“Owen?”
Owen stood and added a memory stick to a laptop and the screen image was projected onto an interactive board. He walked round to it.
“We even have our own Harrogate home grown baddies, don’t forget. I did some investigating yesterday after it was suggested our man was more than likely killed by dogs. I know we hear of these attacks from time to time and usually the rare, fatal attacks hit all the papers but I assume that there is a good deal of hyperbole in common descriptions of dog attacks that really affects the reading or listening public.”
Cyril looked round at Owen and raised an eyebrow. ‘Owen’s grasp of English was beginning to match his developing understanding of French,’ he thought and he jotted down the word ‘Hyperbole’, intending to mention it later.
“More adults die from being hit by a forklift truck or a runaway cow than they do from dog bites. So, the chances of being killed and eaten or partially eaten, by dogs today is exceptionally rare. Now for dogs to attack there need to be certain factors.” Owen listed them all but emphasised four. “Dogs that are not neutered or spayed, the victim is compromised by ability, age or physical condition, mismanagement of dogs and finally, abuse or neglect of the animals, the report concluded that. Evidence supports that a number of these factors needs to be present for an attack to occur. So as far as I see it there is evidence to suggest that the attack was deliberate and the dogs were either prepared or trained for this purpose, as we haven’t seen or heard of any other attacks, other than that on the child in a domestic situation. In that case we can assume that there were fewer factors. Those dogs have been destroyed so are of limited relevance to this process.”
Owen took the memory stick from the laptop.
“Food for thought, Owen, food for thought. Good work. Copy of that and a reference on the board, please. The Pathologist is trying to determine the breed of dog by investigating the bite marks made on the body, but she has assured me that the strong bleach used on the remains might make that search of limited value. We have Joan Sadler in tomorrow morning at eight and I remind you that she wishes to be addressed as Mrs Baines. So, I should like you both and the team in here for a 07:30 briefing. Owen, send two of your lads to talk to your gambling names from the pub. I want reports on this desk for 07:00 tomorrow, if possible. Thanks and well done.”
When he left the building, Cyril drew on his e-cigarette and the menthol vapour immediately made the muscles in the back of his neck relax. He stopped outside the gate and had a word with the security officer who politely asked if he were vaping in an attempt at giving up the real stuff.
“No intention whatsoever. Maybe when I retire.”
He smiled and began his walk home. A dog barked in a garden to his left and his thoughts immediately went to Drew Sadler’s final minutes. He felt a cold shiver slowly run down his back. He lifted his collar instinctively as if to form a barrier. He could think of nothing worse that being attacked by an animal, let alone becoming its next meal.
The traffic was now lighter than that morning and as he approached the junction where he had upset the motorist earlier in the day, he stopped to admire the Zingaro Restaurant. Workers were still busy. A small truck was parked in the car park and large sheets of plasterboard were being carefully manhandled through the doors. Another man whisked plaster in a large bath-like container with a drill and an oversized whisk. All carried the temporary evidence of their day’s labour, coatings of dust. Light from inside the building had just started to leak onto the white, dusted cobbles that edged the car park.
Cyril lifted his coat sleeve and looked at his watch, it was 19:15. He shook his wrist and looked at the time again, he’d never got out of this habit. ‘Late night,’ he thought. ‘Must be on a deadline’. He walked into the car park and stepped towards the door through which the workers were moving. He went inside, taking care to ensure that dust didn’t get on his coat. The room was fully illuminated by temporary lighting, giving the space an austere ambience. The men seemed to ignore Cyril and continued speaking in a language, which certainly seemed to be Eastern European, which one Cyril was unsure. Other tradesmen were busy with plumbing, tiling and electrics. He began to walk across the room; nobody questioned him.
The interior was larger than he remembered it to be when it had been The Beehive, but then a number of walls had been removed giving a more modern, open space. Three men emerged from the area to the back. They stopped and looked at Cyril rather surprised that a stranger was so far inside the building. Angel and two other men were initially startled by the intrusion.
“Good evening, Cyril announced. “I was passing and as well as being nosey, I wondered when you hope to open?”
“No intrusion. Sorry for the mess, please mind your clothes. Thank you for your interest,” smiled Angel concealing his anger that a total stranger had been allowed to just saunter in. “It will be my father’s restaurant and we hope to open within the next fourteen days.”
Angel moved towards Cyril ushering him back through the door he had entered.
“You’re Italian?” asked Cyril in all innocence.
“No, my father is Chinese Romanian and I was born in Romania. We are Roma and that gives you a clue as to the restaurant’s name. It will be beautiful and the food will be divine. My father will train all the chefs. You wait and see. Now you must excuse us we have much to do.”
“Your workers are Romanian?” asked Cyril. “They are certainly making a lovely job of the place. I remember it as it was, a simple pub, The Beehive.”
Angel just smiled. “I’m sorry but we have much to do. Mind your clothes on the way out.”
Cyril left contemplating the idea of an Italian menu designed by a Chinese Romanian chef. He shook his head. In for a penny, he thought.
Angel went back into the restaurant and smiled at his colleagues before looking directly at one and slapping his head.
“Nobody comes in, fucking nobody! You’re supposed to be responsible for security.” He slapped him again. “Jesus! Do I have to be here all the time? Do your job!”
***
The morning brought with it a stunning sunrise that grew in intensity as Cyril stepped out across The Stray. The dew jewelled the grass and he stopped to soak in the beauty. In front of his eyes the magic melted. The horizontal beams disappeared as the sun climbed behind distant trees and the glorious, vermillion sky became diluted. Cyril headed to work buoyed by the short, sublime interlude.
He was again surprised to see that the work continued at the restaurant. He wondered whether they had worked all night. ‘They were certainly on a deadline’, he thought, ‘and those guys must be making a fortune in overtime. No time to spend it but certainly earning it!’
The briefing was exactly that, brief. Owen handed Cyril three reports on the other men who had started showing an over-zealous enthusiasm for gambling that had become unhealthy. He just noted their names, he would read the reports after meeting Joan Baines. He decided that Liz and he should interview Joan and that Owen should contact Forensics to see what other evidence might be gleaned from the body after Owen’s research on dog behaviour. Their main focus was now on identifying the breed of dog or dogs involved in the incident.
Joan Baines was not at all what Cyril was expecting and it had to be said this misplaced idea of her threw him a little. Not only was she extremely attractive and petite but also she was open and gratified that they wished to hear from her. Cyril studied her and then thought of her mother, they were poles apart.
“This is the best picture I have of Drew, Inspector. It was taken just before things became difficult. I know my parents blame Drew for everything but then they would, wouldn’t they? He was an attentive husband at first but when I became pregnant with my first, my hormones went berserk, my personality changed and I was cruel and unkind. That’s when he had his affair. Anyway, we had another child so things did improve. The medication helped, I was prescribed anti-depressants, which proved effective but, like all things
, there were swings and roundabouts. They had their side effects, not least on lowering my libido. So with pregnancy and then that, sadly he looked elsewhere.”
Liz was amazed at Joan’s resilience. She’d gone through all that, she’d faced the possibility of being homeless as money had been flushed down the gambling drain. The guy she had once loved and had spoken of with some affection had been tragically killed. She had her finger on the pulse, she realised why things had gone wrong and she apportioned blame fairly.
Joan explained that the gambling, the drink and the possible drug taking had begun to affect his moods; his desperation had increased when threats had been made towards the family. It appeared that all he had wanted was to face the consequences alone and it was Drew who had insisted that she go to her mother’s.
Cyril mentioned the three gamblers’ names and Joan knew of two. She had heard Drew mention them.
“Peter Anton was the one who always called for Drew or brought him home when he was either sober or drunk. He seemed very nice, looked after Drew. Once he brought me flowers when Drew had told him it was my birthday. If I’d not been married, Sergeant, I might have been tempted!” She smiled and raised her eyebrows as she looked at Liz.
Cyril mentioned the need for funeral arrangements and he was correct in his initial assumption, she did want to organise a funeral and expressed the hope that Liz and he could find time to attend.
“There will be few there as it is so we need to ensure we have some voices at his service. We know there will not be many tears.”
Liz leaned across the table instinctively and touched Joan’s arm. Cyril could see the respect Liz had for Joan even after such a short meeting.
“Sure,” said Liz before turning to Cyril.
“Be honoured, Mrs Baines.”
“As you may be aware, owing to the investigation, the Coroner has adjourned the inquest until criminal investigations have run their course so as yet we don’t have a date for releasing your husband’s body. This is, I’m sure you’re aware, standard procedure. If our investigations fail to discover the facts surrounding your husband’s death, then a second post mortem will be carried out and your husband’s body will then be released. The Coroner’s Office will be in touch with you giving you all the necessary information. I’m aware this is a very unsettling time for you and your family. One more thing, if I may. Why the name change?”
“Need you ask, Inspector, after all, you’ve met my mother! It simply makes life a little more bearable.”
“One more question if I may, sorry. Did your husband have a tattoo?”
Cyril folded his papers as if anticipating the answer.
“The last time I looked, Inspector, he had my name tattooed on his bum, here,” she pointed to her right cheek. “But as I say, he could have had ‘War and Peace’ tattooed since the last time I saw him naked.”
Cyril sent the photograph of Drew Sadler for distribution in the hope that it might jog someone’s memory. He poured a tea, made his way back to the Incident Room and settled down to read the reports on the three men that Owen had given him that morning. He wanted to pay particular attention to Peter Anton, although there was little in the report as time strictures had not allowed a full search. His gut spoke to him, and that piece of his anatomy seldom proved inaccurate. They might have within the flock a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He sipped his tea and looked at the whiteboard. The last words written by Liz at the previous meeting had been erased and in their place she’d scribbled, ‘A MAN!’ Cyril frowned and then smiled. He looked down before underlining the surname of Peter Anton that was written on the sheet containing the three names.
Chapter Thirteen
As he lay on the bed, Rares’ telephone vibrated in his pocket but it did not ring. Afternoon television bored him but there was nothing else to occupy him. He was neither welcome at the farm nor could he see Stella or Christina. He looked at the number displayed on the cracked screen and answered it immediately. His heart raced a little. As he listened he drew a head and face in the condensation that blurred the caravan’s window He then added two horns reflecting his thoughts on the caller. He had said barely three words when the phone went dead. He erased the image of Satan and left.
The small green van was waiting as instructed and Rares climbed into the passenger seat.
“Fuck, I’ve been so bored. How are my dogs?”
“They haven’t missed you but we’ve missed your not being with them. We need them, three of them, in two days’ time. The appointment is in the city and Angel wants them ready and more importantly he wants them winners.”
The driver turned to look at Rares and his expression said it all. There was little emotion in his eyes, they were just deep, cold pools of expectancy and Rares knew this meeting had to go well.
The dogs were caged in a small barn to the south of the main farmhouse. When Rares entered they neither showed excitement at his presence nor did they acknowledge their minder’s return. They simply collided with the mesh hard, the way they did when anyone entered the dark barn, each of the dogs displaying a line of hair along their backs standing upright, a warning of their intentions. Rares smiled knowing his dogs had reacted well. The aggression was still there. He put the back of his hand against the mesh and his scent triggered an immediate excitement. The scarred heads of all the dogs showed their fighting pedigree; two had lost ears and one sported deeper scars, two ugly chunks of healed flesh on its rump. It was as if they sensed that they would soon be working. Rares moved to the far wall and collected the carcass of a rabbit that was hanging by its trussed hind legs from a rusting nail. He banged it against the mesh causing some displaced fur to fly through it and the dogs eagerly snapped at the gossamer offerings before all five dogs stood passively when instructed. They knew what was to happen next. Saliva dripped from their chops, as on cue, Rares moved his hand to unclip the hook and eye attached to the small gate. He began to slide the gate, set high in the cage, slowly to one side before tossing in the carcase. Its flight never had a chance to touch the ground, within seconds there were only pieces. More loose fur was launched into the warm, turbulent mass of air above the dogs. There was no barking, only the aggressive snarl as one dog dominated the others. Although King was not the biggest dog, it was certainly the most aggressive and feared by the group. That night, Rares would inject the animals with steroids, a routine he regularly undertook to ensure optimum muscle bulk and aggression.
From today the dogs would be on a limited diet and they would be separated to ensure that each received just the correct amount of food. They had to be hungry and they had to be able to fight. He looked across at the mechanised treadmill he had set up in the corner. The dogs were at their peak.
Suddenly Rares felt as though he were being watched. He looked around but there was nobody in sight. He had not heard the door but he sensed that there was another person present.
A voice from above in the hayloft made him jump. “The dogs look good, my friend even though you’ve neglected them.”
Rares looked up “Jesus Christ, you scared me.”
“Your guardian Angel, my friend, not Jesus Christ. He would not live here amongst our kind.”
He was surprised to see Angel laughing at his own joke, his feet dangling over the edge; beside him was a young woman.
“I knew you’d be missing Stella so I’ve brought you a gift. She’s yours for the afternoon as a token to show you that you’re still loved. She’s OK, I’ve tried, she’s new, speaks no English. Picked from the streets and the silly bitch believed, until last week, that she’s here to work only in the new restaurant. If she’s good and works hard then she will but if not, she’ll earn money in other ways. So just in case, my friend, we have to get her used to different men and their different needs. She’s a favourite of Cezar’s.” He turned to her grabbing her cheek. “Can’t keep your hands off him can you girl?”
Angel jumped down from the hayloft and the dogs hit the mesh, eager to get at the men o
utside. Angel smiled at the dogs’ reaction.
“Did I ever tell you about my first dog?” Angel dusted the straw from his clothes and fastened the fly buttons on his jeans.
Rares shook his head wondering anxiously what was to come.
“It was a gift and his name was Lupei. Like me, he was young, but that’s where the similarity ended; he was so brave and I was so scared. He was given to me to protect me, a friend when I thought I had no one. I believed then that he’d only protect me but, I was so wrong. I learned then, at a young age, that not everything is as it seems and that lesson has helped me in my life. You see, Rares, Lupei did just what his master said and if he told the dog to protect Wadim then that’s what he would do, nothing would pass him, not even the master. If he were to approach, he would be attacked. But if Lupei were told to watch me then I could not move. My dog would attack me and bite if I moved just as much as this.” Angel moved his little finger close to Rares’ eyes and made it twitch a fraction. “The same with these dogs. You’ve trained them well. We have a big night coming up and we need to make money. These beautiful dogs will do that for us. Enjoy the girl but don’t damage her.”
Angel grabbed Rares’ cheek and squeezed. It was then that Rares realised that there was no real affection in the words nor in his gesture, only threat.
“Oh and when you’ve finished with her upstairs, take her to the bunk house and then come to the farm, I need a little chat with you about Stella.”
Rares knew that the smile did not bode well and any inclination for sex drained quickly from him. Suddenly he felt a deep unease.
***
Liz noticed Cyril sitting at his desk, his head back and his hands behind his head. His feet were stretched out to the side and were crossed at the ankle. She noticed the shine to his shoes, even between the sole and the heel seemed polished. Her eyes were then drawn to the immaculate creases to his trousers and she smiled.
Hell's Gate: A gripping, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller Page 6