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

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Angel sat in the car and proudly looked at the Restaurant. They had done well. He removed his mobile from his pocket and dialled.

  “I want you here by nine. We need a van and it has to be as planned, white, clean and untraceable. You’ll meet in the usual place. I’ll not be with you. It has to be perfect this time. I take it Jim was where he said he’d be? Did he take the package and realise the implications of what was said?” There was a pause. “We know just what he is, he’ll not return. You did well to walk away. Until later.”

  Angel hung up then immediately made a second call. He calmly explained his father’s request and then listened. “You’ve no choice in this matter, you’re family and we support each other just as we have supported you. A request from my father is really an order. You’ll come to the restaurant at seven this evening. Bring some old clothes that will be destroyed afterwards. Don’t be late. By the way, did you know that Stella was dead?” Angel listened before answering a stream of questions. “Overdose of some kind. She was tricking in a wagon.” Angel moved the phone from his ear for a second but continued to listen. “She’ll be adopted at some stage. She’s in foster care at the moment. You need to forget her, leave her alone. That will be the best for all, especially her. Are you listening? We’ll talk further tonight.” Angel hung up. The conversation was over.

  ***

  Cyril looked at the computer screen. He smiled. It was clear that Stuart had stopped chewing his pencil long enough to track down the owner of the Leeds flat and the occupants Peter Anton had shared with whilst at university as Owen had instructed. It was hardly surprising, that considering his temporary work whilst a student, it belonged to a local Chinese businessman.

  “Owen!” Cyril bellowed as he continued to read the report. It gave details of the owner and the names of those occupying the flat during Anton’s time; there were seven in all. Some had occupied the apartment for only a short period whilst others seemed to have been more permanent, some starting as others finished. According to the report, only two had been interviewed, the others had found employment out of the country on completion of their studies. One of the former group now lived in London and the other in Brighton. Neither had returned to Leeds nor knew the whereabouts of the others.

  Cyril scribbled a note and put it in front of an officer who was busily ploughing through a mountain of paper. She smiled at Cyril and picked up the phone, her index finger stabbing in the numbers.

  Cyril appeared at the door. “Owen, there doesn’t seem to be anything strange about Peter Anton’s accommodation whilst at Leeds but I want to talk to him about his past in Romania. Call on him at work. I know it’s in Leeds but we need to know what happened in his past and then we can maybe close that door. Take Stuart, he knows about his student past. Try to discover if he’s still seeing Joan Baines and if so whether there’s any, what shall we say, intimacy?” Cyril smiled and pulled a face.

  Owen looked at Cyril remembering his general demeanour on first seeing Joan Baines. He wondered whether the latter part of the questioning was for a more selfish purpose. He knew Cyril could be a bit of a Jack the Lad.

  “By the way, I heard about your gut being right with the chap at the caravan. Well done! Always said you were as keen as mustard and made for this job. All we now have to do is develop your dress sense.” Cyril smiled.

  Owen’s jaw dropped. That was the first real compliment, even though it was barbed, that he had heard his boss utter. Either he was improving or Cyril was growing soft. If he were honest, he knew it wasn’t the latter.

  “Staying there all day basking in the glory of a compliment or do you have an appointment in Leeds?” Cyril spoke without lifting his head.

  The officer who had made the call shouted across. “Peter Anton’s in the office all afternoon and will be expecting you. Didn’t sound too happy though. Wanted to know why you couldn’t see him at home.”

  Cyril just lifted his shoulders, “Beggars can’t be choosers, love. It’s as simple as that.”

  ***

  Peter Anton sat in his office and stared out of the window. The dark grey of the sky certainly matched his demeanour. He was ceasing to be the master of his own destiny. Firstly he had received orders from Angel earlier in the day and then a request from the police. He cursed Drew Sadler under his breath, he cursed his own gambling habit and he cursed Stella. He could have been out of all of this by now, he could have controlled his own gambling but he couldn’t control her. Because of her growing demands, he had needed to stay committed to Angel. The one consolation was that he was now free from the ghost of Stella Gornall and he had been grateful to Angel for ensuring that their paths seldom met. The one thing he regretted most of all, however, was the lack of contact with his daughter but that he had to live with. He opened his wallet and took out a photograph of a baby. Just how deeply was he prepared to fall? He walked over to the shredder and switched it on. His daughter’s fragmented picture passed before him and fell into the large plastic holding bin. He felt that his life was doing the same. ‘Maybe she isn’t mine as Angel so often said’, he thought, wrestling with his contorted emotions. Knowing Stella’s work, the child could have belonged to any of her many paying punters. How many thought they were fathers? How many were told the sob story to extort some more drugs or cash? He knew he too could be one of the fools. What he did know for certain was that he now had Joan. He smiled for the first time since receiving the telephone call but not for long. Work seemed to drag, as his anxiety at the pending visit increased. He continued to look at the clock but time still seemed to pass so slowly. The phone on his desk rang, startling him.

  “Two gentlemen to see you, Mr Anton, they say they have an appointment but it’s not in the diary.”

  “Sorry, my fault. They only rang earlier on my mobile and I just haven’t had a moment. Please show them up Sylvia.”

  “Sorry to trouble you at work but we just have to tie up some loose ends and we’ll be out of your hair. This is DC Park.” Stuart nodded and took out his note pad. Owen took out the Dictaphone. “Do you mind?”

  Peter shook his head. “Will I get copies of these ‘informal’ chats or do I need a lawyer present?”

  “We can move to the station and you’re welcome to call a lawyer, you’re still under oath. This is as informal as our last meeting but you can stop the conversation whenever you like. As I said, it’s purely to tie up some loose ends that have come to our attention from information we have received from the Romanian police.”

  Peter, assuming it would be about his past, just started to talk. Words came easily and from their response his assumption was proved to be correct. “Prison for the violent attack on one miserable, aggressive bastard who did nothing but beat my mother, get drunk and go with prostitutes leaving little money in a very poor household. I also believe he killed my father but I’ve no proof, just a gut feeling.”

  Owen suddenly took more notice, he was very much aware of the accuracy of such anatomical sensations.

  Peter paused, looking at both officers after seeing a change in Owen’s stance. “You and me both will never understand the phenomenon. I didn’t have any firm evidence and yet I instinctively used the hammer. When you see your mother suffering and in so much pain, working all hours to make ends meet, and then this guy staggers in at the end of the day, all the money spent on alcohol and demands food, even demands sex in front of me and then beats us both because there’s neither available. It’s hard. One day he came home and I was out helping a neighbour fix his boat. When I returned the bastard was raping my mother, yes raping her. Her face was bleeding, her nose was smashed. I just hit him hard with the hammer I was carrying, his own hammer, the one I had been using to help mend the boat. He stopped. I made him stop. I ran back to the neighbours and then everything is a blur. The police and medics came; my mother was just sitting there staring as if in a trance. She never spoke, just stared.” He bowed his head and began to weep. “Sorry!”

  “It must’ve been
terrible. Can you go on? You mentioned that he’d killed your father. Is that the case?”

  “I’ll never know the truth but my mother once said to me after one of our beatings that this monster was not always like that. She told me that he was my father’s childhood friend but that he’d always been jealous of my father. She said that he told her that he was more of a man than my father who spent too much time reading and thinking and that she should have married him. In 1989, the Romanian people rose up to depose Ceausescu; both he and my father joined the rioting civilians when the army switched allegiance. My father, I was told, was politically strong and wanted the system to change but he had been afraid to voice his views before this time because of the Securitate. Too many people with a small political voice simply disappeared. During the ’89 struggle many people were killed, particularly those loyal to Ceausescu but also there were a number of other deaths, civilian deaths from snipers. My father was found dead with a bullet in his back. He had been with my stepfather. Things were calming when he was killed, it was December 23rd, the leaders had fled like cowards but I’m pleased to say, not for long. In two days they were dead; a trial followed by a firing squad. People said that my stepfather saw an opportunity to eliminate the human obstacle that had denied him my mother; getting rid of him then was an opportunity that might never come again. It’s strange that nobody else witnessed the death. As you can imagine it caused much gossip, especially when my mother married him. That’s why we moved away, moved to Constanța. After prison, I went to University and then came to England to do my MA.” He paused and looked at both policemen as if anticipating their next question. “Before you ask, I saved whilst working and received some sponsorship from local businessmen and I’m grateful to them. Times were changing and there was an optimism, a way forward that people had been denied for twenty-five years under Ceausescu.”

  Stuart was busy scribbling and checking dates mentally. “How long did you spend in prison, Mr Anton?”

  “I was fifteen years old when I hit him and I served four years in various institutions. Times were not too bad, it wasn’t like the old days but it wasn’t pleasant. It was there that I decided to make more of my life, to study like my father. It was then three years at university as I’ve said.”

  Owen looked at Stuart who nodded to suggest he had heard enough. “May I now ask you about Joan Baines or Sadler, if you prefer?”

  “I need a coffee. You?” He phoned Sylvia with a request. “Sorry, now please ask away.”

  “I know you supported Joan through a difficult time as well as loaning her money but is there now more to that relationship?”

  “I fail to see the relevance other than your wanting to know whether we were having an affair when Drew was alive; that might suggest I had a hand in his downward spiral and possibly his death, after all, I have a record for violence. Well…”

  There was a tap on the door and Sylvia entered with the coffee. She handed round the cups and left.

  “Where was I?”

  “Your relationship with Joan Baines,” Stuart answered.

  “The answer is simple, we were not then, but are now developing a relationship, I’m pleased to say. That sounded rather clinical but it’s not. We’re roughly the same age and we like each other’s company. I know it’s soon after Drew’s death but from what I understand their relationship died well before she went to live with her parents. I believe I’m not breaking the law, Sergeant!”

  “Thanks for being so candid, Mr Anton. I think that’s everything. Again we’re sorry for disturbing you at work.”

  By four they were back at the station. Stuart would up-load the interview and Owen went to check his desk. There was a note from Cyril.

  There’s no reference to the buccal swab taken from Peter Anton. Why not?

  Owen sat and put his head in his hands. “Bugger!”

  Chapter Twenty

  If Owen heard someone utter ‘DNA’ again, he would scream. He hoped it would not be mentioned at this juncture whilst he was explaining his perceptions of Peter Anton’s interview to Cyril.

  “He’s had it tough and he appears to be trying to build a better life. His stepfather sounded a right bastard.”

  “Owen, nobody deserves an attack resulting in permanent brain damage, no matter how evil they are, although I must say that I had to put my stick away before I saw you today. I’ve only one word to say and that’s swab.”

  Cyril looked Owen directly in the eye as he said it.

  “I forgot! In all the dashing about, I made an error. And for the record it was a hammer.”

  “I know it was a bloody hammer! You forgot! What do you mean you forgot?” Cyril looked directly at Owen. “You simply had to ask for his co-operation. The way things are, he would have been more than willing. His DNA would confirm if there’s a connection between him and Stella. Her first husband was a Petev…”

  Cyril noted the sceptical look on Owen’s face as if fully aware that he was clutching at straws, and thin ones at that, but he continued to make his point.

  “And I know the age difference is enormous and that there are hundreds of bloody Petevs but for one buccal swab it was worth seeing if Christina is his.”

  “About eleven years, Sir.” Owen confirmed stifling a yawn.

  “What is?

  “Their age difference. That’s not massive. It’s plausible. I’ll call and see him. I’ll need a nurse with me to do the test. I’m sorry.” ‘From hero to zero in one day’, he thought to himself. He turned towards the door about to leave; he felt like kicking something and Cyril was closest. He suddenly fired another volley.

  “And whilst we’re on the subject, your speculative DNA test on the cig butt hasn’t brought a name. Found in two historical rape cases. One in Ripon three years ago and one in Leeds last year. No arrest. Take a look at the bottom of that sheet.”

  Owen looked up, his face showing his disbelief. “Christina? Our Christina? Stella’s child?”

  “It doesn’t lie, Owen. Add your description of the man to both cases and see if anything gets churned out.”

  “It’s done, Sir. The guy would stand out in a crowd what with his height, his squashed nose and sporting only one and a half ears. Mind you, there’s no guarantee he had any of these distinguishing features apart from his height when he committed the crimes.”

  He turned and walked towards the door, shaking his head.

  “Is that it, Sir? I’ve a mountain of paperwork.”

  Cyril looked at Owen. “We need luck like this. Well done!” The telephone rang.

  “Bennett.” The tone of his voice made the caller pause momentarily. “Bennett” He repeated.

  Cyril listened, his face contorted into a frown. “One second.” He covered the mouthpiece and called for Owen who appeared again but this time looking even more frustrated. Cyril put the phone on speaker.

  “It’s unlikely he’ll pull through, major head trauma and in intensive care. Found at about 15:30 yesterday within a stone’s throw of a bar in Newcastle. Nothing seems to have been taken. Tracked him to your investigation once it was entered onto the system. Thought you’d like the heads up immediately. We have someone at the hospital 24/7 if he should wake.”

  Cyril could see Owen frowning and mouthing the words, ‘Who?’

  “It’s the driver, James Nolan.”

  Cyril thanked the caller after jotting down the name and rather abruptly, ended the telephone conversation.

  “We need to get CCTV footage from the bus station both here and in Newcastle as well as streets in the locality. Also ANPR records for routes from the station out in the direction of Newcastle and routes into the Newcastle bus station area. The National Express goes through Newcastle on its way to Edinburgh. Is that coincidence or accident? And Owen, get someone to check the records for the coach. The video should give us some clues. We’ll see when our man got on and off. There should be names and addresses of other passengers who booked on line.”

  Cyril�
�s hand reached out and picked up his electronic cigarette before turning it in his fingers. Owen looked at his face and could clearly see the thought processes at work.

  ***

  The taxi pulled up outside the gate of what was a row of Victorian stone houses that had been converted into apartments. Cyril jumped out, walked up the short path before checking the numbers on the illuminated intercom. He noted that he wanted Apartment 2. He pressed the intercom before turning to look at the view from the doorway. Beyond the taxi stood The Stray, The slight hum of traffic could be heard but the sound of a blackbird hidden high in some far-off foliage was the dominant noise until someone knocked loudly on a window. He turned to look. Dr Julie Pritchett stood by the bay window, holding a hairbrush in one hand and proffering two fingers with the other. Fortunately for Cyril, their position suggested that she would be only two minutes and he smiled. He turned back to search out the blackbird. He failed to locate it even though it sounded so close.

  Julie appeared dressed in a blue trouser suit and looking radiant.

  “Your carriage awaits M’lady,” he said in an exaggerated Yorkshire accent. “You’re looking truly elegant Ms Pritchett.” Cyril paused and looked back at the apartment. “Rather lovely looking pad too if I may be so bold.”

  “Sorry I’m a little late but…you know what I’m going to say. Thank you, yes. Not bad for a quick turn around and yes the apartment is lovely. I was unsure at first but its proximity to town is just perfect, but if we’re talking of uncertainty, I take it you’re not too happy about this restaurant, Cyril?”

  Cyril held the door and she climbed into the taxi. He quickly checked the road and nipped round the other side.

  “Italian, Chinese, Romanian! Would you be confident? I believe the owner’s only really had take away establishments before but I could be wrong on that score, as I know little about the guy. We’ll see and as my mother always said, bless her, ‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating!’ Besides, he’s a brave man committing the money to the project and believe me it can’t have been cheap!”