“Sir, the Emergency Care Order has been granted and Christina will remain at the hospital. The mother is allowed to see her, human rights and all that crap. I’m liaising with the child’s solicitor and guardian to ensure that she will only go back to Stella when she is clear of booze and drugs. That shouldn’t be difficult and it will arm us with the necessary Service Providers who will then take an active role in the little one’s welfare.”
Cyril swivelled round to his desk and picked up a file.
“I want you and Owen to interview Peter Anton, a bit of a character but one of the guys who was also identified as having a fondness for poker. I got the impression that Sadler’s wife had a bit of a soft spot for the guy. She assured us that nothing was going on, but who knows? Maybe you also felt as though there was more going on than she was admitting?” Cyril paused and looked for Liz’s reaction but registered nothing. “Run a check, see if you can come up with something and pay him a visit.”
***
Rares, as he had thought, found no pleasure with the girl who seemed to reciprocate his lack of passion with a motionless, tearful performance. He looked at her before offering the rag from his pocket to dry her eyes. He spoke gently in his native tongue and she smiled. He drew her towards his shoulder and for the first time he felt her relax.
“I’m so scared,” she whispered. “This is not what was promised. It’s not true about Cezar. He lies.”
Her accent was unusual, refined, she seemed educated but at the same time so naïve.
“How long have you been here?”
“In England? I came with the first rush in January. We were all so excited. A new life, more money and better jobs but I didn’t find things easy. I ended up sleeping rough. After a while, fellow Romanians helped me. I suddenly had work, it was only washing up but it was work and I had a safe place to stay but that quickly changed. It was as if I had become a possession because I had accepted help, they said I had a debt to repay. When I tried to leave I was threatened. It was then that they raped me. I was brought here, wherever here is!”
She started to cry again and her hands began to shake. She wiped her eyes with the rag.
“I’ve not been able to call my home unless someone is listening. I’m told what to say and how to say it but mainly they make me text messages to my family. I write what they tell me. I can’t go out on my own. I’m in prison. They allow me to collect benefits but I’m with two others who are watching and listening. I never see the money, it’s taken. Now I’m here, trapped and scared. You are the third man to fuck me today.”
Rares looked at her and felt ashamed. “I’m sorry. Like you I’m trapped. I do what others demand. I’ve seen what they will do if you refuse. See those there?” Rares pointed to the dogs. “They are the punishment for not listening, for trying to leave, for not doing as you’re told. What’s your name?”
The girl looked at the dogs and then focused her brown, wet eyes on Rares. “My name’s Sanda but here I’m Sandra. When I finished university I thought that all my hard work would be rewarded. How wrong I was! Nothing back home is as bad as this.”
Rares felt her arms tighten around him and for the first time in what seemed forever, he became alive and human. Her tenderness lit a small flame of anger inside him, warmth that he had not felt for some time. If he could, he would try to protect her he promised himself. If he couldn’t protect Christina then he would do his utmost to protect this girl. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
“You will never have to be afraid of me again, Sanda. I am sorry for hurting you.”
The tears returned as she relaxed and for the first time he saw her smile. It was as if the tears and the smile had re-humanised Rares if only for a brief moment.
***
Liz and Owen stared at the computer that furnished them with Anton’s details. Each looked at one another and then back at the screen.
“Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Liz. “Sorry, not good English but from my favourite book. They seem to be crawling from the cracks in the pavement. He’s lived in the UK for the last five years. First year at the University of Leeds, Master’s degree in Accounting and Mathematics, now working within Jones and Croucher International Accountants, Leeds but lives near Follifoot.”
“Date of birth, 1984. Born Petev Anton in Bucharest. Father killed in the ’89 Revolution. No details. Mother remarried six months later and the family moved to Constanţa. She was off the mark quickly. Are you thinking what I am?”
Liz looked around and smiled. “Revolutions are a great way of getting rid of unwanted baggage.”
“Wars and revolutions are great for settling old scores and getting even.” Owen scrolled down but he found no other details.
“He works, pays his tax but gambles. He looks clean. I’d like a check on his Romanian past. So often we’re finding that many of the legitimate migrants have skeletons in cupboards so I’ll get that sanctioned. Let’s pay our man a call.”
***
Liz and Owen walked up the drive before stopping at the parked, white Skoda estate. Its engine ticked and clicked as it cooled. Owen put his hand on the bonnet. It was still hot.
“Just home if my senses don’t deceive me.”
“I can see why ‘Flash’ likes working with you…always on the ball,” Liz said cynically. “A real detective will give me the exact time it was parked.”
Owen stuck his finger in his mouth to wet it and held it in the air. He pulled a strange face. “ 18:21 and,” he paused before looking at his finger, “…thirty-three seconds.”
Liz simply smiled and hit him on the arm. The door to the house opened before they even had time to reach it.
“It’s not for sale.” Peter’s face remained slightly threatening.
“Peter Anton?” Owen said as he moved to the door as if countering the threat with his bulk. He neither liked Peter’s facial expression nor his manner. It was as if he were being taken for a fool. He took out his ID and put it close to Peter’s face, which flushed and changed to a look of surprise.
“I’m sorry. Just noticed you around my car. We’ve had a few stolen recently and thought I’d show my face.”
“We need a brief chat. May we come in? This is DS Graydon.”
The room was tidy, if a little minimalist. A modern abstract painting hung on the back wall and a flat-screen television was positioned on the chimneybreast. Neither seemed straight. Strewn papers littered a small coffee table and from what Owen saw they looked like accounts. A half drunk mug of coffee rested on a coaster.
“Homework, Mr Anton?” Owen said as he sat.
Peter collected the sheets. “You know, work goes on even after the company clock has stopped. There’s always someone prepared to take my place if I don’t meet my targets.”
“What can you tell us about Drew Sadler?”
Owen watched Peter’s expression closely.
“He’s a friend. We go out occasionally. We both like to play poker at the pub, or shall I say we did. Haven’t seen him for a while. He suddenly stopped phoning. I’ve been busy at work…year-end and all that so I’ve been tied in here as you can see. Is there a problem?”
Liz interrupted. “How well did you know his wife?”
Owen noted a reddening in his complexion again before he answered.
“I knew her through Drew, that’s all. When I collected or took Drew home we’d speak and when Drew was having some financial trouble I’d help.”
“Sorry? Help? How?”
“She asked me to look at her accounts. Suddenly there was no money when previously there’d always been enough. Drew had started drinking a little too much on occasion and let’s say he was growing rather profligate. He suddenly found that he had an expensive hobby. I’d lend her a couple of quid now and again when I could see things were really tight.”
Owen noted the word profligate, he would investigate its meaning later.
“How much is a couple of quid?”
; “The most was a hundred. She said she’d pay it back but…”
“Have you ever been intimate with Joan Sadler?” Liz stared directly at Peter as she asked the question.
“What sort of bloody question’s that? What are you insinuating?”
“It’s a question you ask about a woman who was so recently widowed. Did we not mention, Mr Anton, that Drew Sadler is dead?”
Peter’s expression changed, first to shock and then to anger. “What the bloody hell is going on here. Sadler’s dead? When? How?”
“I’d like you to come with us for further questioning. You’ll be cautioned but you’re not under arrest and you’re free to go whenever you wish. We’re only asking for your honesty and co-operation. We’re simply trying to put together a picture of Drew Sadler’s final days. Mr Anton, there might have been foul play involved in his death and can I say now that you’re not, at this moment in time, a suspect, just an acquaintance who might be able to shed a little more light on the man. There are two other men known to us who played poker with Drew who will be interviewed and like you, they are simply friends of the deceased.”
Liz watched him frown. He chewed the fingernail on his index finger as his looked around the room. He was clearly anxious.
“How long will it take? Could we not do it here?”
“We could.” Liz produced a Dictaphone and put it on the table. “We need to record this.”
Peter nodded his agreement and sat down. He took a deep breath.
***
Rares left the girl by the bunkhouse and walked up the cobbled track that led to the farmhouse. He stopped in the stone porch and stared at the oak-studded door. A brass knocker, depicting a sitting Alsatian dog, faced him. He knocked once and after what seemed an age the door opened and the youth with the marks to his forehead looked at him.
“Angel wants to see me.”
Angel was sitting in the kitchen, his feet on a carved Chinese chest. Ancient, wooden beams spanned the width of the room like nicotine ribs attached to a large, sternum-like central beam twisting its way along the room’s length. Hanging from this were small, tasselled Chinese lanterns. The fire grate was empty other than for the grey ash residue of a previous fire.
“Well? Marks out of ten for the girl?” Angel looked up but showed no expression.
“Thanks… I enjoyed her.” His voice was flat and expressionless in an attempt to camouflage his true emotions. Rares pictured her face, particularly her dark eyes awash with tears. This somehow gave him strength. “Can I keep her at the trailer until I can meet with Stella again? I’ll take her with me to the Kebab House and watch her.”
Angel didn’t take his eyes from Rares. “If the dogs win, then maybe I’ll give it serious thought. I’m glad you mentioned Stella. Sit!” Angel pointed to the chair opposite and Rares sat. “You’ll meet Stella in Leeds tomorrow night, briefly, that is. She’ll be at Jo’s café. She needs things. Christina won’t be released from hospital for at least another ten days, they’ve taken out a care order and that’s put Stella in pieces. She’s not functioning and a number of her regular punters haven’t been pleased with her performance. If they’re not pleased then we’re not pleased. We’re a family after all. Am I right?” The question was rhetorical giving no time for Rares to answer. “You’ll give her a package and then leave. She trusts you more than anyone else.”
Rares knew that the package meant drugs or money for drugs and he chewed his lip, his anxiety unknowingly displayed across his face.
“Will the police not be monitoring her? What about watching me?”
Angel shook his head. “They’ve more to do than worry about you both, after all, the child is their main concern and she’s safe in the short term. They’ve seen you’ve formed a routine and that your papers and tax are in order. Why should they waste resources on a gypsy nobody? You’ll be in Leeds with the dogs. Twenty minutes to see her and then back to work. We’ll ensure Stella’s safe. Now check the dogs and get back to work.” Angel checked his watch. “You’ll be late.”
***
The incident room was quiet as Owen and Cyril stared at the white board.
“Never underestimate the feeling in your gut, Owen. It makes for a good copper. I knew there was something not straight with Anton.”
Owen could feel his rumble but knew it to be neither intuitive nor inspirational. It was hunger. He’d missed breakfast and right now his intestinal juices were sending him a timely reminder.
“Was that you, Owen?” Cyril had heard the protestations too.
Owen nodded. “Missed breakfast, Sir.”
Cyril went across to his jacket and removed a nut health bar from the pocket. “This was for my healthy lunch but from the discussion going on in there,” Cyril pointed to Owen’s gut, “your need right now is greater than mine will be at twelve. So, Peter Anton might have had a reason to see Sadler hit the buffers, to use your train metaphor?”
“He says that he helped Joan try to sort out her finances as well as loaning money and his idea of a few quid was up to a hundred. Some accountant!” Owen took another large bite from the bar leaving only the wrapper.
Cyril lifted his eyebrows before inhaling the menthol vapour from his electronic cigarette. “And you said the debt was still outstanding?”
Owen nodded. “According to Anton she never paid it back and he hasn’t been in touch since.”
“There’s more to this than meets the eye. I want him in for questioning. Say it’s to eliminate him from the enquiries but I want him in. I want DNA as well. I also want the reports from the Romanian Police through sharpish. The other two only look to be associated with the pub game. One no longer plays and although he was acquainted with Sadler, he had little to do with him. I’ll leave them on the board but I think we’ve reached the end of the track with those two.” Cyril smiled as he watched the significance of his sentence float over Owen’s head.
Chapter Fourteen
It was late afternoon when Rares arrived. He was checked at the gate and then dropped off at the barn. He took a stun baton from the safe and attached it to his belt. It was designed specifically as a defence against dog attack. He could never be too careful, the dogs, once excited and frenzied, could be unpredictable. Quickly, he muzzled the three dogs before putting them into their transport cages. Two men lifted them into the back of separate cars. It wouldn’t be good to be stopped with the dogs in one vehicle, particularly on the return run. Dogs that have fought were not too pretty and their discovery would take some explaining. He moved back to the safe in the corner and removed a wooden box before placing it on the table. He lifted the lid and removed the heavy, metal object. His hand expertly checked the captive bolt gun before returning it to the box. This would be needed if any of the dogs suffered too much. He went to the van putting the box in the cage with the dog.
The destination would only be sent by text at the last minute but the drivers knew the general destination near to Leeds City Centre, each having been given Sat Nav co-ordinates to follow. They would leave fifteen minutes apart and with luck arrive at the chosen venue at different times. Rares would be in the lead car. He would need to be there to check the dogs. He also had to see Stella. It was estimated that the journey would take less than an hour so there was no need to leave until after five. The traffic would be heavy at that time, but usually it was leaving and not entering the city.
Rares sat and looked around the barn. His thoughts moved to Sanda as his eyes scanned the hayloft. He left the barn and walked quickly to the bunkhouse but she wasn’t there. His stomach sank with disappointment and the thoughts of what the poor girl was being forced to do. He returned and waited in the lead car. The dog smell permeated the car’s interior but somehow that was comforting. He seemed these days to spend his whole life waiting! Angel and the three drivers chatted by the farmhouse before they ambled to the cars. The driver smiled as he climbed in and Rares despaired, it was Cezar, a man who was quick to react and not to be trifled with.
He had grasped the Anglo Saxon elements of the English language well and he was renowned for his use of a blade. Rares feared him; he had witnessed his anger and the type of justice he dispensed.
“To the fucking smoke, yes!” He tapped the steering wheel as if it were a drum. “I hate fucking green fields and sheep. Crowds, crowds with deep pockets, that’s what we want.”
Rares noticed when he smiled that he was without two front teeth and that his nose had been battered at some time in the past. He noticed too that part of his left ear had been removed. He looked a real hard case.
Once on the outskirts of Leeds the driver monitored his speed with extra care. They travelled down Scott Hall Road and onto Eastgate before rounding the City Centre Loop. Rares felt his heart flutter as the Police Station loomed into view on the roundabout.
“Rozzers, the bastards!” yelled Cezar with honest hatred as he banged the steering wheel again. “Fuck ’em all! It’d be good to put one or two with the dogs. The pigs would really squeal!”
Crossing the river, the driver pointed to the Leeds Armouries. “Great place to visit if you like old guns and that shit. They’ve a beaut in there, it’s called a Welrod, used as a silent assassin’s weapon. Real Second World War, SAS stuff. Saw one in Bosnia when I was there helping, so to speak. Would love one. There are a few people I’d like to kill fucking silently.”
Rares ignored him, strangely tired of the language and watching the road he wondered if the boasts were only bravado, if his bark was actually worse than his bite. He decided that he wouldn’t like to find out. Within five minutes they were parked on Sweet Street and the Sat Nav. announced that they had reached their destination.
“This is as far as we fucking go until we get the text.”
Sitting enclosed in the van, Rares was enveloped in the canine smell and the sound of Cezar’s rhythmic breathing. His eyes were closed, his peaked cap over his face. He was trying to sleep. The surroundings were desolate, the revenge of the industrial revolution’s aftermath. Streets once lined by mills and factories were now littered with the flotsam and jetsam, so often dumped within the empty demolition sites that scar modern cities. He saw neither birds nor animals, just the ragged remnants of man. The cobbled street, a fossilised, pachyderm skin, was all that was left apart from twisted iron railings and the occasional broken lintel, partially concealed by gangly buddleia and grass.
Hell's Gate: A gripping, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller Page 7
