it, he wanted the child, a beacon of hope, he wanted someone, someone innocent, someone to truly love. He knew too that he was ensnared and that the further he became embroiled, the more strongly the trap would grip. He’d seen what happened to people from ‘the family’ who had tried to escape. He had seen what the dogs did in error in the tunnel. One day that could be him, or Stella or Sanda and, although it wasn’t cold, he shivered.

  He could go to the police and confess everything. They already suspected that he had done wrong, staying at Stella’s, but they’d listen surely. He had names and might even be rewarded in some way, then again maybe not. If he told of the tramp’s annihilation by dogs he had worked with there could only be one conclusion…prison and prison with Angel and Cezar filled him with absolute terror.

  Cezar’s phone signalled the arrival of a text and his stream of thoughts stopped instantly. The orange-streaked sky and the extended shadows brought visual warmth to the dismal street. Butterflies tumbled in Rares’ stomach as Cezar turned and greeted him with a sneering grin.

  “Game fucking on!”

  He tapped the address into the Sat Nav.

  “Eight minutes from here. We have to arrive at seven. We’ll wait ten minutes and then go.”

  Rares looked back and checked the dog, it too had responded to the sudden excitement in the car. It stared back, its bead-like eyes eager for action. The other two cars would be planning their arrival time as instructed.

  Cezar started the engine and began to drive following the spoken instructions and within the given time, a row of arches beneath the railway came into view. The road passed under a steel bridge before disappearing to the left. The first four arches, each with a small walled yard to the front topped by a mesh and barbed wire fence, were bricked up apart from steel garage-style doors within the brick façade. Rares recognised a youth from the farm on a bike riding up and down the street. He then noticed the hand-painted sign, ‘Archway Autos’. This was it. The youth pushed open the gate and moved towards Cezar’s window.

  “Drop off in the yard and then park away. Here...” He handed Cezar a scrap of paper on which was written an address.

  Cezar drove into the yard. Rares climbed out and the two lifted up the cage. The garage doors opened and Angel appeared. He beckoned them with his hand. In the shadows of the viaduct, it was now quite dark. The dog was placed inside. The space was larger than it appeared from the outside. It had an arched, brick roof that reminded Rares of ‘The Darkie’, the Harrogate tunnel where he had witnessed the tramp’s death. A single bulb glowed near the entrance.

  Angel grabbed Rares’ sleeve. “Leave the dog and go see Stella. Give her this and remind her she owes me. You’ve thirty minutes. You know the café? Opposite the cash and carry, yes?”

  Rares nodded, took the small, padded envelope and left. He watched Cezar reverse the car out of the yard and disappear round the corner under the bridge. A train, comprising two carriages trundled slowly overhead. It was getting dark.

  ***

  The café was squeezed between two modern industrial units well inside the estate of warehouse buildings and small factories that cluttered a portion of the North East area of Leeds. The flats silhouetted the surroundings like dormant concrete sentinels adding to the grim atmosphere. Rares knew the café well; it was a regular meeting place when he came to the Chinese Cash and Carry just across the road. Its paifang, the Chinese-style gate, formed the entrance, all curled ends and red tiles, a beauty spot on an ugly face. On either side were positioned the two dogs of Foo that guarded the entrance. He remembered being fascinated by them as he was with all dogs.

  Stella was waiting, a mug of coffee steamed in front of her on the red Formica table. The bell rang as Rares opened the door. The other two occupants sitting at tables took no notice and it was only Stella who reacted. She turned to look at the person who had entered. There was no smile, no small wave, no sense of connection. She simply turned back to look at the coffee. Rares walked over and sat. The cloying smell of fried food hit him and if he had felt hungry before he entered, his appetite soon deserted him.

  “How are you?” He slipped his hand on top of hers but she moved away. “I’ve been worried. I heard that Christina has to remain in hospital for a little longer. It’ll be all right in the end, it has to be. You’re a good mother, Stella.”

  “Your dogs, you bastard, that’s why all this has happened. Everything would’ve been fine if you’d just listened to me. They should have been away when them pups arrived.”

  She looked at him and he was amazed how plain she looked. Her hair seemed unkempt and dirty matching her nails that were chewed.

  “For Christina’s sake you need to clean up your act. You can’t do drugs and booze and expect to keep her.”

  He hadn’t finished when she stood knocking the table. The coffee spilled and ran in a thin stream off the edge of the table and onto his crotch. He jumped too.

  “Shit!” He brushed off the liquid with the back of his hand whilst tossing the package onto the table. “For you.”

  The two people looked from across the room and then got on with reading their papers. You didn’t stare too long in places like this. He checked the time on his phone; he had twelve minutes to get back.

  “Got to go. Take care.” There was little sympathy in his tone.

  Stella simply took the package and sat back down.

  By the time Rares returned to the railway arches, several people were seated. Laughter occasionally echoed in the large, vaulted space but generally the conversations were muted. All seemed to know each other, there were no strangers. Caged dogs dotted the periphery of the room, each cage being covered by a thick blanket. Rares dressed quickly in a white, paper boiler suit, it was always messy in the pit. Angel pointed to him and beckoned him to bring King. They washed the dog and the opposition followed suit using the same tub of warm water before drying the animals. Once King was back in the covered cage, Cezar helped him to carry it through more doors into another room. Inside was the makeshift, square wooden, scratch-built ‘pit’ spanning approximately fifteen by fifteen feet. The floor was carpeted in red. Improvised lighting hung above the centre of the pit, similar to that in a boxing ring; its intensity shadowed in secrecy the outer edge of the wooden walls and the twenty or so punters who eagerly entered to take up position on the outside. The walls were higher than for normal fights, as these dogs were bigger. For Pit Bulls the walls didn’t need to be high. A referee stood in the centre. Thick gloves covered his hands and he held a breaking stick to help separate the dogs should he feel the need. The two scratch lines were marked across the corners showing the separate start positions for the dogs. Two, doors were closed behind the lines. The caged dogs were brought up to the doors. The blankets were removed. The excitement grew amongst the spectators and the dogs instinctively tried to attack. The betting was frenzied. The dogs were held behind the scratch lines ready to be released, ready to be scratched.

  Inside the pit were the dogs, the handlers and the referee. At a signal, the dogs’ muzzles were removed in readiness for the start. Another call presaged the release. There was no foreplay. Both dogs sprinted at each other biting and snarling, spl
ashing blood being the initial result. It was neither pretty nor dignified. King’s strength was the more impressive and quickly the dog turned its opponent over and went straight for the neck, tearing and ripping. Blood speckled those who cheered close to the pit wall. The handlers separated the dogs to give the weaker dog some time before rereleasing it. Nobody wanted the fight to be over too quickly. Within seconds King had turned the other dog a second time. The underdog had given in, bitten badly around the eye and neck. It screamed and instinctively stopped fighting hoping that its opponent would also stop. It was its last hope. King continued to rip even though it had stopped kicking and struggling. Its legs twitched spasmodically. King continued to attack as if angry that the fight was over too swiftly. Rares grabbed the dog by the soft flesh at the side of its neck and pulled it away. Initially, the dog continued to tug at the lifeless leg of its opponent. Rares pulled a hessian sack from his pocket and covered King’s eyes before pulling again. With the other handler inserting the break stick, he managed to get the dog to release. They moved King back behind the scratch line. Rares threw some meat into the cage, pushed the dog in and the door was closed. Rares bent and whispered to the dog through the cage. His expert eyes were carefully assessing for any damage to his animal. It had a large rip across its left jowl, cuts to the snout and front legs but he would glue and staple these injuries later; an antibiotic injection would also be administered. Blood continued to dribble onto the cage floor from the larger wounds. The noise from the spectators was intense as money changed hands in eager anticipation of the next fight. Rares felt Angel pat his back.

  “Well done, we missed you.”

  Rares said nothing just smiled and went back to his dog.

  Cezar left the building, chatting briefly to the watchers before going to collect the car. He waved at the youths who continued to watch for any unwanted intruders along the street. Within fifteen minutes the dog was loaded and then he left, leaving Rares to manage the other two fights. Rares would return with the last dog.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The fast response paramedic vehicle screamed up the A59 out of Harrogate. Vehicles moving to the side of the road allowed it swift passage; it was all lights and sirens, its destination being the layby at Kettlesing Head. A call had come in to say that a woman was having breathing difficulties and needed urgent assistance. Other information was sketchy. A large, articulated wagon was positioned on the left of the sweeping, half-moon shaped layby that was once part of the original road. As requested, its hazard lights flashed repeatedly. As the estate car came to a halt, its blue, flashing strobe lights overpowered the yellowy-orange flash and illuminated the dark lane, the bushes and the trees that formed a hedge between the main road and the resting place.

  “She’s in here! I don’t know if she’s breathing! Shit come on!” shouted the panicked driver. “Christ! Christ! Help her!”

  As the paramedic sprinted from the car, a second siren was heard, like a whispered echo, way down towards the lights of Harrogate. The ambulance was lumbering up the hill towards them. It would take another two minutes to arrive, but it would prove to be two minutes too late.

  Stella was on her back on the cab’s bunk, her skirt above her waist and her T-shirt rolled down exposing her breasts. Within seconds the paramedic was administering CPR.

  “She was fine, she suddenly stopped breathing, her eyes rolled back. It was fucking scary and she didn’t move.”

  The paramedic heard but didn’t respond, he was far too busy breathing for the woman and he didn’t rest until his colleagues arrived. Within seconds, a traffic police vehicle pulled in and parked, obstructing the entrance to the layby. Cars travelling by were already slowing to allow their occupants to rubber-neck. The wagon driver lit another cigarette and paced the tarmac next to the wagon as the medic continued his treatment.

  “Are you the guy who made the call? Are you OK?” the police officer shouted as he walked over to the wagon.

  The driver took a deep breath and shook his head.

  “What’s your name, Driver?”

  “James, James Nolan but I’m called Jim.”

  “Come and sit in the car, you’ll be suffering from shock. She’s in safe hands. They’ll stabilise her before she goes anywhere. There’s nothing now for you to do. We got the call that a woman was in difficulties. What happened?”

  “The taxi dropped her off as usual and she was fine but suddenly she started to choke like. She threw-up and started to have a fit like. Ya know what I mean? I couldnae stop her and then she just went still. I couldnae hear her breathing. Ya know what I mean?” His strong Scottish accent seemed more pronounced the more anxious he became.

  “A friend of yours was she, Jim?” The officer watched the driver’s expression. “Known her long?”

  The driver just nodded and put his head down. “Stella often meets me when I’m in the area. Know what I mean? I ring and if she’s available, she gets a cab up here.”

  “Was it paid sex?”

  The driver nodded.

  “How often is often?” The traffic policeman waited for ‘you know what I mean?’ to appear at some stage within the sentence.

  “About every six weeks. I’m divorced see and I know she’s clean. To be honest, I really like her too; she chats and seems interested. Know what I mean? Remembers stuff, about me and I like that. My wife never did, she was only interested in herself.”

  James looked at the cab. “Surely they should be getting her to hospital. She must be stable now.”

  “It takes time, trust me. Now is the critical time. It’s no good moving her until she’s stable.”

  The paramedics began to move from the cab, the rings and loops on their clothing reflecting in the vehicles’ headlights like some macabre dance. They were slowly extricating Stella before gently placing her on the gurney that was jacked up at the door to the cab. Jim could see she had oxygen and various tubes disappearing beneath the blanket that covered her. Within minutes the ambulance was pulling away, blue lights illuminating the side of the articulated wagon. He heard no siren.

  The police officer called for another vehicle to transport the driver to the station and also for a Scene of Crime Team.

  “I cannae leave it,” James said pointing to the wagon. “Company rules.” His eyes were worried.

  “Does the company allow you to entertain ladies in the cab, Jim? Or have you bent the rules? Give me the keys, I’ll lock it and believe me, it will be secure this evening.”

  Forty minutes later, the Crime Scene Team was entering the cab. The lay-by was closed off and temporary lights were erected illuminating the wagon. It would be a swift review. If drugs or signs of a crime were detected, the cab would be seized. Jim was already in the Police Headquarters; he was alone apart from a cup of tea and his thoughts.

  ***

  Cyril was awake early. He dressed and decided to skip breakfast. He tapped his jacket pocket to ensure his wallet and glasses were there. ‘Spectacles, testicles, watch and wallet,’ he whispered to himself. It was something he had always heard his father say on leaving the house and he had carried on the tradition, the religious connotation never really crossed his mind. He looked at his watch shaking it and checking again. It was 06:50.

  Owen arrived early too and entered the briefing room to find Cyril straightening the photographs and papers on the white board. Everything always had to be just so.

  “Got a call to say Stella Gornall was rushed into A and E last night but died earlier this morning. She was ‘tricking’ in a wagon up on the Kettlesing Head Lay-by. 999 call at 23:17. Driver is a James Nolan from Innerleithen, that’s…”

  Owen didn’t finish the sentence; he had noticed the familiar expression on Cyril’s face, the look he fired when someone was stating the obvious.

  “I know where it is, Owen. It’s on the A72 between Peebles and Galashiels. Now get on with it!”

  “Sorry! They believe drug overdose. Know more after post mortem.” He looked at the
sheet of paper. “They found a padded envelope containing a significant quantity of tablets and two packs of cocaine in her bag. Being tested. There was £325 in used notes too. Forensics also found a number of condoms, litter and a small plastic bag identical to the other two on the grass separating the road from the parking area.”

  Owen handed the sheet to Cyril.

  “What do we know from the driver?” He looked quizzically at Owen. “Nolan?”

  Owen shrugged his shoulders. “Just what’s on the sheet, Sir. They met whenever he was in the area. He told the officer that they’d met up about six or seven times. He’ll be questioned this morning.”

  “I’d like Liz involved in that interview. She’ll need all the info about Stella to liaise with Social Services about Christina. What about the Romanian boyfriend, have you brought him in for questioning?”

  Owen looked at Cyril. “She wasn’t with him. In fact he hasn’t been at the house nor the hospital. I’ll send an officer up to chat with him, break the news.”

  Cyril just raised one brow. “Either the drugs came from the driver, or from another source. I want him in today.”

  Owen realised the conversation was over.

  “And Owen, let me know when he’s here.”

  ***

  The police car was parked outside the caravan and two officers walked round checking the doors and windows. Rares and Cezar watched from a safe distance.