Darkness and Confusion

by John Creasey

  There was one feature about the newspapers and magazines which might have struck an even deeper chill into the heart of Frank Morrison. For they were all about police investigations into the abduction and murder of children about Sheila’s age.

  The man on the bed, whose name was Luke Oliver, saw visions. Pretty faces. Pretty fair-haired faces, faces of girls with lovely blue eyes. He didn’t want to see them: he just did. They were all smiling at him, beckoning him.

  He was sweating all over.

  Even when he heard the clatter and din of fire-engines, he took no notice. Nothing concerned him but faces. Pretty girls’ faces. Blue-eyed faces. Baby faces. Pretty blue-eyed baby faces …

  Chapter Two

  The Fire

  Old Walter Garratt loved the smell of wood.

  He had been a carpenter all his life, and his seventy year old hands bore plenty of scars, to show how often chisels, screw drivers and saws had slipped. Ten years ago, one had slipped too far, and he had lost the fingers of his right hand. A widower, even then, he had come out of hospital unable to do the work he loved, but the resinous smell of newly sawn wood still attracted him irresistibly. He went back to the furniture manufacturers in Bethnal Green, on the north side of the Thames and in one of the most concentrated industrial-cum-residential areas of London, and asked for a job as night watchman.

  “All right, Walter,” old Jeff Mickle had said. “If that’s what you want, that you shall have, lad.”

  He was now in his tenth year as a night watchman at Mickle and Stratton, manufacturers of Ezeplan Furniture, a family business with two Mickles and one Stratton on the Board. Old Jeff Mickle was still the boss, but he left much of the day to day running of the firm to the younger generation.

  It was an old building, three stories of soot-darkened brick. All the heavy machinery was on the ground floor. Lifts and hoists moved the prepared wood up to the first floor for shaping and preparing, and to the second for assembly, upholstery and polishing. There were no plastics at this plant, although another Mickle and Stratton plant only a mile away made nothing but plastic furniture. Walter kept to a regular schedule. He visited the clocks on each floor, turning a key on each one to show that he had been there.

  The ground floor, with much more sawdust and shavings than the others, attracted him most, but there was something in the polishing shop that he liked too. He always took especial care on the top floor, for polish and varnish could soon catch alight, and some of the youngsters these days were careless with cigarette ends. He would stand around and sniff, almost as if he wanted a fire to break out. He looked a little like a wire-haired terrier, with his pale, wizened face and mop of yellowish-grey hair. He was lean, too, and spritely.

  On the night that Gideon had taken Kate to the cinema, Walter Garratt finished a cheese sandwich, washed it down with hot coffee and, at the stroke of nine-thirty, began his next round. It should take him exactly fifteen minutes. He went, as usual, straight up the polishing shop, punched the clock, stood and sniffed, and found nothing at all the matter. He went down one flight of wooden steps to the middle floor, walking between bays filled with bed panels, chair frames, tables, cupboards, wardrobes, chests of drawers – a great variety of furniture of the kind which would be seen in any modest home. On one side were items which had been rejected on inspection.

  “These young devils, don’t know what it is to be careful,” he grumbled.

  He started down the next flight of steps, with nothing more in his mind than this brief criticism, reached the foot and stared across the wide space to the spot where the big saws were. These electrically driven circular saws could cut through twelve inches of solid oak in the time it would take a man to cut through a piece of paper with a pair of scissors.

  Standing by the biggest machine, on the far side, was a youth.

  He appeared to be quite as startled as Walter.

  After the first shock, Walter said in his grating voice: “Now what are you up to, my lad?”

  “No—nothing!” the youth stammered. “Nothing!”

  “Just come to pass the time of nighty have yer?” Walter moved across the room, trying to remember where he had seen this lad before. He was short and very thin, with a pale, round face, and his eyes as dark as polished wood. “How did you get in?”

  The youth didn’t answer.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Walter. “I remember you, now. You’re in the upholstery department, you work with Ted Smith.” He drew within a few yards of the other. “What’s your name, son? It slips me memory for the moment Come on, don’t stand there looking like an idiot. What’s your name and what are you doing here?”

  He took a step forward.

  The boy suddenly turned and ran towards the emergency exit, which was nearest to him, and as he ran he flung something over his shoulder. It struck the circular saw bench and burst into flames – and on the instant flames shot through the air in all directions, even close to the boy’s head and face. They touched the shavings, which flared up, knee high in a split-second; and as the youth opened the door and caused a draught, more shavings caught alight, and all Walter Garratt could see was fire.

  “Fire!” he gasped. “My God! Fire!” He staggered towards the small corner office, where he spent most of his time, but as he drew near, a sheet of flame caught some kindling wood stacked in a corner for sacking, next day. It was resinous, and dry, and it seemed to set the whole floor afire.

  “Telephone,” gasped Walter. “Must—reach—telephone.”

  He could have turned and escaped, by the main entrance, but all he could think of was the telephone in his office. Flames cut him off from it. “I must telephone,” he gasped, but there wasn’t a chance, and he turned round.

  A billow of smoke caught at his throat and he began to cough. The coughing and the smoke made his eyes sting and he could not see which way he was going.

  He couldn’t stop coughing.

  He couldn’t stop choking.

  He stood helplessly, swaying, with the flames licking at his trousers; at his jacket; at his hair.

  Police Constable Jack Race, a man in his late twenties, of the N.E. division, saw a youth cycling out of the private road of the Mickle and Stratton factory, without his lights on. Race could not be positive, but he thought the youth had come from the gate of the yard, where timber was stored in big, open sheds. He wondered what anyone could want at this hour. Had there been boy and a girl he would have thought nothing of it. But one youth, in a hurry, was suspicious.

  He used his walkie-talkie.

  “Seen a youth on a bicycle coming from Mickle and Strattons, in Dove Lane,” he reported. “I’m going to take a look.” He tucked his little transmitter into his top pocket, and reached the gate. It was unlocked, and it shouldn’t be. He pushed it open, stepped through, and on the very instant saw the flames through a window. “My God!” he gasped, and rushed towards the door immediately opposite the gates.

  He reached it, only to pause.

  One shouldn’t open a door on a fire, it could cause a blast which might make the blaze far worse. Already his walkie-talkie was in his hand. Why couldn’t he switch the bloody thing on? His finger quivered, and at last steadied. “Race here again,” he announced clearly. “Fire at Mickle and Stratton – looks as if it has a big hold.”

  “Anyone inside?” the Station Controller asked.

  “I—I’ll look,” said Race.

  He peered through the window. Flames seemed to cover the whole of the far end of the ground floor. He could see huge piles of planed wood burning, saw the staircase ablaze, saw a hole in the ceiling; and all the time thought: there’s a watchman, I know there’s a watchman.

  Then he saw the man on the floor, flames licking all about him.

  “My God!” gasped Race. “My God!”

  The door was within his reach, he cou
ld get inside and try to reach the old man. Everything in his mind told him he should try, but something held him back As if mesmerised, he saw the grey head, covered with flames, then saw the man actually move, crawl, away from the stairs, only to stop as more flames reached him. It was too late to help, obviously it was far too late; one didn’t have to be a hero, didn’t have to kill oneself.

  He backed away.

  Only a few miles away, in the West End, Gerald Stratton was thinking: with a little luck; I might pull this off.

  ‘This’ was Loretta Conti; the dark-haired, sloe-eyed girl with whom he was dancing. He did not know her well, only that she had beautiful dark eyes and a lovely olive-coloured complexion, and the kind of figure that made him dream of bed. She was an acquaintance of Tony and Dee Mickle, his smugly-married partners, and when the evening had started he had thought her as unattainable as Cleopatra. They had dined at the Ecu de France and then came on here, to the Cordon Bleu Club, for dancing; and she danced with a light, practised ease. After the first bottle of champagne her body had relaxed, too, she did not seem anything like as aloof as she had earlier. His cheek was against hers, and he held her a little closer.

  The small room was deliberately intimate. The three piece band played from a dais in one corner, so crowded that the instrumentalists seemed hardly to have elbow room. Three other couples were dancing. Delphi, the Greek shipowner, was with his elderly, white-haired wife. Sir Geoffrey Craven of the Hibild Corporation was with a striking looking woman. Stratton regarded Craven with particular respect, for Mickle and Stratton supplied a lot of built-in furniture on contract to Hibild, and he knew that Craven wanted to buy a controlling interest in the smaller firm; so far, old Jeff wouldn’t hear of it

  The time would come when he would sell, though.

  There was also a man whom Stratton did not know but to whom the proprietor, Emile Brunner, had been most deferential so presumably he was rich. He was dancing with a Scandinavian-type blonde, quite beautiful in her cold, silvered way; she wore an off the shoulder gown which was like a sheath over her body. Gerald had noticed all of these things while sitting out, and was aware of them now that he was dancing, although the closeness of Loretta’s touch made everything else seem of lesser importance.

  The problem was to judge the moment to suggest going to his flat before taking her home. The right timing was essential and much would depend on whether the champagne had mellowed her as much as he believed. Finish this dance, then another drink, another dance, and—

  “Excuse me, Mr. Stratton.” There was a hand at his shoulder and a voice in his ear – unthinkable at the Cordon Bleu. He glanced round, still holding Loretta, to see Erikson, the secretary of the Club.

  “What is it?” Stratton demanded, trying to conceal his annoyance.

  “There is an urgent message from Mr. Mickle, sir.”

  “From Tony at this hour?

  “It must be a joke,” he said.

  “No, sir. Mrs. Mickle herself is on the line.”

  Stratton thought, in a curiously deflated kind of way: Dee’s doing her rescue act. He eased his hold on Loretta but took her hand. “I’ve been called to the telephone,” he said. “I won’t be a moment.” He led her to their table, and motioned to the champagne in a silver bucket by the wall. “Look after Miss Conti, won’t you?” He squeezed her hand before turning towards the door leading to the offices and the cloakrooms. A girl with red hair held a telephone towards him. He almost snatched it

  “Tony, what the devil—”

  “The Dove Lane factory’s on fire,” said Tony, levelly. I’m at Willerby’s across the road. How long will you be?”

  Stratton caught his breath.

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” he said.

  “Of course I understand,” said Loretta, as he handed her into a taxi. “I ought to have an early night, anyhow. I do hope you don’t find things too bad.”

  Gerald Stratton had never seen more people crowded together, nor more fire fighting vehicles in one place. They lined one side of Dove Lane, leaving just room for smaller vehicles and firemen to pass, and they were pouring great streams of water onto nearby buildings. By now, only a gentle spray was falling onto the factory, which he had left only a few hours before, as packed full of partly finished furniture as it could be. A policeman came up to him as he tried to force his way through a barrier.

  “I’m afraid you can’t—”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool. I’m Gerald Stratton.”

  “It doesn’t matter who—” the policeman began, then broke off and echoed: “Stratton.”

  “I own the place.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Mickle’s waiting for you at a builders’ yard along the road. Follow me, sir.” The policeman led the way past dozens of firemen wearing steel helmets, and over hoses which seemed to coil in all directions like huge tormented worms. Water was everywhere, in places making pools inches deep. Stratton’s thin-soled patent leather shoes were soon soaked and his feet were cold, but heat from the fire was sharp on his face. He could hardly think beyond the need for following the policeman.

  Then they turned into Willerby’s, a builders’ yard with a small shed for an office. The shed was open, lights were on, and against them Tony Mickle’s plump figure showed in clear silhouette. Tony had obviously seen him coming, approached, and said without preamble: “There’s no sign of Walter Garratt. They’re afraid he’s inside.”

  Stratton thought: Who the hell’s Garratt? There was fifty thousand pounds worth of furniture in that place, and – it’s all gone. The whole building’s gone.

  “How the hell did the fire start?” he demanded, stridently. “How did it start, that’s what I want to know.” Then he remembered that Garratt was the night watchman. “And why didn’t Garratt warn us? Why—?”

  He broke off, seeing and understanding the expression on his partner’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  That’s the last time I’ll employ a drunken old fool, he thought. My God, this will ruin us. It will ruin us! But in a few moments his spirits lifted, and he almost said aloud: Now we’ll have to sell out.

  Chapter Three

  The Briefing

  Gideon woke a little after seven o’clock the next morning. Kate was still asleep; and he didn’t disturb her but got out of bed and pushed his feet into slippers. He looked enormous in rumpled blue-striped pyjamas, gaping at the belly, but in a strange way he also looked impressive. He himself was not greatly impressed by his unshaven face with its big features and full lips, but he had a moment of satisfaction because his thick grey hair, which grew back from his forehead, hardly needed a comb. He shrugged himself into a dressing-gown and went downstairs to put a kettle on, and as he opened the kitchen door he heard a gasp and a rattle of cups.

  “Careful!” his son Malcolm cried.

  Malcolm, at nineteen, was the last of his sons still at ‘school’ – a technical college where, after much vacillation, he had decided to study for computer management. In feature not unlike Gideon, he was a slender youth – too slender, his mother thought for a boy of his age. He was carrying a tea tray.

  “Don’t say that’s for me,” said Gideon.

  “It is as a matter of fact. I heard you get up”

  “Didn’t think I made a sound,” Gideon said. “What were you doing prowling about so early?”

  “Listening to the radio news,” said Malcolm. “Shall I pour out?”

  “Please.” Gideon sat on the arm of a big kitchen chair. “Anything worth hearing?”

  “The increase ratio of national productivity went down 1½% last quarter,” stated Malcolm, solemnly.

  A few years ago, he would not have had the faintest idea what the increase ratio of national productivity was, but he had become a very earnest young man, and as he was going into industry, convinced h
imself that – cricket and football results apart – the only news worth hearing had to do with industry and commerce.

  Gideon took his tea, and sipped; Malcolm’s tea was always stinging hot, and exactly as he liked it – a little too strong for most, but not for Gideon.

  “That’s a blow,” he said, as solemnly as his son.

  “Oh, Dad, do take some things I say seriously!”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Gideon mildly, “I was wholly serious.”

  Malcolm, who had very light grey eyes, looked at him suspiciously.

  “Honest?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come?”

  “We’ve had more than our share of crime in industry lately,” Gideon said. “I’ve been studying it.” He smothered a laugh at the fact that here he was, justifying himself with his youngest child. “And even the Yard knows that exports matter!”

  “They got another kick in the pants last night,” Malcolm reported.

  “The increase ratio business, you mean?”

  “No. There was a big fire out at Bethnal Green. A furniture factory which was exporting half the furniture it made. Dad—” Malcolm leaned against the sink, and took up a stance as if he were going to deliver a lecture. “Why do they still use these old fire-traps? Why don’t they have new buildings?”

  “Can’t afford ‘em, I suppose,” said Gideon.

  “Well, we ought to be able to!”

  “Yes,” Gideon agreed. “Yes.” It passed through his mind that Malcolm was not only serious, he was worried; and in a way so was he, Gideon. It was a common mistake to forget that one’s younger children grew up and could think independently and constructively. “Malcolm, I don’t have much time to study the economy of industry, or—”

  “That’s just the trouble! People of your generation just let things drift!”