So Young to Burn Read online

  Copyright & Information

  So Young to Burn

  First published in 1968

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1968-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755136349 9780755136346 Print

  0755139674 9780755139675 Kindle

  0755138023 9780755138029 Epub

  0755152239 9780755152230 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  The Young Lovers

  ‘Listen, Tony!’

  ‘There’s nothing.’

  ‘Listen!’

  ‘I tell you—’

  ‘Please listen,’ Helena Young said pleadingly. ‘Please.’

  Tony Wainwright said: ‘All right,’ and he let the whole weight of his body fall on her, half-teasing, half-longing, impatient with desire yet knowing how sensitive she was.

  Out here, on Wimbledon Common, the rustling of a summer night filled the air and crept among the bushes of hawthorn and bramble, among the heavy foliage of oak and beech and birch. Above, a star-strewn sky was pale, with a half-moon. Beyond this little clearing in the bushes were the distant lights of moving cars on the road towards Putney and Roehampton. Closer were parked cars, each with its own secrets. Not far off, a man whistled to a dog; there were no nearer sounds.

  Helena said, nervously: ‘I could have sworn I heard something.’

  ‘You’re imagining things.’

  ‘I would hate—’ She paused.

  ‘What would you hate?’ He eased himself up on to his elbows, but their faces were close and their bodies still touched.

  ‘A—a Peeping Tom.’

  ‘I’d soon fix him.’

  ‘You—you don’t understand,’ Helena said. ‘The very possibility of anyone seeing us—’

  ‘It’s dark, sweetheart.’

  ‘Or even hearing—’

  Tony lowered his head and brushed her lips with his, drew back and said very softly:

  ‘It’s all right, my darling. We won’t tonight. You’re—so edgy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry. But it won’t be long now. Soon we’ll have our own flat. Just imagine the curtains drawn, the world shut out!’

  ‘It will be—wonderful!’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Tony echoed huskily and, he hoped, convincingly.

  He knew that he should get up now, should overcome desire; that if he stayed, and wooed and won her – as he knew he could – he would have gained nothing and she would have lost a little of her trust in him. But it wasn’t easy. She was so very – near. So much his. And their bodies still touched. Until that moment of imagined sound he had thought that the ecstasy of love-making was theirs to share. He wished he had not given way to her reluctance in that weak moment; he wished one did not have to promise a girl so much. Why couldn’t she just enjoy the moments of love?

  He shifted himself to one side.

  ‘Up we get! We—’

  As he moved, a blinding light flashed, once, twice, thrice, someone laughed, someone swore, and as Tony flung himself forward again, in an attempt to hide the girl, he felt tingling pains on his arms, his legs, the back of his head; and as he cried out, Helena screamed in mingled fear and pain.

  Two, three, or four, perhaps five or six dark figures ran off.

  Tony heaved himself to his feet, hoisted the girl over his shoulder, and running, stumbling, towards a pond close by, plunged into it. As she went under, Helena screamed and screamed again, but he kept dowsing her face and soaking himself until a small crowd of people came running to see what was the matter.

  Not very far away, in Chelsea, the public houses and the picture palaces emptied, the lights were turned off, the gates and the doors locked. Families made their way home, noisily; couples went off together quietly; the lonely men and women on their own, too shy or too afraid to find a companion, returned to the myriad tiny rooms, the flatlets, the bed-sits, the small hotels, and boarding houses. Front doors, landing doors, passage doors, closed on most. The couples lingered, walking arm in arm or very close together along the dimmed streets, pausing where the shadows were darkest to kiss with a passion which betrayed their longing. In one narrow street not far from the river a couple strolled, the girl’s fair head on the boy’s square shoulder, step in step, happy.

  They paused at a house in a terrace of white-painted houses.

  ‘Here we are, darling,’ he said.

  ‘Like to walk to the corner and back?’

  ‘I’d like to—’ The man broke off with a short laugh. ‘Come on, then.’

  They walked, still touching each other.

  ‘Jill.’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘I am a male, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And this is the second half of the twentieth century.’

  ‘I know that, too!’

  ‘Then why do you insist on living in the nineteenth century?’

  Jill said, very softly, very firmly: ‘I must be an old-fashioned girl.’

  ‘Oh, that old stuff. You know you’ll be alone in the flat tonight—as Daisy’s away.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jill. ‘I will be. Clive—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Clive, I love you very, very much.’

  ‘I love you, desperately, passionately—’

  ‘As you have often loved before.’

  ‘But this is
different! I swear it’s different!’

  ‘If I really believed it was, then who knows how modern I might become?’ They reached the corner, and turned round, like one body. ‘But I don’t really, darling.’

  ‘What can I do to make you believe me?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know,’ Jill answered quite soberly. ‘I simply don’t know. But we mustn’t argue about it any more or we’ll spoil the evening.’

  ‘You wouldn’t suspect that mine was spoiled already, would you?’

  ‘I hope it isn’t,’ Jill said, as they stopped outside her house. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I—’ She broke off, head jerking up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’ demanded Clive sulkily.

  ‘That noise.’

  ‘I didn’t hear any noise.’

  ‘It was at the front door.’

  ‘Must have been your Puritan conscience.’

  ‘No, seriously, there was a sound.’

  ‘But Daisy’s away.’

  ‘Yes—that’s what scares me.’

  ‘Scares you!’ Clive gave a contented little laugh and strode towards the door. ‘Let me be Sir Galahad and—’

  Before he reached it, the door burst open and four youths came rushing out, two of them leaping at him and spraying him with a liquid which fell as soft as rain, some on his face, some on his clothes and hands; in wild fury he attacked the men and sent two flying, while crying out to Jill: ‘Get your clothes off, get them off!’ The youths all turned and ran, while Clive Davidson rushed Jill indoors, pulling at her clothes, jumper, skirt, slip, as if he were a madman.

  ‘If you got any on your face go and wash it, wash it off!’ He pushed her towards the kitchen and then sprang to a garden hose, turned the tap full on, drenching himself from head to foot.

  The church social in Shepherd’s Bush had gone on much later than usual, and even when it was over the bare hall with its yellow-varnished rafters and the religious prints, the certificates of merit for the Band of Hope, notices relating to the Mothers’ Union and the Boy Scouts, displayed lists of Sunday School examinations and a dozen other church affairs, was not emptied at once. Little groups stood about, holding desultory conversations, the washing-up volunteers lingered over their clattering cups and saucers; on this warm evening no one was in a hurry.

  Among a dozen people of mixed ages in one corner of the hall was Betty Smith. One of seven youths in another corner was Jonathan Cobden. All the evening Betty had noticed Jonathan, who was tall, dark, pleasant-looking, glancing towards her. She was a visitor, knowing no one but the uncle and aunt and their children with whom she was staying. She saw the crowd of youths move towards the door, and the one who had attracted her attention hung back, and then came straight towards her. She flushed a deep pink, unaware that her aunt noticed it with amusement.

  ‘I say,’ Jonathan Cobden said, ‘aren’t you new here?’

  ‘I’m just visiting, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh. With the Smiths?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know them?’

  ‘Well, yes, I—that is, they’re neighbours. I—would you—I, er—would you—ah—may I walk home with you?’

  Betty’s eyes lit up.

  ‘I’d love you to, if—’

  They turned and looked at Betty’s aunt, who had missed nothing, and who had a soft spot for young Jonathan Cobden.

  ‘Auntie, can I—?’

  ‘Mrs Smith, can I take Betty home?’

  ‘Provided you take good care of her, you may.’ There was a roguish gleam in Mrs Smith’s eyes.

  ‘Oh, I will!’

  The older people in the group watched them walk off together and a man said wistfully: ‘I wish there were more young people like that, these days.’

  Betty and Jonathan were oblivious of their elders, of the other young people grinning and teasing, of everything and everyone except themselves. They walked for five minutes beneath the bright lights of Shepherd’s Bush Road and then along a side street, which was not well lit. Here, their hands touched and clasped. It was for each of them the first romance; for each the first awareness of the fast beating heart, the electric thrill which seemed to come from the touch of another’s fingers. Neither of them spoke; neither needed to speak, until at the end of this street Jonathan said: ‘Now we’re nearly there.’

  ‘Yes. Just across the road.’

  ‘Would it—would it be all right if we walked round again?’

  ‘I—I should think so.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Jonathan said, adding with sudden boldness: ‘I think you’re wonderful! I’ve never seen a girl like you before.’

  Betty’s tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth as she tried to say ‘Haven’t you?’ She couldn’t get the words out and the very effort made her tighten her grip and seemed to draw Jonathan towards her. Without a word they were in each other’s arms, kissing.

  As they stood there in their fleeting innocence, three youths came racing along the street towards them, the clatter of footsteps startling and alarming. The youths, only a few yards away, began to whoop and leap up and down, prancing about the couple wildly, flinging out an arm, snatching at Betty’s long hair, pulling out Jonathan’s tie, spanking her bottom, slapping his face, spinning them round and round until they were giddy as well as terrified, breathless, helpless.

  Then suddenly a dark shadow fell over them, and a man said in a deep, calm voice: ‘That’s enough.’

  Two of the youths turned and raced away, the other was gripped by a policeman who had just turned the corner. For a split second everything was quite still, the only sounds the thudding footsteps of the running youths, the gasping of Betty and Jonathan. Then the captured youth kicked out savagely at the policeman. The kick caught him agonizingly on the ankle and he cried out and released his grip. The youth turned to run after his mates.

  Jonathan Cobden had just straightened up. He saw what happened, saw the policeman reel away, and almost without thinking he launched himself bodily at the youth.

  ‘Don’t!’ screamed Betty.

  She need not have worried. Taken completely unawares, the youth was struck by the full force of Jonathan’s rush, staggered back several yards, then tripped and fell. He banged the back of his head on the pavement with such a thud that it sounded above all other sounds. When the policeman recovered and moved forward, Jonathan stood with his arm round Betty as they stared at the motionless figure. From the main road end of the street, men came running – Betty’s uncle and the wistful man among them.

  ‘Betty!’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What happened?’

  In a clear throbbing voice, Betty said: ‘He was wonderful, wonderful.’

  For a moment everyone stopped, seemed almost to stop breathing, and looked at her. Then the policeman, small as London policemen go, and at this moment feeling acutely conscious of his own failure, spoke with feeling: ‘He certainly was. Now we’d better get an ambulance—that chap looks as if he needs attention.’

  At about the same time as the attack on Betty and Jonathan, two youths turned into Bell Street, Chelsea, one very tall and slender, the other shorter and much broader. He was on the kerb side; listening. They were brothers, Martin and Richard West; and as usual Richard did most of the talking.

  ‘… all I can say is, there’s far too much emphasis on what we do wrong, nothing like enough on what we do right … To hear some of these old fogies talk you’d think that no one under twenty-one ever had an idea or ever accepted a responsibility. And that’s rot. Absolute rot!’

  ‘Have you?’ interpolated Martin, often called Scoop.

  ‘Have I what?’

  ‘Ever accepted a responsibility?’ Martin asked solemnly.

  ‘You know darned well I—’ Richard caught his breath, suddenly aware that he was falling into a well-laid trap, and his tone changed. ‘You’re my responsibility, brother! I don’t know where you’d be without me. You can talk!’

  Martin gave a
broad, attractive grin.

  ‘So can you, if it comes to that. I—’

  They broke off, for as they neared their home the front door opened and their father, Chief Superintendent Roger West of New Scotland Yard, came hurrying out. He caught sight of them, waved, and said: ‘Get the car out for me, Fish—I’ll be there in a minute.’ He dived back into the house, while Richard-called-Fish stepped to the garage and Martin hooked back the double gates near the road. The black Rover car was at the kerbside, the engine ticking over, when Roger West appeared again, massive and quick moving, as if he could not get where he wanted to go fast enough.

  ‘Big job, Pop?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ said Roger West, and as Richard climbed out of his car, he went on: ‘London youth on the rampage again. I hope you two soon grow up.’

  ‘Well!’ gasped Richard, and glared as his father took the wheel.

  Chapter Two

  Chief Superintendent Roger West

  Roger West heard his younger son’s ‘Well!’ and guessing what caused it grinned at him, and winked at Martin as he drove off. He went too fast, but slowed down at the approach to the corner of this pleasant Chelsea Street which led into Kings Road on the one hand and, by devious ways, to the Embankment on the other. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and most of the homecoming traffic from London’s West End and theatreland had passed, but there was still a steady stream of traffic coming out of town. He turned towards the West End, passing the little shops, every other one of which had paintings or antiques spotlighted in the window. Here and there he passed couples, arms linked, bodies close, oblivious of everything but each other. In a dark shop doorway a man and a girl were quarrelling, the girl’s face bitter with anger. Young love! Roger gave a wry, uneasy smile, for ‘young love’ had suffered a great deal tonight, according to the report which had called him from his home, his long-suffering wife, and a television documentary on ‘Student Violence Round the World’.

  Student violence – teenage viciousness – juvenile delinquency – it did not matter under what name it was headlined, the growing problem was a real and menacing one to the authorities and, in one way or another, to the police. Roger was uneasily aware, as were many officials at Scotland Yard, that it was getting out of hand. The phrase passed through his mind, and as he rounded Sloane Square and headed for Buckingham Palace and Birdcage Walk, he took himself to task. ‘It was getting out of hand.’ What was ‘it’? A few hundred, possibly a few thousand young people from a cross-section of society were reacting violently against society, some of them with inborn criminal tendencies, some taking the law into their own hands, others carried away by the excitement, the thrill of rebelling against the law. The motivation was not all-important to a policeman, who had to deal with effects, not causes, but if one could find the motivation one was often halfway towards prevention, and that meant halfway towards a cure.