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Adrenaline replaced Chris’s fear. “And if the Irishman gets you, you’ll wish you were dead.”
The little man addressed the butler. “Quite the little dreamer, isn’t he, Alfred? If only his father were as good as Christopher thinks he is.”
When the little man turned back to Chris, he noticed the immediate change of expression. The little man’s eyes were like black marbles, and his smile was more a leer, not friendly as it had been so far.
Chris panicked. He’d overstepped the mark. Him and his big mouth. He wished he hadn’t spoken. His bladder reached the bursting point. He didn’t want to soil himself, but at the same time, he didn’t think he’d be allowed to run to the bathroom without it appearing like he was trying to run away.
“Now you listen to me, young man. Your father isn’t going to find you. He hasn’t found the others, has he? Or who’s responsible. Nor has he found their killer.”
Chris’s eyes opened so wide, he thought they were going to pop out and roll down his cheeks. He couldn’t believe how cold eyes became when the eyelids were at their widest aperture.
What did he mean by ‘the others’?
“As a policeman, your father has had his day. He’s finished.”
Chris’s bottom lip trembled. He could feel the awful tightening of his throat, like when he was going to be sick. He hoped he wouldn’t be. He knew the little man wouldn’t be pleased.
He approached Chris and leaned down into his face. “If your father had been any good, he’d have saved your mother.”
“Don’t you dare talk about him like that!” Chris sprang up at such a pace, he launched the breakfast tray into the air. The crockery crashed against the wall, leaving a trail of soggy Weetabix slithering down to the skirting. The butler had taken a step back, nearly losing his balance. The little man was far more agile.
When Chris was on his feet, he had no idea what to do with his short-lived advantage. He saw a raised arm, felt the stinging blow to his cheek. He spun round and hit the bed, holding his face, sobbing. The little man gave him no time to recover, twisting Chris onto his back, and grabbing him by the throat to pin him to the bed.
“You’re going to be sorry, young man. By God, you’re going to be sorry. You see, I’ve now decided that your father is going to come here, because it’s exactly where I want him. I’m going to make him sorry for meddling in my affairs. The pair of you have made me very angry. I’m going to see you pay.”
Hot, steaming urine flooded Chris’s pants.
“He’ll be forced to watch what I do to you. Can you imagine how humiliating that’s going to be? It’ll probably kill him. Which will save me the job.”
The little man turned and left the room. The butler followed, locking the door behind him.
Chris buried his face in his hands, crying, and silently pleading for his dad to help.
Chapter Sixty-nine
“Derek Summers, I’m arresting you under the Obscene Publications Act of 1964.” Briggs glared at Summers with contempt. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Briggs glanced at Reilly. “Take him away.”
Summers stood up from behind his desk, staring at his butler. “Alfred, phone Frederick. Tell him to meet me at the station.”
He turned to Briggs. “When my solicitor’s finished, you’ll realize you’re making a big mistake.”
Briggs ignored Summers as Reilly marched him out to the car. He turned to the other officers present in the room. “Search this place from top to bottom.”
Chapter Seventy
“Gentlemen, I feel it’s time to intervene on my client’s behalf.”
Reilly shot a disapproving glance at Frederick Dawson. It wasn’t the interruption, but the fact that he disliked the obese lawyer as much as his client. Weighing in at around twenty-five stone, Dawson had thinning grey hair with an annoying squint in one eye, which happened to be slightly lower than the other. He was equally as condescending as Summers.
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.”
