Briggs took over. “So, can we clarify it is your library?”
“Er, yes, Mr Briggs, it is.”
“Good. Because it just so happens we still have your diaries with us.” Reilly reached down the side of his chair, placing the books on the table in front of them.
“You’ll notice,” continued Briggs, “that when the pornographic film was made, you were not out of town at all. In fact, the exact date and time shows us you had a meeting. At home. Doesn’t say who with. Would you like to enlighten us, Mr Summers?”
Derek Summers was ashen.
Reilly noticed his hard swallow. At last, he felt he had the bastard.
“You seem to have lost your tongue. Which is a pity, because you’ve quite a lot more explaining to do, so you have. For example, why are four men with a taste for young girls, who worked for you, now dead? What’s happened to the children who were abducted and forced to take part in the sex films? Who killed David Vickers? Who’s the man with the warts?”
Both Briggs and Dawson remained silent, but the solicitor’s expression was grave.
Summers bowed his head, shaking it.
Reilly slammed his hand down hard on the table.
Summers jumped.
As Reilly piled on the pressure, his voice rose. “What I really want to know is, where’s my partner’s son? Detective Inspector Gardener, the man with the hat. He has a son who’s missing now. He went to the same school as David Vickers. Who’s now dead! So too are the teenage girls in the film, I imagine.”
Dawson’s head bobbed up and down and from side to side as he glanced from Briggs to Reilly to Summers.
“I want to know where my partner’s son is.” Reilly pronounced each word and banged the desk more than once. His control went AWOL as he dragged Summers out of his chair by the scruff of his neck. “Where is he?”
Summers cracked under the relentless pressure. “No, please, stop him.”
Dawson clambered out of his seat and waved a finger. “I really must protest your attitude towards my client.” The agent’s brow was a mass of sweat. His eyes dilated.
Briggs finally intervened. “For Christ’s sake, Sean. Let him go!”
Reilly pulled Summers closer still. “You know where he is, don’t you?”
“Detective Sergeant Reilly,” shouted a panting Dawson.
Summers screamed like a frightened child. “Please, get him off me. I’ve never killed anyone.”
Briggs managed to break Reilly’s hold. The Irishman backed off, still blazing.
“Can I have a word in private, Sean?” Briggs asked, already walking toward the door.
Outside, in the corridor, he went on the attack.
“Jesus Christ, Sean! Have you lost your bloody marbles? In front of his solicitor, as well!”
Reilly lowered his voice. “That bastard’s guilty, and you know it.”
“I’ll admit the evidence is stacked against him,” said Briggs. “But there’s still a long way to go, and without a confession, we have to keep pushing.”
As Briggs went back to the door, he turned to face Reilly before opening it. “Let me take it from here.”
Briggs returned to face Summers and Dawson.
It was Dawson who spoke. “That was the most appalling behaviour I’ve ever seen from a policeman. I shall, of course, be filing a complaint, and probably a lawsuit.”
Dawson mopped his brow yet again.
“Feel free to do what you want. But until I’m satisfied of your client’s innocence, he’s staying in custody. Now, if you’d like to come back tomorrow, we’ll resume questioning him.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this.”
“No, I don’t suppose we have,” replied Briggs.
Dawson turned his attention to Summers. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Derek. Don’t you worry about a thing. Don’t say a word to anyone without me.”
Summers merely nodded, too distraught to reply.
Reilly watched as Dawson left, oblivious to the solicitor’s scowl.
Chapter Seventy-one
Shortly after six o’clock, when Reilly had calmed down, he tried to contact Gardener for the fourth time. His superior’s mobile was still switched off.
He called Malcolm, who confirmed he had not heard from his son.
Reilly leaned back in his chair and sighed, concerned.
He’d sent him into the city. He would have to go and retrieve him.
Chapter Seventy-two
Gardener shook himself awake and groaned. He felt rough, groggy. He struggled to focus. The pain in his head resembled a hangover. Every muscle in his body ached, especially his ribs. Gardener’s mouth was dry. Remnants of a coppery taste lingered. His eyes cleared. His vision returned.
Gardener tried to raise himself, but the soreness in his ribs wouldn’t allow much freedom of movement. He became aware of how tender his face was. His left cheek appeared to be housing a tennis ball underneath the skin. He touched it, wishing he hadn’t.
“Keep still. You’ll hurt yourself.” The voice was deep and resonant.
Gardener glanced in its direction and understood why.
It must have been the man they call The Bear. At least he hoped it was. As the giant strolled toward him, he towered over Gardener. He was at least seven feet tall, built like a barn door without an ounce of fat. His chiselled features seemed to have been carved from a block of granite. He had a thick head of glossy black hair. He was dressed in a boiler suit and Doc Martens boots. Gardener’s stomach turned at the sight of him. He would have given anything to run screaming from the nearest exit. Not that he could see one.
The man extended a hand towards Gardener. “Slowly. Your ribs are bruised.”
Gardener glanced around, realizing it was a hand of friendship. He finally accepted the help and struggled to his feet, gasping for breath. The giant assisted Gardener over to a table and chairs.
He had no idea where he was. The room must have been underground somewhere, perhaps a
