‘I’ve had a hell of a day, Charlie, a hell of a day. Quite aside from anything else, I’ve been wondering could I have done things differently, done things better? So if I’m a bit tetchy, blame it on the fact there’s a lot gone on today. Oh, and I’ve just been at Newhaven with the customs boys, opening one of your containers bound for Dieppe. Expecting, you know, rotten meat or some other scummy thing you were intending to offload on our European Community friends. Know what we found?’
Laker moaned, hugging himself.
‘You broke my collar bone — I can’t fucking believe it.’
‘I’m going to do worse than that,’ Williamson said, his belly wobbling as he raised the sap.
Laker had taken beatings before. Dennis Hathaway had beaten the shit out of him when he’d discovered Laker had made his daughter, Dawn, pregnant. The Mexican in prison who’d sliced his face had damned near punched a hole in him first. But all that had been a while ago.
This cop was old school. He knew how to lay it on with minimum effort. A flick of the wrist rather than putting the arm and shoulder into it. He knew where to hit, too. He could do this all day and not break a sweat, despite his weight.
As Laker thought this, Williamson brought the sap down on his elbow. Laker roared. He’d never espoused the idea that keeping shtum when you were taking a beating showed what a tough guy you were. Screaming your nuts off frankly made it more bearable. That way he could take it and survive — and then he’d see about this fat fuck.
‘I’ll beat you to death, you don’t talk to me,’ Williamson said. ‘Then I’ll throw you out of the window and say it was hara-kiri. Think anyone will give a shit?’
The rage was on Williamson all right. He wanted to kill Laker. Williamson’s life had effectively ended when his son had killed himself and Angela had blamed him. Made his life unbearable, in fact. He loved his wife and he lived in misery because he knew he could never leave her.
Instead, she’d now left him. Forever. Taken their car with her. No note. Just their car — and her — smashed to smithereens on the beach below Beachy Head. God. Yeah, God had a lot to fucking answer for.
Williamson looked at Laker and the gangster saw it in his eyes.
‘Do you know the filth I’ve waded through these last months,’ Williamson said, ‘because of your sick ambitions?’
Laker ducked his head and cried out again as his collar bone shifted.
‘Do you know what we found in the back of your container? Do you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Laker gasped.
Williamson bent and hit him on the knee joint. It wasn’t a good strike but Laker grunted. Williamson turned to the woman on the sofa, who was blearily trying to sit up.
‘Five young girls we found,’ Williamson said. ‘Trussed like pigs, lying in their own piss and worse, scared out of their wits. Snatched off the street in Milldean.’ He turned back to Laker. ‘That’s what we found in your container. Headed where, Mr Laker, sir?’
FIFTY-THREE
Laker believed Williamson was going to kill him. His bowels spasmed. Williamson seemed to guess. He leaned over him.
‘Scared, Charlie? You ought to be. Even if I don’t kill you, I can guarantee you’ll be shitting in a bag for the rest of your life.’
Laker’s face burned. His breath was coming in laboured puffs. God, his collar bone hurt. His right arm was useless from the blow to the elbow. He was finding it hard to think straight as the pain washed over him. He’d done some lousy things in his life but did he want to go down for doing this stupid fucking favour for Bernie Grimes?
‘Let me make a phone call,’ he gasped.
‘Fuck that.’
‘No, really. To stop something.’
‘Stop what?’
‘There are supposed to be ten.’
‘Some slimy Sultan’s special order? Ten young English girls for his harem?’
Williamson raised the cosh again. Laker shrank back.
‘It’s not like that.’
‘What then?’
‘Bernie Grimes.’
Williamson laughed mirthlessly but lowered the cosh.
‘Bernie Grimes. Now that name is music to my ears.’
‘I need a doctor.’
‘You need a microphone and a tape recorder, which I just happen to have.’
‘Won’t be admissible as evidence.’
Williamson smiled again.
‘Let me worry about that.’
Gilchrist’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out and looked at the screen. Reg Williamson. She moved down the boat and took the call.
‘Sarah? It’s Reg.’
‘Reg. How is it going? This isn’t a particularly good time.’
‘I’m realizing the beast is in all of us.’
Gilchrist looked back at Watts.
‘You got that right. Are you OK?’
‘Charlie Laker is in a gabby mood. In fact, he’s like a water spout. Can’t shut the fucker up — excuse my French. Oh — except you are in France.’
‘You OK, Reg? You sound a bit hyper. Have you arrested Laker?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘What does that mean? Reg. .?’
‘We found five girls locked up in the back of one of his containers, no doubt headed for a brothel somewhere. Snatched in Milldean. Five others targeted for later dispatch. You’ll never guess who they are.’
‘Where exactly are you, Reg?’
‘They are the girls you rescued Sarah Jessica from.’
‘What?’
‘I know. Imagine that. The very girls she said her father would make pay for what they’d done.’
‘Laker is working with Bernie Grimes?’
‘Apparently so. And if you think about it, that makes a lot of sense for the Milldean thing. He’s copped to that too.’
‘He admitted all this?’
‘Oh yes. And more. Much more.’
‘How? Why was he so willing to talk?’
‘Got to go now.’
‘Reg. You’re worrying me.’
‘You’ve long been a worry to me but I’ve always been proud of you. Now think on, Sarah. Make use of what I’ve told you to get Bernie to grass on Charlie.’
‘Reg. Stay on the line a minute, will you?’
‘Got to go, lass. You take care now.’
Gilchrist realized she was gripping her mobile so tightly her fingers were aching. The line went dead.
Reg Williamson had seen a film a couple of years earlier. Made in the sixties in Brighton. A B-movie but it had been on at the Duke of York’s in a retrospective of Brighton-based films. He couldn’t remember how he’d ended up there. The Odeon was more his sort of cinema. In one scene they’d sent a car over Beachy Head for real. He’d
