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“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.
