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

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  He paid, collected his receipt and handed it to a porter. Within minutes the Major was in his hands. An immediate smile came to his lips. He turned to go when the other room bidder approached.

  “Congratulations! That’s a fine painting. You have a good eye.” He smiled before glancing at the Major. “Well done. Good to see it sold to the room and not the bloody web!”

  ***

  The drive back was uneventful apart from stopping in Masham for a swift celebratory half of Black Sheep Bitter. The rain mingled with the smell of hops that hung in the town from the two breweries, some would say like a bad smell but to others it was perfection. The rain grew stronger; it would be good to be home.

  Robert Street, Harrogate, was quiet, apart from a large, articulated wagon performing an acrobatic, balletic, master-class in the art of blind reversing at the top of the street. The large supermarket deliveries had to be received in the bowels of the earth beneath the store. On numerous occasions during the week, the drivers had to reverse their containers across the main road, down the narrow slope and out of sight. To some it was second nature, to others it was probably their idea of hell. To the delayed motorists, waiting and watching, it was a pain in the arse!

  Cyril’s eye had been correct, the painting looked wonderful in the room. A small spotlight enhanced the orange of the factory lights; he could almost hear the cotton machines at work. “Has a look of Hades,” he said out loud. He had just uttered the word ‘Hades’ when his phone rang. It startled him, moving magically on the table as it vibrated. Cyril’s head dropped. He went to retrieve it.

  “Bennett.”

  Chapter Four

  The sound of the flock of sheep high on the Romanian hillside was carried on the light breeze. The air was fresh and the grass damp beneath bare feet. Wadim laughed as he dragged the homemade kite behind him. At first it clung to the green, coarse strands uncertain as to its true role in life but it soon bounced before beginning to claw at the invisible air. Slowly and less reluctantly, it lifted, higher and higher as the string was released through excited hands. The coloured tail of tied strips of magazine was whipped away by invisible hands that were trying to wrest it from flight as the small boy tugged, pulled, laughed and skipped. His eyes were focussed, constantly watching in astonishment at the successful first flight of his valuable, homemade toy. Now settled aloft, the kite floated, caressed by the breeze, almost in the hover. Only the tiniest end to the string remained in his fingers. The kite’s painted face, now higher than Wadim could imagine, stared down at its eager, innocent, laughing creator who stared back with equal pleasure. Wadim could now rest and marvel. It was a good day and his usual pangs of hunger soon were lost with the increasing strength of the wind, the length of this maiden flight and the tugging of the string precariously gripped in his dirt-grained fingers. It was like the kite was alive!

  The distant, approaching car crept into Wadim’s peripheral vision, reluctantly drawing his attention and curiosity. He turned, glanced and then looked back at his beautiful kite. The sound of the motor now broke the silence, demanding Wadim take another look. He saw dust billowing from behind the off-white, battered 4x4 and he concentrated to see if he recognised the car. He knew it was a Lada, there were many but not as many as horse drawn carts in this area. He allowed it to distract him a little too much. The string slipped from his grasp, and the kite fluttered higher before being blown towards the copse of oak. He wanted to watch both the car and his kite; the kite won. He noticed it catch the upper branches of the tree before cascading from one branch to another, finally tangling within the thinner branches closer to the ground. With a little climbing which he assured himself he was good at, he was confident that he could retrieve it safely.

  Once on the bough, he edged his way out, legs either side acting like a high wire walker’s pole, his hands gripping in front. The kite dangled, pendulum-like as it swayed enticingly in the breeze. Tiny fingers stretched to reach the rough string but failed. A little further. His bare feet pushed against the bark and he felt the bough sag just a little as he moved along its diminishing girth. He tried again to reach, stretching his arm as far as he could. He was so close, but yet another move was needed. Pushing with his feet, he touched the string and made an eager grab. In his excitement he lost his one-handed grip of the bough. Desperately, he tried to hold on with only his thighs but this proved impossible; his legs swung left and then right trying to correct his loss of balance. The bark scratched and tore at the tender flesh of his inner thighs. As if by magic, the grass quickly exchanged places with the sky and he was falling, dragging the string and kite with him.

  The sudden stop took away his breath and locked it somewhere in his chest where momentarily he could not find it. Gasping, gulping, panicking and unable to breathe; his body hurt, he felt nauseous. All went dark. The trickle of blood ran warm on his scratched legs. Sucking to get air, he opened his eyes and for a moment, the light calmed him but as quickly as the light had arrived, a shadow swiftly blocked out the sun’s dappled rays. A large, silhouetted figure now confusingly covered his field of vision.

  “Are you bene little fella? That was some fall.” The stranger spoke gently before looking up at the bough and then at the kite in the gasping boy’s hand. “What’s your name and where’s your ken, eh?”

  Wadim knew the words, the Romany cant, they were all Roma living in and near his village of Ponorata. He certainly was not good and, yes he would like to go home but words did not want to come. They were locked with his strangled breath somewhere in his middle.

  “What shall I call you?” The stranger bent down allowing the dappled light to stream back onto Wadim’s face.

  Between broken breaths he managed, “Wadim, Wadim Anghelescu... Is... my kite... broken?”

  Large, smooth hands ran down his arms and legs. “Nothing broken, no bones and certainly not your kite, but some bad scratches on your legs and your kite’s lost some of its tail. We’ve got ourselves one fallen, tough, little angel, Wadim Anghelescu. Unlike your kite you need more practice at flying, little man. Your kite is better at staying in the sky than you are staying in the tree.” He smiled and moved Wadim’s hair from his face.

  Wadim, his breathing now more under control, allowed himself a smile. “Mother calls me her little angel... sometimes.”

  “Come on, I’ll carry you to my car. Tell me if it hurts or are you just being brave?”

  The stranger picked him up with care, watching the small face grimace with pain. A small tear appeared on the lower lid of one eye and rolled down his cheek.

  “Keep your kite close. I’ll take you to your ken in my car.”

  He lifted the boy, tilted the passenger seat with his arm and carefully placed him in the back seat before he climbed in. If all his jobs were as easy as this, he’d be laughing, he thought.

  The car moved away quickly heading in the direction of Wadim’s home and the boy began to relax. He studied his kite and his fingers caressed the frayed string where part of the colourful tail had once been tied. The car picked up speed, springs protesting at the uneven road surface. It turned sharply off the side-road and onto the main carriageway heading away from his promised destination. Wadim’s heart gave a slight flutter as his eyes darted to the dark, dust-covered window. He knew this was wrong, the car was going too fast and he was heading towards town.

  “Mister, you’re going the wrong way!” His voice was high-pitched and frightened.

  The driver turned and smiled, but said nothing.

  Wadim tried to push the seat but it would not move. He started to scream and kick the back of the seat so hard he hurt his toes, before trying to climb into the front of the car. He grabbed the driver’s hair who simply brought his hand from the wheel, turning it into a fist before he smashed it backwards into Wadim’s forehead. The boy’s body collapsed rag-like crashing into the back seat foot-well. Blood trickled from his nose. The kite flew briefly before it settled protectively on Wadim’s shoulder.


  Chapter Five

  Although the new Harrogate Police Headquarters had a reputation for being extremely energy efficient, it also had the reputation for being a bit of a sieve. It was renowned for letting in water! From the early days, it had required strategic planning to place buckets in the correct position to catch the myriad droplets, but today, Cyril had noticed that the number of buckets needed to catch the water when it rained were now fewer. It seemed only when the rain was lashing from a certain direction did they need all of them. They needed none when it was fine unlike the first few months when water droplets had appeared when it was not raining. The experts believed it to be condensation caused through lack of adequate ventilation. Cyril often thought that the same architects who designed this building designed tower blocks and a shudder would run through him.

  He moved towards his desk and instinctively straightened a few files and a variety of ornaments that had been disturbed by the cleaner. A shadow eclipsed the room and Cyril looked up. DS David Owen smiled, his huge frame blocking the door and the light. Cyril noticed that he held a cup and saucer in one hand and a mug in the other.

  “Hope it’s a clean cup, Owen,” Cyril quizzed as he finished his domestic duties. “Thanks for the call. Good morning.”

  David Owen had always been known as Owen since his training days and that was how he was known in the department. He looked at Cyril, unsure if he were being facetious but he knew that if he had not called, there would have been hell to pay.

  “Morning, Sir. Thought you might like a brew. Were you successful yesterday?” Owen really had little interest in art auctions or aesthetics but thought he had better ask.

  “Bought a Theodore Major. Wonderful, Owen, simply wonderful. Great brush strokes and fantastic atmosphere.”

  Owen noticed Cyril’s eyes glaze as if he were in love. “Major, Sir?” his tone, not too confident and containing a certain hint of confusion.

  “And your day, Owen?” Cyril sipped his tea. “That’s a good brew!”

  “Football, Sir. Got to say if we coppers performed as badly as the players last night, the cells would be empty and the barristers would be cleaning windows. Not good, not good! Worst sporting spectacle I’ve ever seen. Waste of my time and my hard earned brass. The centre...” Owen looked up mid-sentence and paused, recognising from Cyril’s facial expression that the centre forward’s performance was of little interest to him. The conversation was over.

  “The child, Owen, what’ve you got?”

  “Mother’s with the child. Her partner, Rares Negrescu is downstairs, dogs to be destroyed. There were two pups, they’re with the RSPCA but there appears some doubt about the number in the litter. Can they destroy the pups for the sins of the parents? It was a bad one, Sir. Child amazingly survived but very badly mauled. We’ve had complaints from neighbours about the aggressive nature of the animals on five, separate occasions but no action was taken. Only recently can we take action if the dogs are not in a public place but nothing since that date. Mother’s in a dreadful state, mind. As far as we know her partner’s Romanian, been in the country three years, first Leeds, then Harrogate. We believe that he lives with her just off the Knaresborough Road, works at a Chinese kebab house on Shaw Street most evenings. No previous.”

  “A Chinese kebab house…” Cyril emphasised each syllable as if tasting the food. “What ever next will be added to our Yorkshire, culinary palate? So what was done about the complaints regarding the dogs? What about previous in his other life…Romania you said?”

  “Ridgebacks aren’t on the list of dangerous dogs so they don’t need to be registered. Kept them mostly in the back garden and the complaints come from parents in the area. It seems strange too that there were no complaints of noise or barking. They report that the dogs appeared very aggressive when out with him, that they needed a great deal of restraint. Postman won’t call either owing to some incident when they were not in the back. No bite, but a close thing. A Mrs Makin reported that they attacked her dog whilst on the lead and that they took some separating but he denied the incident. The postman incident was pre May, this year and before the amended Dangerous Dogs Act came into effect. Nothing yet about his past in Romania, Sir.”

  “So the law has been broken, dogs aggressive in a public place. Was he cautioned? Did someone at least visit?”

  “Community Officer called and gave a warning. He saw a dog and it was neither aggressive nor out of control. He spoke with neighbours and they agreed that things had calmed down. Negrescu denied that his dog attacked another. The report also states he showed little understanding and apparently kept apologising for his limited knowledge of English. There may be resentment by the neighbours as the property is Housing Association and is situated within a row of private houses.”

  “Have you had the full medical report?”

  “Not yet, Sir.”

  “Has this Stella got a surname?”

  Owen perused his notes. “Gornall, Sir. Stella Felicity Gornall. Twenty-eight. Reverted to her maiden name last year. Married a Petev Costin, also Romanian, two years ago but his whereabouts are presently unknown.”

  “No doubt a marriage of convenience? Now probably swallowed in the system clawing benefits on false papers as well as sending child benefits home to the wife and five kids he has over there.”

  Owen simply raised his shoulders and pulled a face that suggested it might be so.

  “I must be growing too old and too cynical. Blood tests on both adults?”

  “They’ve come through; she’s a drug user, showed signs of both cocaine and excessive alcohol in her system. He was clean.”

  Owen looked again, flicking the pages over trying to keep ahead of Cyril. He noted mentally that Social Services had not yet been involved.

  “Caring mother!” whispered Cyril as he sipped the last of his tea. “He was clean I see. Are we sure neither drugs nor alcohol? I want to talk with him now, get DS Graydon to chat with the mother, take her under her wing. I hope…” He looked down briefly. “Negrescu has been cautioned and legal representation offered, yes? Do we have a translator?” He looked up over rimless glasses at Owen. “I also want an expert to look at the dogs.”

  Owen watched Cyril’s right eyebrow lift independently. Often it occurred when he grew either more serious or more angry. It always seemed to bring to mind Gary Barlow of Take That. Whenever he introduced a song his right eyebrow had a similar uncontrolled life; it was as if it had a mind of its own.

  “Translator, Owen. Yes or No?”

  “On the way, Sir, sorry.”

  ***

  The man leaned back in the chair and simply stared at Cyril as he entered the room. He made no move to alter his position but simply chewed a fingernail before spitting it onto the floor. Cyril stopped, glanced at the Support Officer and nodded. As if by telepathy the officer moved towards the prisoner and brought him to his feet.

  For a man who had been in the country three years, Rares Negrescu showed little inclination to use the language.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Bennett. I’m sorry to hear about the child... if you fail to sit on the chair correctly it will be removed.” Cyril’s tone was forceful and he maintained full eye contact. “Understand? Now sit.”

  “Christina, is her name. Christina,” Negrescu said without lifting his head. “My grandmother’s name.”

  “I believe from this report that your partner left Christina alone for only minutes when the dogs attacked. Tell me again what happened.”

  Cyril sat back and studied the young man’s facial features and his awkward body language but said nothing even though the pause brought an expanding void. Cyril noticed Negrescu looking up briefly and was immediately aware of not only arrogance but also coldness in his eyes. He also noticed the upper part of what appeared to be amateur tattoos on either side of his neck, mostly concealed by his collar.

  “I told everything before. Nothing change. Her dogs.” He looked down, moving forward placing his hands on the ta
ble leaning towards Cyril before locking eyes. “You kill her dogs, Policeman, yes? In my country, police cruel and unkind too.”

  Cyril held his stare longer than Negrescu anticipated he would. “Only when we have found all the information we can from them. How many pups?”

  “Two.”

  “That too we shall verify. Amazing what our team can discover from both the living and the dead. We shall also be checking your place of work, your paperwork, your claims, your bank details, your family connections, your benefits and right at this moment we are searching your partner’s home. Need I say any more?” Cyril didn’t lift his eyes.

  “I have told you, the stupid bitch allowed our child to be in the room. I thought Christina was in bed. I’ve told her over and over again when the pups are there she shouldn’t let our child be alone. The dogs will protect their young. She knows that. Too much vodka. The dogs are hers but they are good, I only help with them. I have done nothing so you cannot keep me here…only twenty-four hours, I think.”

  “Let’s hope Christina has twenty-four hours shall we? Thought you might like to know how she’s getting on, foolish of me even to consider it.” He removed his glasses. “Your English is better than you make out Mr. Negrescu. What else are you trying to hide?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Cyril stood and made sure the chair scraped along the floor breaking the sudden silence. Cyril waited for Negrescu to look at him before he shook his head, smiled and lifted an eyebrow. “So where do you live? We know Stella lives in the Housing Association property, receives housing benefit or is it Universal Credit now? Available for a single mum living without a partner, because, Mr. Negrescu, she lives alone according to these records. So as I said, where do you live? Because if you live with her you have already broken the law… fraud, you understand, fraud?” He smiled again before turning to leave. “You have also contravened the Dangerous Dogs Act. I’m sure you are aware of the changes made this year. It’s on your charge sheet. He was two up and he wanted Negrescu to understand that.”