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“Your outrageous accusations.” Summers danced around the desk before standing directly in front of the two detectives.
“I haven’t made any.”
Summers raised a hand. “You intimated I made pornography!”
“But I didn’t accuse you. Look at the facts, Mr Summers. Two corpses connected with your company. One with an unsavoury interest in pornography. Both, until recently, regularly employed by you. What conclusions would you draw?” Gardener turned to Reilly. “Are you ready, Sean?”
The detectives made for the door. As Gardener opened it, he turned back toward Summers, who had not moved. “One more question. I’m not a handwriting expert, but from your books, I’d say you were left-handed. Am I right?”
The little man gave him a perplexed expression. “What does my being left-handed have to do with anything?”
“Answer the question!”
“Yes, I am. Now, will you please leave? I do have appointments to keep.”
“I appreciate your time, Mr Summers,” Gardener smiled, tipping his hat. “But I’m not happy. I think you’re hiding something. I will be back.”
On the way back to the car, Gardener said to Reilly, “I want a full investigation on that man. I want to know everything he’s done since the day he was born.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
“Have you seen the papers?”
Briggs slammed a copy of The Yorkshire Post down on his desk. The two detectives stared at the headline: “Police Violence!”
It was no less than Gardener expected. As he read through it, the article was filled with details of the murder, uncooperative detectives, and police brutality. The broadsheet had then decided to run an opinion poll, ‘Did the public have a right to know?’ One diligent reporter had also insinuated a link between the Rawston incident and the corpse found within the grounds of St John’s Church.
Briggs glared at Reilly. “Slipped your mind, did it, Reilly? The fact that you’d assaulted a reporter?”
“I didn’t.”
“It’s not what he says.”
“He sells papers.”
“You took his camera away from him,” said Briggs, leaning back in his chair.
“Which isn’t assault,” argued Reilly.
Briggs turned over the front page. “I think the photograph taken here paints a different picture.”
In the shot, Reilly had his hands around the photographer’s throat as they tumbled. “It isn’t how it looks.”
“So you keep saying. How is it, then? ’cause from where I’m sitting, it’s assault.”
“I tried to stop him taking any more photos, and I fell down the steps.”
“Oh, come on, Reilly, even you can do better than that. You’re not exactly known for using kid gloves. Are you really trying to tell me it was an accident?”
“What’s the point in me saying anything? You’ll believe what you want, at the end of the day.”
Briggs turned to Gardener. “What have you got to say about it?”
“I’m with him. You’ve seen the photo, and you’ve obviously made your mind up.”
Briggs stood, knocking his chair over in the process. “There’s a lot of point! I want your version of events. All I’ve had from you two so far is a boat load of trouble, and you’re no nearer to catching the killer. You’ve no idea what’s being used to kill the victims. I have a landlord putting in a claim against us because you wrecked his pub. Now, we have the newspapers claiming police brutality. The Chief Constable is furious. I’ve had him breathing down my neck all bloody morning. So now can you see why I want an explanation?”
Gardener didn’t need the aggravation or the pressure the case was putting on them. He was well aware of how it appeared without Briggs listing his grievances. “I know how bad things look at the moment, but the case is not cut and dried. You’ve seen all the reports. Whichever line of inquiry we take, it’s a dead end.”
