Darkness and Confusion

by John Creasey

  “Then let’s tell him,” the Superintendent said. “I’ll come with you.”

  He went through as the sergeant opened the door, and as he went down the stairs he heard a woman sobbing. In the waiting room, the door of which was open, were three women – one of them in acute distress, her face cupped in her hands, her shoulders heaving – and one man. The man was rather smaller than average, with regular but unnoticeable features. His eyes looked like glass. He strode towards the Superintendent. “Are you in charge here? I want to know what you’re doing to find my daughter.”

  “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you,” the Superintendent said quietly. “We have turned one of our offices into a special operations room, and you can be assured that every possible step is being taken.” He led the way across the hall of the old building, and pushed a big, heavy door open wide. Inside was a long, bench-like table with three men at telephones, a small radio transmitter and a panel with a dozen different lights on it, a teletyper, at which a woman officer sat. “We notified Scotland Yard the moment we heard,” went on the Superintendent. “They are sending extra staff, and additional extra staff is being drafted in from neighbouring stations. A Special call has gone out describing the car and the man who drove off with your daughter, and—”

  He broke off, appalled by the change in Morrison’s expression, the fury which blazed in his eyes, the way his whole body seemed to shake with rage. “So she was kidnapped. She was!”

  “She was certainly seen to go off with a man, sir, but—” Morrison swung round. He caught everyone who was behind him by surprise, strode across the hall, towards the room where his wife was sitting. Tears were streaming down her face, but she went utterly still when she saw her husband. She didn’t speak, but shrunk away from him. The Superintendent, one of Gideon’s contemporaries, stretched his hands out towards Morrison, ready to grab him by the shoulders, for in that moment he looked capable of flinging himself at his wife. But he did not. He stood and stared at her, and what looked like hatred twisted his lips. “They’d better find her,” he said. “They’d better find her.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pressure

  Gideon picked up the telephone, without thinking; he was preoccupied with what he should prepare for the Ministry of Power and for the big industrial interests. He needed a more comprehensive picture of London’s power stations and major plants. He knew many of them, but one of the depressing things about starting a new investigation was the discovery of how little one actually knew about those things one took for granted. He finished pencilling a note on his pad: Is there a map of Industrial London giving the power houses? as the telephone rang.

  “Gideon.”

  “Mr. Moore, sir, of Richmond.”

  “Put him through … Hallo, Joe, how are you today?”

  “Commander,” said Joe Moore. “About this other missing child.”

  Gideon thought: what child? Then he realised what this might mean, and said almost like a prayer: “Oh, dear God!” There was a long silence, before he went on: “I didn’t know. When did it happen?”

  “An hour and a half ago. I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “Who did you get?”

  “McAlistair.”

  Why hadn’t McAlistair reported to him – or at least put a message on his desk?

  “What’s been done?” Gideon demanded.

  “McAlistair didn’t lose a minute,” said Moore. “We’ve got most of the help we need already, except enough to cordon off Wimbledon Common. How soon can we get the army out for that?”

  Gideon asked: “Do they know we may want them?” Why hadn’t he been told?

  “They’re only waiting for confirmation from you.”

  Gideon picked up his other telephone.

  “What command have you talked to?”

  “Hounslow – a Colonel Dupont.”

  “I know Dupont,” Gideon said, and as the operator answered he went on: “Get me Colonel Dupont of Hounslow Barracks.” Into the other telephone, he added: “Got any description of the man?”

  “Yes, better than average, too. It’s already gone out. And the car was a black Hillman Minx, the latest model. The first numbers are 23 and a Y or K after that.”

  “That’s something. I—” There was a voice in his other ear, a woman saying: “Colonel Dupont’s on the line, sir.” Thank heaven someone could be quick. “Colonel,” Gideon said. “I’ll be very glad of your help at Richmond.”

  “I’ve two companies ready and waiting,” replied Colonel Dupont crisply. “The usual drill, I imagine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Glad to help,” said Dupont. “Let me have it in writing, won’t you?”

  Dupont did not even wait for an assurance, but rang off. Gideon felt something like a laugh build up inside him, but it died almost immediately. The ‘usual drill’ was that the troops would report at once to the Superintendent in charge of the investigation. He could go himself, but that could cause a delay, and even ten minutes might make the difference between the child’s life and death. He turned to the other telephone, and heard Moore calling orders to someone. It sounded like: “Then take her home … What? … Can’t stop him, can we?” There was a fractional pause, and then Moore spoke to Gideon. “You there, Commander?” what to do to cordon the common off,” Moore reported.

  “Yes. Two companies of military are on their way.”

  “I’ve got Long at the Putney Heath approach, he knows.”

  “He’ll brief the army. Will you come over yourself?”

  For the second time that day, Gideon said with reluctance: “No. You look after it. If you want any help-”

  “Could Honiwell come over?” Moore asked.

  “Yes,” Gideon said, and wondered why he had not thought of that before. Honiwell was not only the Yard’s expert on this kind of problem but he was familiar with the hundreds of ‘descriptions’ of the man who had kidnapped the girl in Epping Forest. “I’ll call him at once. Any other problems out there?”

  “Not really,” answered Moore. “The father of the missing girl insists on coming and helping with the search. I wish he wouldn’t but he seems so keyed up I think I’d better let him. It’s a bad business,” he added almost conversationally. “It was the wife’s fault, in a way. One good thing – she didn’t lose much time letting us know.”

  Gideon grunted: “That’s something.”

  He rang off, and sat back. The pressure of work, all the greater because Hobbs was on holiday, was beginning to weigh on him. He thought of McAlistair failing to inform him of the girl’s disappearance, and came as near to anger as he ever felt. McAlistair had been getting under his skin all day, but this – this was unbelievable. Was the man hopelessly incompetent? The question was almost as unreasonable as McAlistair’s behaviour, Gideon told himself, and he must cool down before he sent for him.

  He must ring Honiwell, too.

  He ought to ring Lemaitre about the missing suspect.

  He ought to find out how Piluski was doing.

  He ought to be able to leave some of these things to McAlistair.

  He ought to be getting a move on, and not sit back recapping, like this.

  He rang the bell for McAlistair, lifted a telephone and asked the operator to get Honiwell, then said stonily to McAlistair: “I’d like some tea.” He put down the receiver, and the bell rang almost immediately. This time he hesitated before answering; it was no use showing his agitation with everyone who called.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “It’s Lem here,” said Lemaitre in a subdued voice which told Gideon that he had no good news. “No luck yet, I’m afraid.”

  Gideon thought bitterly: Why didn’t I make him bring the youth in at once?

  “Any trace at all?”

  “Not really,” said
Lemaitre. “We’ve found out that young Jensen’s been putting money on the gee-gees lately, that’s something his parents didn’t know. He’s been going to a betting shop in Mill Lane, Whitechapel – Jackie Spratt’s. It’s some distance from where he lives and works, so that suggests he didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing.”

  Why has he called to tell me this? Gideon wondered. Aloud, he said: “Well?”

  “He was seen in the Whitechapel Road,” said Lemaitre, “but as far as we can trace he didn’t go to Spratt’s this afternoon. On the other hand, I’ve been wondering about that particular Spratt’s branch for a long time, and this is a chance to go and have a look round.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “Because I can’t bloody well make up my mind, that’s why!” Lemaitre exploded. “If he did go there and we haven’t any proof, they can lie their way out of it. If he didn’t, we’ve got under their skin – and Jackie Spratt’s are the biggest bookies in the East End. They’ve got shops and agents all over the place, and—”

  “I know about Jackie’s,” Gideon said. “Try to find out whether young Jensen did go there this afternoon, before you question the staff in Mill Lane.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that,” said Lemaitre. “George – there’s another thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “I saw old Mickle, of Mickle and Stratton, today. He’s convinced that Hibilds were behind the fire. They’ve been trying to buy him out for a long time. His junior partner wanted to sell but Mickle’s buying all his shares. Kicking him out, in effect.”

  Gideon, patient until then, demanded: “Come to the point, Lem.”

  “There isn’t any point,” said Lemaitre. “Except, Sir Geoffrey Craven’s the chairman of the Board at Hibild.”

  “Well?”

  “And he’s on the board of Jackie Spratt’s,” stated Lemaitre. “Thought it worth noting, George.”

  “It is and I’ve noted it,” Gideon said. “Keep at it”

  He put down the receiver, and stared at the window. There was much more cloud about, and it looked like rain. The fine spell had broken as surely as the Yard’s quiet spell. He now knew the real cause of Lemaitre’s latest uneasiness, and it was not wholly because of the missing youth. Jackie Spratt’s had betting accounts with practically every habitual criminal in the East End, had a widespread organisation, and they had to be treated with respect, for they could make the life of the policeman on the beat unbearable. And they could give Division a lot of headaches, too, by arranging calls which needed immediate attention but would be mostly false alarms. Gideon was not even remotely in the mood to tackle Jackie Spratt’s at this juncture, and Lemaitre no doubt realised it, but the possible involvement of Sir Geoffrey Craven was well worth noting.

  The call from Honiwell came through, and Gideon pushed the East End problem out of his mind.

  “Get over to Richmond and see Joe Moore, will you?” Gideon asked. “They’ve got a good description of the man who did this afternoon’s job.”

  “I’ve been told, and it doesn’t sound like the man I’m after,” Honiwell said. “But I’ll go right away. Don’t wait for me tonight, will you?”

  “Come up to my place from Richmond whatever time it is,” Gideon said. “It’s much nearer than Epping.”

  Honiwell rang off, and Gideon pulled some paper towards him and started, half-heartedly, to prepare the kind of question for the industrialists and the Minister of Power. He had only just started when there was a tap at the door from McAlistair’s room, and the door opened. McAlistair came in, carrying a bay with tea, sandwiches and two cream cakes. Gideon watched as he put the tray down on a corner of the desk, forebore to ask why it hadn’t been brought by messenger, but looked straight at the other man.

  “Anything else sir?” McAlistair asked with nervous brightness.

  “Why didn’t you inform me about the Richmond kidnapping?” Gideon demanded, coldly.

  McAlistair said, gasping: “But I did!”

  Gideon felt his temper rising again, wondered what Hobbs could possibly see in this man, and wondered why he himself had never seen McAlistair’s weaknesses before. In an even quieter voice, he said: “I knew nothing about it.”

  “But I left a report sir! You were with the Commissioner, and as Mr. Moore had the case well in hand I decided not to interrupt you. But there was a message on top of your file – I put it there myself.”

  He couldn’t be lying.

  Gideon said heavily: “It wasn’t there when I came in.”

  “But I put—” began McAlistair, and then he changed the direction of his gaze, looking beneath the desk. “I think—I think it’s on the floor, sir.”

  “On the floor?” exclaimed Gideon. “Why in God’s name—”

  McAlistair bent down, there was a rustle of paper, and then he straightened up, much of his nervousness gone. He placed the sheet of paper in front of Gideon, and a red URGENT, written across the top left hand corner, could not fail to catch his eye. It was a simple, four-sentence report, containing all the relevant information.

  “It must have blown—” began McAlistair.

  “When the two doors opened,” Gideon said, heavily. “Yes.” He gave an unamused laugh. “Not your lucky day, is it?”

  “I’ve known better,” McAlistair admitted ruefully. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t understand why you made no reference to the message, and just assumed you were satisfied with what had been done.”

  Gideon’s telephone to the Yard exchange rang, and be was glad of the interruption. He picked up the receiver, and a man spoke immediately, tensely.

  “I think we’ve got this afternoon’s kidnapper, Commander!”

  “Joe! How about the girl?”

  “I’m afraid—” began Moore, and then someone shouted, and he said: “I’ll call , you back, sir,” and rang off.

  Luke Oliver crouched among the bushes, hearing the baying of dogs, the rustling of men moving slowly through the thick undergrowth, and, incongruously, birds singing and wasps and bees buzzing. The police seemed to be everywhere. He was dishevelled from creeping away from the spot where he had lain, with the child.

  He remembered only hazily everything that had happened, all that he had done to her. He was tired; he always was, after he had passed through a period of such tension. He wanted to sleep. Had he had his way he would have slept with the pretty child close to him; a doll-like child now, with her eyes closed. He had left her when he had heard the dogs. Now he knew, they were closing in on him and he did not think he would get away. They—they mustn’t hurt him, that was the main thing. They must be merciful. He wasn’t well, they must know he wasn’t well. He was a sick man.

  He heard a dog, close by, and then saw a man’s boots. The dog came nearer, growling, and he screamed: “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!”

  Someone nearby called: “We’ve got him, sir!”

  Frank Morrison heard the words: “We’ve got him, sir.”

  He was standing perhaps a hundred yards from the spot where the cry had come, by the side of his daughter. She was on a stretcher which was much too big for her, raised now on to a station wagon. A doctor was touching her wrist, but the examination was mere routine; he knew that she was dead.

  “We’ve got him, sir!” Came again.

  Superintendent Moore and two other senior detectives moved towards the spot. A man in khaki uniform appeared from behind a patch of scrub, and waved. Another, with a dog straining at a leash, appeared from the other side of the bushes – and another man, in torn clothes and with scratches on his face appeared between them. He had his hands above his head and he was calling out something which sounded like: “Don’t hurt me.”

  The doctor, elderly, greying, said: “Come away, Morrison. We will do everything that can be done.”

  Morrison looked
at him but he didn’t speak.

  A woman, not far off, cried out: “Hanging’s too good for him!”

  Policemen and soldiers were gathering now, not far from the spot where the prisoner stood. Moore spoke to him but his voice did not travel.

  “Come away,” the doctor repeated.

  Morrison moved, but towards, not away from the prisoner. Two policemen were watching him, undoubtedly aware that in his present mood he might fling himself bodily at the prisoner, in an attempt to kill him. He walked very stiffly, the men only a yard or two behind.

  “I don’t know why I did it. I have blackouts. I have terrible headaches,” the prisoner was gasping. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, his hands were now raised as high as his shoulders. “Don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.”

  Then he looked up, and saw Morrison.

  And Morrison, with strange deliberation, put his hand to his pocket, took out an automatic pistol, and shot him – once through the forehead and once through the chest. He must have died before he reached the ground.

  Chapter Ten

  The Murderer

  Gideon, who was not a heavy drinker, was glad of his whisky that evening, and did not feel like drinking alone. Usually he would have called Hobbs in, but there was no one at the Yard with whom he felt like twenty minutes of relaxed shop talk. A little after six o’clock, his notes unfinished, he called Information and said: “I’ll be back in half an hour, tell the exchange,” and went out. The day staff had already gone, except for a few stragglers. One girl, her skirt almost up to her bottom, went rushing along, completely oblivious. The constable on duty in the ball watched her flying down the stairs, turned, saw Gideon and straightened up.

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  “I’ll be back in half an hour,” Gideon said, his eyes twinkling, his spirits raised.

  “Right, sir!” The other’s eyes had a responding gleam.