***
Peter Anton had pulled into a layby on the A61 near Ripley and checked his watch. Jeremy Vine droned on about cracks in the walls of buildings. Peter flicked the stereo to CD mode and Jeremy was replaced by the calmer tones of The Eagles; they were half way through singing ‘Hotel California’. He settled back to wait, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror as his fingers drummed the steering wheel lightly. It was then that he saw the familiar car indicating to turn in. It pulled up behind. Peter smiled and raised his hand to wave.
As the passenger door swung open, Peter grinned at Joan. She climbed in, leaned over and kissed him passionately, her tongue penetrating his lips.
“God I’ve missed you,” she pronounced.
***
Cyril read the latest toxicology results detailing the residue in the containers found in the caravan and it seemed to make perfect sense. Everything had pointed to abuse from the word go. Yes, there had been errors, the police and social services should have responded to concerns more quickly, the evidence was now, in hindsight, clear to see. The child unattended, the mother, addicted to god only knew what, the dogs, the kennel-type room. The one mystery that continued to plague Cyril was Rares Negrescu. Where did he fit in? He neither was the child’s father nor legally attached in any way and yet he obviously cared. Liz didn’t believe he faked the concern, it was palpable, she felt it and Cyril trusted Liz’s instincts.
He continued to study the results. The containers had held the anabolic steroid Stanozolol. The dog hairs found on clothes in the trailer also tested for the drug as well as being a match, from a Ridgeback, to those found under the adhesive of the envelope held by Stella and yet they were not a match to the samples taken from the dogs that were removed from her home.
After a further briefing it was decided to put out a wanted notice for Negrescu. He was responsible for the injuries to Christina and he could have been responsible for her death if luck had not been on the little girl’s side. If he did have fighting dogs and he was on the move there were obvious dangers to the public. There was also the idea that he might have been dealing the tainted drugs. Surely the evidence was there and from what he knew about Negrescu and his connection with dogs, anything was possible. Within twelve hours it would be on the local news and social media. It should not take long to locate him. Owen had organised the incident room to be fully manned. Full press coverage to mobilise public assistance always resulted in an influx of calls; regrettably the majority would be of little help.
***
Hai Yau returned from the restaurant after a full morning with the staff. He felt confident that they would work well together. He had left them cleaning and he would return that afternoon to prepare for their first cooking experience. He went to shower and eat before meeting Angel.
***
The prefabricated cabin was still as cold and intimidating as the first time he had sat in this very chair. However, on this occasion, there were two chairs facing him and nobody holding on to his shoulders. The sun broke through the thin cracks around the ill-fitting doorframe, penetrating the gloom with sharp, white needles of light. Rares watched the dust float in circles as if trapped like aircraft in powerful searchlights before disappearing as the light quickly faded. His thoughts turned to his trailer and the syringe and bottles he had stupidly left. His mind again traced the contents of the trailer. Had he left anything else? He shook his head. He didn’t think so. The door opened and Angel and his father walked in. He stood instinctively and for some reason bowed his head towards Hai Yau. The gesture was returned. They spoke in Romanian.
“So, I’ve heard that the police have paid you a visit. It was, we feel, an unnecessary visit that has come about through your carelessness, Mr Rares. Is that so?”
Rares looked at his feet and then back at the two men. “I’ve always tried to do as you’ve asked. The dogs are good are they not? They are proving to be winners. I work hard and keep out of trouble.”
“What could the police be interested in? Why would they possibly want to search your trailer? What is it that they want? We know don’t we, Mr Rares?”
Rares nodded as if struck dumb.
“The visit, we’re sure, will be linked to Stella’s death. You must be aware that with Stella’s death we’ve eliminated one weak link. You were meant to curb her enthusiasm for alcohol and drugs, not deny her, but moderate her intake so that she was controlled. That wasn’t the case and now she’s gone. With her passing, we’ve all lost a vital source of income.”
Angel watched Rares’ head shake and nod as if controlled by strings and in many cases his gestures failed to correspond to the correct responses. He was clearly consumed by fear. They were talking about a girl he had loved as if she were a meal, a takeaway to be discarded when no longer needed. His emotions choked him.
“You know that it doesn’t end there, with Stella’s death. It can’t. What are we to do, Mr Rares if we are to protect our family, our livelihoods?” There was a long pause. “Can you say?”
Rares fidgeted on the chair, chewing his lip until he could taste the metallic bitterness of blood flush his mouth.
“With your permission, I can go back home and work in Romania. I have many skills and I love this family. I’m sorry for the trouble that we have here but it’s not all of my doing.” His pleading eyes darted back and forth between his two inquisitors.
“Have you been seated in this chair before, Mr Rares, and if so what were you told then?”
“Last chance…” his voice trailed away.
“Sorry I didn’t catch that.”
“It was the last chance I was told. I’ve done everything I could, everything I was told to do. Stella was the reason I sat here the first time and she’s the reason I sit here now, it is the same crime, I’m being punished twice.” His voice rose as his desperation and pleading increased.
Angel looked at his father.
“You’re correct Mr Rares, all we require is loyalty. Since that first meeting you’ve… well, you’ve demonstrated that or let’s say, we hope you have. So providing the police were only paying you a visit to let you know of Stella’s death, all will be well.” There was a long pause, a pause that seemed to measure a lifetime to Rares. “But I’m afraid that’s not the case. We know that the police in white coats came, they came with a sniffer dog and they called at your trailer before breaking down the door. Mr Rares, did you know that they took away things belonging to you? What might those things be?”
Rares chewed his lip with more force, his mind focussed on the steroid bottles he had forgotten to destroy. “I know of nothing. The trailer is clean. They take anything to justify their visit. You know they would just to show their visit was justified. There’s nothing!”
No one spoke. The sun appeared again and the needles of light ended at Rares’ leg, forming strong, white circles. He felt the sudden warmth.
“If all goes quiet, if we hear nothing, then we don’t have a problem,” Hai Yau smiled as he finished. “However, if we hear other things, Mr Rares, you know that we have to protect the family. The family, my family is more important than one individual. You’ll stay here until things become clearer.” They both stood and Rares remained seated, his head bowed.
***
Cyril wiped the sweat from his forehead as his legs and his unoccupied arm moved back and forth. It had to be said that the cross-trainer was his least favourite piece of the gym’s torture equipment. Heavy bass music boomed around the building, encouraging greater effort and exercise. The mute television was suspended high in front of him and he read the text. The early morning local news showed a clear photograph of the man wanted by the North Yorkshire Police, the photograph that Cyril had released. Cyril hoped that it would lead to some calls from the public; he knew Rares Negrescu couldn’t be far away. Stella’s death, he thought, added to the indictment of holding dangerous dogs, might make him desperate enough to flee the country. He stopped exercising and wiped his brow before telephonin
g Liz.
“Put out a check on all ports and airports for Rares Negrescu, you know the procedure. And Liz, run another check on Stella and see if you can find more on her husband. I think his name was Petev Costin if I remember correctly. I’ll be there shortly.” Cyril hung up and walked to the changing room. Had he naïvely missed something? If he had, it was very unusual. HOLMES had thrown up the connection of the same name, ‘Petev’ but that was too obvious and probably coincidental, HOLMES threw up connections like that from the free text database and that is why the good, old, discerning coppers were vital to interpret the plethora of regurgitated information.
Liz lifted the phone and started the procedure for the requested checks to begin, it would mean linking with The National Crime Agency and Border and Transport Police. The system was in place to enable swift implementation. However, she did cynically wonder if they were closing the metaphorical stable door too late.
***
The same television news filled the kitchen of the farmhouse and the displayed photograph could have been nobody but Rares. Angel looked across towards his father and raised one eyebrow before smashing his fist onto the table. The crockery jumped and coffee spilled onto the white cloth.
“My son, if you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.” Angel’s frown broadened as he thought about what his father had just said. Hai Yau put down his knife and fork before placing his hands by his plate. “We knew this all along. We knew that Rares would need to leave us. We need to follow our ancestors’ philosophy and look at the problem and how we’re to solve it. When you toss a pebble into the pond you need to see where all of the ripples will end, it is then, and only then, that you know your chosen path. We know what we must do; we know too that it is the right thing to do. Let’s talk and toss the pebble together my son. We have many ripples to watch.”
***
The phone on the desk rang. Owen was lobbing screwed up paper towards a waste- basket strategically angled across the room; by the number of paper balls surrounding the target he was clearly no great shot. He was taking advantage of the calm before the storm.
“DS Owen.” He picked up the receiver, knocking over the tea mug that was balanced on a pile of papers, the brown residue dribbled out bringing with it the remnants of the teabag he thought he had removed.
“Shit! Sorry, not you. I’ve just… never mind go on.”
He listened and jotted down notes on the tea-splattered pad before hanging up. It wasn’t what he was expecting. He picked up the tea bag and threw it at the bin and to his surprise it went straight in. A routine enquiry had found one taxi firm that had delivered a young woman to Kettlesing Head lay-by. It was seven months ago but the driver remembered thinking that it was a strange destination until his boss had helped him put two and two together; it was his first week! The woman had been collected on Union Street and had been returned to the same place just before midnight. Owen asked the officer to ‘invite’ the driver to the station so that he could make a proper identification of Stella from the pictures held.
Owen went to the incident room; it was busy. Within half an hour Rares Negrescu had been spotted at the same time as far afield as Selby, Richmond and sitting on a bench overlooking the half-moon pond at Studley Royal. ‘Anyone with a large, brown dog will be reported’, he thought. Each sighting, however, would be added to the computer and each would be given a unique message number before generating an action that would mean an interview, which in turn would mean more names, more descriptions. It had to be remembered that the one that might seem totally false and far-fetched now with all the conflicting data, might prove to be accurate. You could just never tell.
Owen returned and looked at the input on his computer screen from the DNA database. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he announced.
Three people looked across, one more inquisitive than the other two.
“Another tea-bag successfully in the bin? Or is it a Lottery win?” Stuart asked.
“Better than that. We ran a speculative search and have a positive on the cigarette butt retrieved from the visit to the caravan.”
He suddenly had a warm glow remembering Cyril’s words, ‘You can’t learn to get a gut feeling, you’re born with it,’
He smiled to himself, but the smile didn’t last for long.
Chapter Nineteen
Peter slid his hand along Joan’s thigh, lifting the hem of her skirt before touching the lace he had so wanted to find. Joan put her hand on his.
“Not here and not now. I’ve work in fifteen minutes and although I know you usually manage in less time than that, I’d like a little longer!” She moved away and smiled at him. You have some important news for me or I think that’s what you said.” She opened her bag and took out a tube of mints, popped one in Peter’s mouth and then followed suit.
“I’m in Leeds for the weekend, I’ve some business to attend to and wondered if you’d like a weekend away. You shop whilst I work and then a meal and then…” he ran his hand again up her thigh.
“I’ll let you know; as always it depends on my mother’s mood. I’ve told you what she’s like.”
“Tell her it’s linked with work, make something up.”
“Lie you mean? Not at my age. It’s the truth or nothing. I’ve done enough lying and covering up to last a life time.”
Peter pulled a face. “Something else. I do the accounts for a family who own a few food establishments and they’ve invited me to the opening of their new restaurant. Unfortunately I can’t make it but I thought you might be able to use the invitation as a lever with your mother. The owner is expecting you; the truth is, he looks forward to meeting you. Besides, from what you say, your mother might be useful in the kitchen, if the ovens pack up she could cook the meals by breathing on them!”
Joan slapped him hard on the arm. “One day I might turn into my mother so be warned!” she laughed, opening the car door. “Where is it this restaurant?”
“In Harrogate.” Peter leaned over, put his hand in the pocket of his jacket that hung behind the seat. He took out an envelope and handed it to Joan.
“I’ll ring you tonight.” She blew him a kiss and walked to her car.
***
Peter sat on the sofa, a beer in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. ACDC blasted from the stereo when his phone rang. It was Joan.
“Nightclub? She giggled.
“Sorry, got a mouthful of Pizza.” He leaned for the remote and muted the sound. It was as if he had suddenly gone deaf. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes and it was lovely seeing you at lunchtime.” She paused. “Are you sitting down? Good news. It’s a yes on two fronts. We are go for launch,” she announced in an American accent. “Countdown begins for the weekend and…” her voice changed back to normal, “mother is agreeable to the new restaurant visit. I nearly died when she eventually said yes. Mind you, life and death decisions have been made in less time!”
***
Rares sat up on hearing the key turn in the lock and his heart beat faster as the hot, prickling sense of fear flushed through his body. It was as if he had stopped breathing. The youth, who had escaped The Darkie, flicked on the light. Rares hoped the choice of messenger wasn’t indicative of the next step.
“Some food and a change of clothes.” He put the tray on the table and tossed a black plastic bin-bag onto the bed. “Your old clothes are to go in this bag now.” He stood and watched Rares remove his clothing. “Shower and put these on before you eat.”
Rares stood naked, his hands covering his genitals whilst he stared at the youth who collected the clothes and placed them in the bag. He picked it up and nervously tied a knot in the top. He looked back at Rares and closed the door. Rares’ fear increased after seeing the facial expression of the person leaving; he had seen something in his eyes. Rares turned and looked at the clothes that had been left, they were definitely not his. The fear made him vomit.
***
The
kitchen at Zingaro was busy. Hai Yau had chosen those workers who had demonstrated a definite flair and they were busy with his recipes. He sampled the food during preparation and smiled. Angel watched from the side and was clearly impressed by not only his father’s sensitive approach to the staff, but also his energy. He was alive, his face beamed in happiness when a flavour was acceptable. He stopped the group and praised individuals, patting the cook on the back and getting the others to applaud. Angel saw the pleasure on their faces, in some cases, for the first time since their arrival.
“Come, my son. You must try this pasta Sanda’s prepared. It’s better than mine.” His mouth was full of food.
Sanda smiled and blushed.
Angel took a fork and picked pasta from the bowl. “That’s excellent.” He looked at Sanda, remembering the hayloft. She looked down as if to indicate that she knew just what he was thinking and was trying to flush the thought away. “You’ve two skills I now compliment you on.” His tongue licked his lips. “Well done!”
Angel now started to speak in English with his father, knowing that many of the new kitchen staff would fail to comprehend. “We’ll take Rares to The Darkie tonight. We’ll use two dogs. Don’t worry, there’ll be no mistakes this time and we’ll clean up better than before.”
“Take two new people with you to witness the result of failing my family. Don’t let them see where you’re taking them. The word will spread quickly. Take one from here, not from the kitchen, from the waiting staff and one other, preferably one of the new working girls. You’ll know who’s not been as co-operative and profitable as you’d hoped.”
Angel immediately looked at Sanda and smiled.
Hai Yau put his mouth near to his son’s ear and whispered a name. “ Karl, Yes?”
Angel looked puzzled and frowned but nodded his agreement.
Hai Yau clapped his hands. “To work everyone. We have little time.”
As Angel left, Sanda’s eyes followed him. She had heard the name ‘Rares’ mentioned and thought of the only man here who had showed her true compassion. She understood the implication of the word dogs; intuitively she knew that it did not bode well.
Hell's Gate: A gripping, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller Page 11
