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
