Briggs remained silent for so long, Reilly thought he was never going to speak again.
“You don’t have to watch it,” he said to Briggs. “I’m not watching because I want to. If it means getting Chris back, though, I’ll watch them continuously until I find what I’m looking for. There’s only one more anyway.”
“Okay,” replied Briggs. “Fair comment. I’ll get us a coffee and I’ll join you.”
When Briggs returned, Reilly set the disc playing. He was sick to the stomach at having to endure watching the teenage girls and the torture they were being subjected to.
Reilly paid attention to every minute detail in the background. By the end of the film, though, he had learned nothing.
He checked his watch, disappointed. It was a little after one in the morning. Reilly glanced at Briggs. “Look, I’m sorry I put you through it. I just thought…”
“I know.” Briggs finished the sentence. “You’re a good man, Reilly. I may not like your tactics, but I can’t knock your dedication, either to the job or your friend.”
“More compliments?”
Briggs laughed. “I think we’d better call it a night. Your missus won’t be pleased.”
Reilly sighed in defeat. “No. I don’t suppose she will.”
They were about to leave the room when a noise from the TV attracted their attention.
Reilly had forgotten to switch off the machine. On the screen, the disc loaded the final untitled chapter.
As Reilly watched on, his blood curdled, and his heart missed a beat.
Chapter Sixty-seven
Gardener studied his watch. Six hours he’d been in the city centre. It felt like six years. At two o’clock in the morning, the bustling metropolis was an alien environment to him – a collection of unfamiliar landscapes in a world where he no longer felt socially adept. Late night revellers spilled out of clubs singing Christmas carols, filling their faces, or groping each other while waiting in taxi ranks.
In the early hours, the city streets smelled of fuel and vomit and urine as drunks fought to gain access to doorways or telephone booths or anywhere they could find to perform bodily functions. The noise was phenomenal, more akin to rush hour on a Friday night. Unlike peak time, however, the noise and the crowds died quickly, leaving Gardener alone.
He was sitting on a park bench on the grounds of St John’s Church, next to the kiosk where he’d first met Bob Crisp. Despite not knowing where to start, the obvious answer had been the city’s down-and-outs. Surprisingly, there were very few around. Those he had come across were either intoxicated or refused to speak to him, possibly realizing that no matter how he dressed, he was not one of them. The few who were prepared to give him the time of day were rendered mentally incapacitated at the mere mention of Bob Crisp, or The Bear.
Gardener felt totally inadequate. More than once he’d questioned his motives and his actions. Shouldn’t he be out searching for Chris, rather than some vagrant that may or may not have the answer? Gardener was confident his son had been lured away by Warthead. Like the other teenagers. Shouldn’t he be searching for Felix, or whatever he called himself?
His spine crawled. He felt sick to the stomach as the words of Lesley Vickers returned to haunt him. A vivid mental picture of the day they stood by her son’s grave entered his head. It might be your son next time. He couldn’t let that happen. Anger was building within Gardener like a volcano. If he so much as caught sight of Warthead, he’d kill him on the spot with his bare hands. After he’d found out where Chris was.
He stood up and sighed. It was late. He was tired, hungry, and cold. He smelled. His mood was totally despondent. The only person in the world that mattered to him was missing – God knows where, being subjected to God knows what. He didn’t have a clue where to start his search. Nor could he find the one person his partner suspected may provide him with answers.
Could life be any worse?
As if on cue, a voice behind him spoke up and said, “Well, look what we have here, boys.”
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chris heard the rattle of crockery beyond the door at the far side of the room. The door unlocked, and in stepped the small man and the elderly butler he’d seen yesterday. At least, Chris thought he was a butler.
“Ah, Christopher. And how are you this morning?”
Chris didn’t reply. He didn’t want to. He was struggling to remember exactly what had happened. He could recall leaving school to go to the chip shop, but he’d never made it there. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room in which he was now being held prisoner.
“I’ve brought your breakfast, young man. Of course, not knowing your preference, I’ve chosen cereal and toast. I hope you like it.”
Chris was frightened. No one had done anything to him since he’d woken, but he was still unsettled. He had no idea where he was, how long he’d been here, or why. Or what these two wanted of him. As he glanced around the room, it reminded him a little of his dad’s bedroom. It had a big bed, a sink in the corner, a separate shower room. It was clean and warm, but not to his taste.
“I do wish you’d talk to me, Christopher.” The small, bespectacled man turned to the butler. “Don’t you, Alfred?” He turned his attention back to Chris. “It’ll make things easier for you in the long run.”
Chris realized the advice was probably good. It may be better for him if he played along. He found himself thinking about David Vickers, wondering if
