Brought in Dead

CHAPTER 10

It was dark in the office except for the pool of light falling across the drawing board from the anglepoise lamp. Duncan Craig put down his slide-rule and stretched with a sigh. It was almost eight o’clock and for the past two hours he had worked on alone after the rest of his staff had left.

There were footsteps in the corridor and as he turned, the door opened and the night guard entered, a black and tan Alsatian on a lead at his side. He put a thermos flask on the desk and grinned.

“Just checking, colonel. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”

“Thanks very much, George.” Craig ruffled the dog’s ears. “What time’s your next round — nine o’clock isn’t it?”

“That’s right, sir. Will you still be here?”

“The way this thing is going I’ll probably be here all night.”

The door closed behind George and Craig stood there listening to his footsteps move along the corridor outside. When they had finally faded away, he went into the washroom quickly and closed the door.

When he reappeared five minutes later he presented a strange and sinister picture in dark pants and sweater, and wearing an old balaclava helmet, his face darkened by a brown make-up stick. In his left hand he carried a canvas hold-all. He dropped it on the floor beside his desk, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

The receiver was lifted instantly at the other end. “Yes?”

“I’m leaving. I’ll ring you again in thirty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He replaced the receiver, picked up the hold-all and opened the door, listening for a moment before moving into the corridor.

He took the service lift down to the basement, walked through the work’s garage, helping himself to a jerry can full of petrol on the way, and left through a small judas gate. It was raining slightly and he crossed the yard, keeping to the shadows, scrambled over the low wall and dropped down onto the grass bank that sloped into the canal.

He crouched at the water’s edge, opened the hold-all and pulled out the collapsible dinghy it contained. When he activated the compression cylinder, the boat inflated with a soft hiss and he dropped it into the water and pushed off into the darkness.

He’d kept Gibson’s Furniture Factory under careful observation for three days now from the top floor of his own factory, even going to the lengths of obtaining a ground-floor plan of the place from the City Engineer’s Department, for most of the area was scheduled for demolition and municipal development.

It was no more than four hundred yards up the York Road from Gulf Electronics and an approach from the rear via the canal had seemed obvious. He grinned as he paddled out into mid-stream to pass the barge and moved back into the shadows again. Just like the old days — other times, other places when to live a life like this had seemed as natural as breathing.

He passed the coaling wharf of the steel plant, dark and lonely in the light of a solitary yellow lamp. The furniture factory was the second building along from there and he paddled in quickly, scrambled out onto a narrow strip of mud and pulled the dinghy clear.

The brick wall above his head was about nine feet high, but old and crumbling and in spite of being encumbered with the jerry can he found no difficulty in scaling it. For a moment he sat there peering into the darkness and then dropped into the yard below.

A light glowed dimly through the dirty windows and he moved round to the front of the building keeping to the shadows. The whole area was enclosed by a crumbling brick wall. The main gates were of wood, ten feet high and secured by a massive iron bar which dropped into sockets on either side.

In one corner of the yard was a jumbled mass of packing cases and rubbish which had obviously accumulated over the years and it was for this that he had brought the petrol. He emptied the jerry can quickly, scattering its contents as widely as possible, and then returned to the gates and removed the holding bar.

He checked his watch. It was exactly fifteen minutes since he had left his office. From now on, speed was essential.

He hit his first snag when he reached the main door of the factory. It was locked. He hesitated only for a moment and then tried his alternative route up an old fire escape to the second floor. The door at the top was also locked, but several panes of glass in the window beside it were broken and it opened with little difficulty.

He stood in the darkness listening, aware of voices somewhere in the distance, and moved along a short corridor. There was a door at the end with a broken panel through which light streamed. He opened it cautiously and was at once aware of a strong smell of whisky.

He was on a steel landing. The hall below was crowded with crates, and a large six-wheeler truck, which certainly didn’t look as if it belonged, was parked a yard or two away from the main doors.

The voices came from his left and he went along the landing, passing a small glass-walled office which stood in darkness. There was a light in a room at the very end of the landing and he peered round the edge of the glass partition and found three men playing poker.

He withdrew quietly, went back along the landing and descended the iron stairs to the hall below. The truck was loaded with crates of whisky consigned to London Docks and when he looked inside the cab, the ignition key was in the dashboard.

The main doors were the real snag. They were chained together and secured by a large padlock. He examined it carefully, turned and went back upstairs.

He crouched in the darkness of the little office, the ’phone on the floor beside him, and dialled the number he wanted carefully.

The reply was instant. “Police Headquarters. Can I help you?”

“Central C.I.D. — Detective Sergeant Miller,” Craig said in a hoarse voice. “I think you’ll find he’s on duty tonight.”

Miller was sitting behind his desk listening to a well-known housebreaker indignantly deny the offence with which he was charged when the ’phone rang.

“All right, Arnold, you can take a breather,” he said and nodded to Brady, who leaned against the wall cleaning his fingernails with a penknife. “Give him a cigarette, Jack, while I see what we’ve got here.”

He picked up the telephone. “Detective Sergeant Miller.”

The voice at the other end was strangely hoarse and completely unfamiliar to him. “Gibson’s Furniture Factory on the York Road — interesting place — they even make their own booze. You’d better get round here quick and bring the Fire Brigade with you.” He chuckled harshly. “I do hope Vernon’s insured.”

Craig replaced the receiver and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He was running late, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He waited exactly four minutes, went back downstairs and climbed into the cab of the truck.

He pulled out the choke, pressed the starter and the engine burst into life with a shattering roar. There was a cry of alarm from the landing above his head and he rammed the stick into first gear, let in the clutch sharply and accelerated. The doors burst open and the truck rolled out into the yard. Craig swerved sharply, braking to a halt near the outside gates, switched off and jumped to the ground taking the ignition key with him.

He struck a match quickly and tossed it onto the stacked crates, picked up his jerry can, turned and ran into the shadows. Somewhere in the night, the jangle of a police car’s bell sounded ominously.

When he drifted into the side of the canal below the wall of his own factory yard five minutes later, there was already a considerable disturbance in the vicinity of the furniture factory and a red glow stained the darkness, flames leaping into the night from the stack of burning crates.

He took a knife from his pocket and slashed the dinghy in several places, forcing out all air so that he was able to stuff it into the hold-all again, then he tossed it over the wall with the jerry can and followed them.

He left the can with a stack of similar ones on his way through the garage and returned to the tenth floor in the service lift. The moment he was safely inside his office, he reached for the ’phone and dialled his home. As before, the receiver was lifted instantly at the other end.

“You’re late,” Harriet said.

“Sorry about that. I must be getting old.”

She chuckled. “That’ll be the day. Everything go off okay?”

“Couldn’t be better. I won’t be home just yet, by the way. I want to finish the details on the vibrator modification in time for the staff conference tomorrow.”

“How long will you be?”

“Another couple of hours should do it.”

“I’ll have some supper waiting.”

He replaced the receiver, went into the washroom, scrubbed the filth from his body and changed quickly. He had hardly returned to the other room when there was a knock on the door and George came in.

“Hell of a fuss going on up the road, sir. Don’t know what it’s all about, but everybody seems to be there. Fire, police — the lot.”

“Go and have a look if you like,” Craig said.

“Sure you don’t mind, sir?”

“Not at all. I’d be interested to know what’s happening myself.”

He sat down at the drawing board and picked up his slide-rule and George went out quickly.

Miller and Grant stood by the ashes of the fire and surveyed the scene. The Fire Brigade had left, but the big black van that was known throughout the Department as the Studio was parked just inside the gates and the boys from Forensic were already getting to work on the truck.

“So no one was around when the first car got here?” Grant asked, for he had only just arrived on the scene and was seeking information.

“That’s right, sir. Whoever was here must have cleared off pretty sharpish. Of course the fire was bound to attract attention.”

“What about the truck?”

“Hi-jacked two days ago on the A1 near Wetherby. Carrying a consignment of export Scotch to the London Docks. Valued at £30,000.”

Grant whistled softly. “That’s going to bring the county’s crime figures down a bit. And you say you didn’t recognise the informer’s voice?” he added incredulously.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, all I can say is you’ve got a good snout there, by God.”

Jack Brady emerged from the factory and came towards them, an open document in one hand. “We’ve found the lease on this place in a filing cabinet in the office, sir,” he said. “It’s made out in the name of Frank O’Connor. The property’s been made the subject of a demolition order so it’s owned by the city. O’Connor’s a citizen of Eire by the way.”

“And probably on his way back there as fast as he can run at this very moment,” Grant observed and turned to Miller. “You’re sure the snout mentioned Vernon’s name?”

“Absolutely.”

“Doesn’t make sense then, does it?”

“It does if O’Connor was just a front man.”

“I suppose so. Just try proving that and see where it gets you. I know one thing — if it is Vernon’s place then someone certainly has it in for him.” He glanced at his watch. “My God, it’s almost eleven. Too late for me. See you two in the morning.”

He moved away and Brady turned to Miller. “Ready to go, Nick? Not much more we can do here.”

“You know, Grant’s right,” Miller said. “Whoever set this little lot up for us must really have it in for Vernon. Hang on a minute. I want to make a ’phone call.”

“Checking on someone?”

“That’s right — Duncan Craig.”

“Not that again, Nick,” Brady groaned. “Why don’t you leave it alone?”

Miller ignored him and went to the ’phone box on the corner. Harriet Craig sounded cool and impersonal. “Harriet Craig speaking.”

“Nick Miller.”

“Hello, Nick.” There was a new warmth in her voice. “When are you coming round to finish your supper?”

“Almost any day now. I’m just waiting for the crime figures to fall. Is your father in? I’d like a word with him.”

“I’m sorry, he isn’t. He’s working late tonight. Was it important?”

“Not really. I’ve got a rest day Saturday and I thought he might be interested in a game of golf.”

“I’m sure he would. Shall I tell him to give you a call?”

“Yes, you do that. I’ll have to go now, Harriet, we’re having a hard night.”

“Poor Nick.” She laughed. “Don’t forget to keep in touch.”

“How could I?”

He replaced the receiver and went back to Brady. “Now there’s a thing — guess where Craig is at this very moment? Working late at the factory.”

“Gulf Electronics is only just down the road,” Brady said. “The big new block. You can see it from here. There’s a light in one of the top-floor offices.”

As Miller turned, the light went out. “Let’s take a look.”

“Suit yourself,” Brady said as they moved to the car. “But I think you’re making a big mistake.”

As they drove away there was a low rumble of thunder in the distance and quite suddenly, the light rain which had been falling steadily for the past hour turned into a solid driving downpour. The main gates of Gulf Electronics stood open and Miller pulled into the side of the road and switched off.

At the same moment, the glass entrance doors opened and Duncan Craig appeared, the night guard at his side with the Alsatian.

“That’s old George Brown,” Brady said. “Sergeant in ‘B’ Division for years. Got himself a nice touch there.”

Brown went back inside, locking the doors, and Craig stood at the top of the steps, belting his raincoat and pulling on his gloves. He turned up his collar, went down the steps and hurried into the darkness of the car park. A second later, two men moved out of the shadows at the side of the door and went after him.

“I don’t like the look of that one little bit,” Miller said, wrenching open the door. “Come on!”

He turned in through the gates, running hard, and from somewhere in the darkness of the car park there came a scream.

Duncan Craig had almost reached his car when he heard the rush of feet through the darkness behind and swung round. A fist lifted into his face as he ducked and he staggered back against the car, flinging himself to one side. One of his assailants raised an iron bar two-handed above his head and brought it down with such force that he dented the roof of the Jaguar.

A razor gleamed in the diffused light from the street lamps on the other side of the railings and he warded off the descending blow with a left block, and kicked the man sharply in the stomach so that he screamed in agony.

There was another rush of feet through the darkness and Miller and Brady arrived. The man with the iron bar started to turn and Brady delivered a beautiful right to the jaw that had all his fourteen stone behind it.

There was a sudden silence and Craig laughed. “Right on time. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

Miller snapped the cuffs on the man who was lying on the ground and hauled him to his feet. “Anyone you know, Jack?”

Brady held the other one against Craig’s car. “They’re not off our patch, that’s certain. Specially imported I shouldn’t wonder.”

Miller turned on Craig savagely. “Maybe you’ll listen to reason from now on.” He sent his prisoner staggering into the darkness in front of him. “Come on, Jack, let’s take them in.”

Craig stood there in the darkness without moving until the Cooper had driven away and then he unlocked the door of the Jaguar and climbed behind the driving wheel. He knew something was wrong the moment she refused to start. He tried several times ineffectually, then took a flashlight from the glove compartment, got out and raised the bonnet. The rotor arm had been removed, an obvious precaution in case he’d beaten them into the car. He sighed heavily, dropped the bonnet and moved across to the main gates.

It was only twenty past eleven and there were plenty of late buses about, but in any case, he would be able to get a taxi in City Square. He crossed the road quickly, head down against the driving rain.

Someone moved out of a doorway behind him, he was aware of that, and then the pain as a sharp point sliced through his raincoat and jacket to touch bare flesh.

“Keep walking,” Billy Stratton said calmly. “Just keep walking or I’ll shove this right through your kidneys.”

They turned into a narrow alley a few yards further along, Craig walking at the same even pace, hands thrust deep into his pockets. A lamp was bracketed to the wall at the far end and beyond, the river roared over a weir, drowning every other sound.

“A good thing I came along, wasn’t it?” Stratton said. “But then I have an instinct for these things. I knew something would go wrong just as I knew you were trouble from the first moment I clapped eyes on you. But not any more, you bastard. Not any more.”

Craig took to his heels and ran and Stratton cried out in fury and went after him. The cobbles at the end of the alley were black and shiny in the light of the old gas lamp and beyond the low wall that blocked the end, the river rushed through the darkness.

As Craig turned, Stratton paused, the knife held ready, a terrible grin splitting the white face, and then he moved with incredible speed, the blade streaking up. To Duncan Craig, it might have been a branch swaying in the breeze. He pivoted cleanly to one side, secured the wrist in a terrible aikido grip and twisted the hand back in the one way nature had never intended it should go, snapping the wrist instantly.

Stratton screamed soundlessly, his agony drowned by the roaring of the river. He staggered back clutching his broken wrist, mouthing obscenities, and as Craig picked up the knife and moved towards him, turned and stumbled away.

Craig went after him, but Stratton thundered along the alley as if all the devils in hell were at his heels, emerged into the main road and ran headlong into the path of a late-night bus.

There was a squeal of brakes as the bus skidded, a sudden cry and then silence. A moment later voices were raised and when Craig reached the end of the alley, passengers were already beginning to dismount, men crouching down to peer under the wheels.

“Oh, my God, look at him!” A woman sobbed suddenly and Craig turned up his collar and walked away quickly through the heavy rain.