Dawson mopped his brow before he continued, which, as Reilly had counted, was at least the tenth time in as many minutes.
“You’ve had us both here for over an hour. Your questions, I feel, have led us nowhere. You arrested my client in connection with the Obscene Publication Act of 1964. Yet, you’ve presented us with no evidence and asked only a relatively small number of questions concerning the alleged crime. Which my client has strongly denied. Gentlemen, I suggest if you can’t do any better, you’ll have to bail my client pending further inquiries, of course.”
“Of course,” mocked Reilly. “My apologies, Mr Dawson. It’s just that I want to get it straight in my head that your client…” – Reilly pronounced the word with the odium he felt it deserved – “…has no connection whatsoever with the pornographic film industry.”
“My client has said so, more than once.”
“You’re sure about that, Mr Summers? You have never made a pornographic film?”
“No, I’ve told you!” said Summers. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
“And the men that worked for you, who are all now dead, their interest in pornography has nothing to do with you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well now, we have evidence that one had sexual relations with teenage girls. You still deny any involvement?”
“I’m beginning to tire of this, gentlemen. You really have nothing on which to hold my client,” said the corpulent Dawson.
“Now hold your horses, Mr Dawson. I’d like to show both you and your client a DVD which came into our possession recently.”
Reilly noticed Summers had tensed a little.
Frederick Dawson stared at them, confused.
Reilly crossed the room of the interview cell and started the DVD player. Instead of watching the action he’d already seen, he chose instead to monitor the expressions of his captive audience. The film featured Warthead in a panelled library. He was standing in front of a desk. A teenage girl with a frightened expression was stretched across it, performing oral sex on him. After a few minutes, Reilly switched it off.
“What do you make of that, Mr Summers?”
“It’s filth! I really have no idea why you wanted to show it to me.”
“No?” Reilly feigned surprise. “Have you not seen it before?”
“I most certainly haven’t.” Summers glanced at his solicitor.
The solicitor was clearly taken aback, judging by his astonished expression.
“So, it’s not your library?” said Reilly.
“Pardon?”
“I asked whether or not that sex film was made in your library?”
“Of course it wasn’t. I keep telling you, I don’t make pornography.”
“Gentlemen,” Dawson cut in, holding his hands up in supplication. “You have no proof that the library in question is the one in my client’s home. It could have been anyone’s library.”
“Oh, but we have, Mr Dawson.” Reilly rewound the tape and played it once more, pausing the film at a specific spot. “Take a closer look, both of you. You’ll notice in the background, just on that wall there.” Reilly pointed to the screen. “See the coat of arms, do you not?”
“Which proves what?” said Dawson.
“It proves it’s your client’s library.”
“Nonsense! The coat of arms you’re talking about is not clear enough to make a positive identification. It could be anyone’s.”
Dawson blew out a puff of air and mopped his brow, again.
Briggs intervened, picking up an A4 manila envelope, which had been on the floor near his chair. “We thought you’d say that. So, we took the liberty of asking our experts to enlarge the image of the coat of arms. It’s amazing what they can do these days, isn’t it?”
Briggs passed over the photos. Despite being a little grainy, the design, shape and insignias were all clear enough.
Summers grew flustered.
Briggs pointed at the photo. “If you look at the bottom of the coat of arms, you’ll notice the name ‘Summers’. You see, the Detective Sergeant is extremely observant, not to mention intelligent. Only this morning he drove to Sheffield. There’s a shopping centre called Meadowhall. And down ‘The Lanes’ there’s a shop specializing in name searches. They also have the most comprehensive range of coats of arms we’ve ever seen. And guess what? Here’s yours!” Briggs passed over a computer-generated image.
After allowing the new information to sink in, Reilly asked, “Now, do you still deny it’s your library?”
Summers glared at Reilly. As did Frederick Dawson, his brow furrowed, his concern evident.
“Mr Reilly! Mr Briggs!” Summers said, his attitude no longer condescending. “I had no idea my library was being used for immoral purposes.”
“Did you not? You’ve no idea who’s having sex across your desk?”
“None at all. Believe me, I shall get to the bottom of this.”
“So will we.”
“I have to tell you gentlemen that I do spend a lot of time out of town attending conferences,” said Summers.
His condescending grin was really beginning to irritate Reilly.
“You’re saying that all of the illegal material has been filmed in your absence?”
“Most certainly. I can tell you, as I have done on many occasions, I am not connected to any paedophile ring, nor have I any interest in the type of filth you’ve shown me.”
Reilly noted a return of confidence in the agent’s manner.
“Yes, I appreciate that. But you see, we have a wee bit more incriminating evidence. If you look at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen, you’ll notice the time and date. It tells me, as it should you, that the production – despite being reasonable quality – is an amateur one. It’s been made on a video camera, not a film camera.”
Summers’ face
