It was exactly as Bob Crisp had described, with cameras, lights, scenery, and the director’s chair.
Gardener spotted a door in the corner. He scurried over. It was locked.
“Chris!” shouted Gardener. There was no reply. He pushed against the door, but it wouldn’t move. He knew he didn’t have the strength to force it down himself.
“Sean, go and see if that creep of a butler is around.”
As Reilly climbed the stairs, Gardener struggled to lift his leg. With all the strength he could muster, he ignored his pain and crashed it into the door above the handle. Although it didn’t give, he knew it wouldn’t take much pressure before it did.
Then he heard a voice. “Dad?”
“Chris?”
Chris sounded distant. Maybe the walls were thick. Perhaps he’d been woken up by all the noise. Either way, it was one of the most inviting sounds he had ever heard. If nothing else, Chris sounded okay.
“Chris, don’t worry, I’m here. Stand well back from the door. I’m coming in.”
Renewed enthusiasm charged through his body. Gardener glanced around the studio, noticing a fire extinguisher. He picked it up. It was heavier than he’d anticipated. He struggled with the hydrant, but seeing his son again gave him the encouragement he needed.
With every ounce of strength he had, he lifted the red canister and charged the door, shouting as he did. He misjudged his aim, running into the doorframe instead, knocking himself completely off his feet. The pain from his ribs nearly killed him.
He was barely aware of Reilly running past him and bouncing into the door with his whole body. It opened with a crash, slamming into whatever was behind. Reilly switched on the light. Chris shielded his eyes with one hand as it bathed his room. In the other he held a lamp, much like one would a sword.
The Irishman helped Gardener to his feet. Chris dropped the lamp and ran out of the room. Gardener noticed his son was dressed only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, neither of which, he knew, belonged to him.
“Dad!” shouted Chris.
Gardener felt his son’s arms wrap around him. Despite the pain, he was overwhelmed with how good it felt to see him again. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay. Everything will be all right.”
Gardener felt Chris shaking, like a frightened sparrow he’d saved from a cat. “It’s going to be okay, Chris. Trust me.”
Inside the room, Reilly threw furniture around, turning the place upside down. When he emerged, he held Chris’s soiled clothes.
Gardener saw them and eased Chris’s arms apart. He steadily lowered himself so he came face-to-face with him. He winced as he realized Chris had a black eye and a scratch across his cheek. His son’s face must have mirrored his own.
“What’s happened to your face, Dad?”
“Never mind me, son. What about you?”
Chris’s cheek was swollen. It was obvious he’d taken a fair punch. He remembered Bob Crisp’s words, that Summers only beat women and children. The rage within Gardener was building. He was going to crucify Summers. Trails of dried tears on Chris’s face increased Gardener’s anxiety.
“I’m okay, honest. I was ready for him,” Chris said.
“What do you mean?”
“I was ready.” Chris glanced back into the room. “That lamp, on the bed, I modified it. I was going to fry them if they came near me again.” He stared at the Irishman. “That’s what you’d have done, isn’t it?”
Reilly laughed. “I reckon I would so.”
“Chris,” said Gardener. “I have to ask you something.” He needed an answer. But he was dreading it. “Did Summers… did he… interfere with you?”
Chris, puzzled, shook his head. “He just smacked me around when I knocked a tray out of his hand.”
“That’s all? He didn’t touch you? You know, down there?” Gardener lowered his eyes to his son’s waist for emphasis.
“No, I promise.”
A wave of relief swept over Gardener. Reilly passed over Chris’s clothes. Gardener could smell the overpowering scent of stale urine. He appreciated how disturbing his son’s ordeal must have been, resurrecting painful memories of his own childhood. “Is this why you’re wearing someone else’s boxers?”
Chris didn’t answer the question. “I have to show you something.” He took his father by the hand into the room and showed him all the clothes he’d found in the cupboard.
Gardener stood up, seething inside. “I’m going to kill the bastard. I’m going to the cells tonight, and I’m going to kill him.” Gardener’s voice was even and controlled, unlike his mood.
“You’re in no fit state, boss. And if we’re going to do anything, we’ll do it by the book.”
“What? Let a jury send him to prison so you and I can pay our taxes to keep him in luxury?”
“It’ll hardly be luxury when he’s behind bars. You know as well as I do what happens to filthy perverts.”
“What kind of a smarmy bastard lawyer has he got?”
“Not good enough to keep him out of jail.”
As much as he hated the idea, he knew his partner was right. He was in no fit state to deal with Summers right now. Even if he had been, he wouldn’t have managed to persuade the duty sergeant to let him. He felt so tired, he could have slept for a month.
Gardener paused and then sighed in defeat. “Take us home, Sean.”
“You’re both coming back to ours. Laura’s running a bath, and she’s calling your old man to tell him the news.”
“I need to go home. The portfolio,” persisted Gardener.
“I’ll take you in the morning. Read it with a clear head. Then you and I can take a trip to the cells and deal with him properly.”
As much as Gardener wanted to deal with Summers personally, he knew he couldn’t. Sean was right again.
