Cyril banged his fist on the desk, his frustration beginning to show. “Shit! He’s at Crimple Valley Viaduct. He was checking it out earlier, not hiding there. Get in touch with the Transport Police, check the timetable and find out train times. Call for a car to search the industrial estate at Hornbeam Park. I want an armed response unit there too, tell everyone that the suspect is armed and should be approached with extreme caution. I want no dead heroes and I want safe access to the railway line.”
“Sir, next train’s due in twenty-five minutes. Harrogate bound followed by Leeds bound in thirty.”
“I want both trains halted at the stations before the viaduct. I say again, halted. Get confirmation immediately. I want nothing to cross that viaduct. Owen, get Sanda and the WPC ‘whatever her name is’, they’re with us. We’re going in through the garden of the house built on the old track, that’s the closest to the viaduct. It’s times like this that we need our own helicopter.”
Cyril and Owen collected their integrated radios, adding the earpiece and microphone. They needed to stay in contact with the incident room and the officers tracking Cezar. They then collected two weapons, which despite the urgency still couldn’t be rushed and had to be signed for; there never seemed to be any rush where firearms were concerned.
***
Cezar sat in the reclined driver’s seat, a whisky bottle between his thighs, the barrel of the gun resting on the frame of the open driver’s window. The car park was well lit. He saw the police car as it crawled down the main central road of the industrial estate. He could see it stop as the occupants scanned the car parks. Progressing slowly, it reached the car park where the Subaru sat in the far corner. It turned in. The lights shone on the car.
“That’s the one that we want, Subaru estate, right colour, right registration. One man, I think, in the driver’s seat.” The officer looked at his partner and smiled. “Bingo!”
They saw the muzzle flash first and then the shot peppered the windscreen producing myriad cracks and chips. Fortunately it remained intact.
“Fucking hell! Back up! Back up!” the passenger yelled, his elation swiftly converting to sheer panic.
The driver slipped into reverse and swung the car at great speed. The Subaru moved forward like a stalking creature, no lights, just moving towards the stationary car.
“For Christ sake go!” The officer facing the oncoming car screamed at the driver to put his foot down as the imploding side windows followed the second flash; both officers received face and neck wounds but the police car moved quickly down the road, its blue lights now flashing and fortunately still working. As they headed to the exit a large police van turned in towards them as the Subaru began to move slowly up to them, unrushed and seemingly un-phased, its prey in its sights.
The passenger in the patrol car called in. “Silver Subaru on the car park of Hornbeam Park. Firearm discharged, I say again, firearm discharged. Firearm unit on site.”
Cyril heard the call as his car, as planned, approached the solitary house built on the disused line. His driver stopped in the driveway, as did the two other vehicles. As Cyril left the car the house security lights came on and the front door opened.
“It’s the Police, there’s nothing to worry about!” Cyril called confidently as he marched up to the elderly occupant. “DCI Bennett, we need to get to the viaduct.”
The man walked down the steps and directed them to a gate in the far boundary fence.
“Were you here earlier? My wife was mumbling about seeing somebody but, she sees many people, it’s the Alzheimer’s, sadly.”
Cyril just nodded, he had neither time nor patience for explanations but he had an idea who it might have been.
They moved through the garden.
“Approaching the viaduct now. Is the gunman still with you?”
“Affirmative, car’s come to a halt. Firearms’ officers deployed.”
“Make calls to all the offices on site and the hotel to keep people inside and away from windows.”
“Done it, Sir.”
Cyril and Owen donned head torches; having both hands free was an advantage as they moved across the uneven ground.
“Why is it I always think of Daleks when I see people wearing these?” Cyril commented, attempting to control the butterflies that had suddenly erupted in his stomach. In such situations he always felt like this, a cocktail of nerves, excitement and adrenaline. It somehow made the hours of paperwork bearable.
“Misspent youth, sir! I’ll always think of that poor bastard in the tunnel. Are you OK, sir?”
Cyril simply smiled. “Never felt better, Owen. Never better.”
They checked their weapons.
They cautiously left the dark of the disused cutting behind then tentatively crossed the railway tracks that shone silver, straight in the torchlight. As they ran over the viaduct, Cyril found walking along the sleepers to be the easiest route. Owen took one track and Cyril the other. They walked slowly. The other officers stopped at strategic places on either side of the track just in case there was some kind of trap or ambush. As Owen approached the centre of the viaduct he paused. He moved his head in order to focus the beam of light onto what had brought him to a halt. He was the first to see the rope in the torchlight but was unsure as to its significance.
“Just a sec, Sir. There’s something across this track. Is there across yours? It’s about fifteen metres ahead. Sir, looks like rope running round the track and under here and there, look! It goes over the parapet.” He moved his head allowing the beam of light to follow the blue rope.
They both approached the parapet with a degree of caution and Owen leaned over first. When it was safe, Cyril followed bracing his body against the rough stone. The wind blew their hair and Cyril’s eyes watered. The rope seemed to disappear under the arch and then the torchlight picked out the large bag as it swung into view. They watched as the pendulum swung the bag in and out of sight. It appeared and disappeared under the arch. The cattle grazing in the field way below seemed strange illuminated by the dispersed beams.
“He’s in the bag! The boy’s in the bag! The next train on this line would have severed the rope and the boy would be a mangled mess on the valley floor, all over red rover!” Owen summed up the plot perfectly if not a little too graphically.
Cyril grabbed the rope and Owen helped. “Steady, we don’t want him to bang into the edge of the stone arch. Try to control the swing slowly by drawing the bag nearer to the stonework. Easy, he’s coming.”
Once the bag was resting against the masonry, the task was easier. The wind tried to move the bag sideways but the rough stone façade formed a brake. Owen reached over as far down as possible, grabbing the two webbing handles before hauling the sack over the parapet and placing it carefully onto the sleepers. Owen looked at Cyril. There was no movement from the bag. Neither movement nor sound. Both men inhaled.
***
There was no movement from the Subaru, or none that the police could discern apart from a wisp of grey exhaust smoke that drifted tail-like. Cezar picked up the bottle, put it to his lips and finished the contents before tossing it out of the window. It smashed on the road some distance away distracting the observers. Cezar swiftly selected reverse and sped back up the lane throwing the car into a left turn. He flicked open the door, crouched and ran to the path before turning towards the footbridge. It was dark on the pathway, all the light was now behind him. The police dog handler saw his silhouette against the backdrop. He saw the weapon held low and instantly released the dog before the man had time to react. Cezar didn’t even focus on the running dog until the yellowy glow of the car park lights reflected its eyes, by which time he could neither turn the gun nor turn to run. The dog hit him hard, knocking the gun clear as its ferocious bite struck Cezar, its jaws breaking his right arm just below the elbow. He cried instinctively with the pain. With his left hand he tried to retrieve the knife that was tucked inside his coat but his attempt proved fruitless. Two armed o
fficers aimed their weapons.
“Police! Stay down! Stay down! Still, stay still!”
The dog continued to nip and pull at Cezar’s only defensive arm. Blood from the hand wounds glowed shiny wet in the powerful torch beams that were attached to the police firearms. The handler recalled his dog. Reluctantly, but obediently Luger backed off, rarely taking its eyes from the downed suspect until securely held by his handler. The dog barked twice and was then silent as it was taken further away from the prostrate figure. The handler was ready to release the dog again should it be needed. Cezar turned and looked at both men and then at the dog but said nothing, he simply groaned as he lifted his broken right arm after one of the officers instructed him to move his arms away from his body.
***
Cyril untied the ropes and opened the bag cautiously. Wrapped in the nylon shroud was the boy. He tentatively leaned in, searching for the boy’s neck to check for a pulse. He smiled and nodded to Owen.
“He’s alive.” As he spoke the boy vomited, the hot, sticky fluid flooded all over Cyril’s arm and hand.
“Shit!”
“Actually no, sir.” Owen could only smile. “It’s the drugs and motion sickness from the pendulum swing that have combined into that heady cocktail we fondly know as vomit,” Owen couldn’t resist saying, as he knew just how much this would affect Cyril. Bodily fluids and Cyril did not mix well. Cyril’s complexion now seemed even more pallid in the torch light and his facial expression mirrored his disgust.
“Man apprehended, confirm that he’s our suspect. No police injuries,” they both heard over the radio.
“Boy’s safe but a little unwell. Ambulance needed at meeting point. Any injuries to the suspect?” Cyril enquired.
“Police dog apprehended our man. He has severe dog bites and a broken right arm. Dog obviously took a fancy to him!” came the reply.
“Oh! How appropriate,” said Cyril, “how bloody appropriate!” Both men laughed. “Divine retribution, Owen! Maybe Satan doesn’t look after his own after all.”
Owen looked skyward, the torch beam shining like a beacon.
“Dreadful smell, vomit, wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
“Just pick up the boy, Owen.”
“I’ll carry him in the bag, sir. Safer that way.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
Hai Yau, his wife and Angel cut sad figures as each sat in their own interview room, the only distraught one amongst them being Mrs Yau, who, quite frankly, seemed totally confused by the whole situation. Peter Anton was back in Interview Room Four, his foot bouncing under the table and his fingers looking as though he were playing a tune on the table.
“Modern day slavery, employing people in the black economy, trafficking in illegal immigrants, prostitution, drug running, protection and, well… the list is endless. I daren’t think how long they’ll get for this lot. Fancy a bet, Owen, if you’ve any clean fivers?”
“Oh aye! Why not? There’s one good thing, we’ll not be seeing Cezar for a long while. And Anton?”
“Irregular accounting, drug dealing and he’s admitted to being, in his words, forced to be present at Rares Negrescu’s murder. I don’t think Joan will find him such a suitable catch now. She’ll be damned annoyed that her mother was right after all!”
“What of Sanda?”
“Clean, nothing on her at all. Her only crime was thinking that the streets of Leeds and Harrogate were paved with free hand outs and welfare. Just hope she finds what she’s looking for.”
“Don’t you need a housekeeper, sir?”
Cyril glared at Owen before his mobile rang. To his relief it was Dr Julie Pritchett.
“Saved by the bell, Owen, saved by the bell.” There was a short conversation and Cyril smirked. “I think I’m busy this evening after we’ve got through some of this, Owen.” He pointed to the interview rooms. “You’ll just have to buy me that pint tomorrow. I seem to have a more attractive engagement.” He winked and smiled at Owen.
Stuart walked past and put out a hand towards Owen who grunted and dipped into his back pocket before producing a ten-pound note. Stuart grinned. “I love DNA, don’t you, sir?” He did not wait for the riposte.
Cyril looked at Owen, inhaled his menthol vapour but said nothing for a moment.
“There are winners and losers, Owen. Such is life. Gambling is a slippery slope to ruin. You of all people should know that and if not ask him in there!”
They both looked into the Interview Room at the lonely, broken figure of Peter Anton and Cyril smiled briefly. Now the real work would begin.
“Owen?”
“Sir?”
“Thanks for everything!”
He patted Owen on the shoulder, tucked his electronic cigarette into his top pocket and entered Interview Room Four.
THE END
Have you read Only The Dead? The first part in Malcolm Hollingdrake’s The DCI Cyril Bennett Harrogate Crime Series?
Amazon UK
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COMING SOON
Flesh Evidence the third instalment in this brilliant series.
Acknowledgements
To Debbie
What a star you are. Thank You. X
To Carrie
Thank you so much for your continued patience and support.
To Betsy and Fred of Bloodhound Books.
I’m grateful for your having faith in the Harrogate crime series and in me. Your team has been absolutely brilliant, a huge thanks to all concerned.
To Caroline Vincent.
A special thank you.
To Charlie and Sheila
Your support is appreciated.
Letter from Malcolm
I should firstly like to thank you for reading ‘Hell’s Gate’. I really hope you enjoyed the second outing of DCI Cyril Bennett and DS David Owen. They have become part of my family and although they may not seem to you to be the best police officers in the world, they are certainly keen to solve the crime, so much so, they are working on another case as you read this!
If you did enjoy it, I should be grateful if you would write a review. It is a great help to read just what you think. It might also lead other readers to discover my books for the first time. It would also be wonderful if you could recommend my books to family and friends.
This next case for Bennett and Owen awaits.
Malcolm
If you would like further details then you can always find me on:
Facebook.com/Malcolm Hollingdrake@AuthorMalcolmHollingdrake/
Twitter Malcolm Hollingdrake@MHollingdrake
Hell's Gate: A gripping, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller Page 21
