Laker believed Williamson was going to kill him. His bowels spasmed. Williamson seemed to guess. He leaned over him.
‘Scared, Charlie? You ought to be. Even if I don’t kill you, I can guarantee you’ll be shitting in a bag for the rest of your life.’
Laker’s face burned. His breath was coming in laboured puffs. God, his collar bone hurt. His right arm was useless from the blow to the elbow. He was finding it hard to think straight as the pain washed over him. He’d done some lousy things in his life but did he want to go down for doing this stupid fucking favour for Bernie Grimes?
‘Let me make a phone call,’ he gasped.
‘Fuck that.’
‘No, really. To stop something.’
‘Stop what?’
‘There are supposed to be ten.’
‘Some slimy Sultan’s special order? Ten young English girls for his harem?’
Williamson raised the cosh again. Laker shrank back.
‘It’s not like that.’
‘What then?’
‘Bernie Grimes.’
Williamson laughed mirthlessly but lowered the cosh.
‘Bernie Grimes. Now that name is music to my ears.’
‘I need a doctor.’
‘You need a microphone and a tape recorder, which I just happen to have.’
‘Won’t be admissible as evidence.’
Williamson smiled again.
‘Let me worry about that.’
Gilchrist’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out and looked at the screen. Reg Williamson. She moved down the boat and took the call.
‘Sarah? It’s Reg.’
‘Reg. How is it going? This isn’t a particularly good time.’
‘I’m realizing the beast is in all of us.’
Gilchrist looked back at Watts.
‘You got that right. Are you OK?’
‘Charlie Laker is in a gabby mood. In fact, he’s like a water spout. Can’t shut the fucker up — excuse my French. Oh — except you are in France.’
‘You OK, Reg? You sound a bit hyper. Have you arrested Laker?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘What does that mean? Reg. .?’
‘We found five girls locked up in the back of one of his containers, no doubt headed for a brothel somewhere. Snatched in Milldean. Five others targeted for later dispatch. You’ll never guess who they are.’
‘Where exactly are you, Reg?’
‘They are the girls you rescued Sarah Jessica from.’
‘What?’
‘I know. Imagine that. The very girls she said her father would make pay for what they’d done.’
‘Laker is working with Bernie Grimes?’
‘Apparently so. And if you think about it, that makes a lot of sense for the Milldean thing. He’s copped to that too.’
‘He admitted all this?’
‘Oh yes. And more. Much more.’
‘How? Why was he so willing to talk?’
‘Got to go now.’
‘Reg. You’re worrying me.’
‘You’ve long been a worry to me but I’ve always been proud of you. Now think on, Sarah. Make use of what I’ve told you to get Bernie to grass on Charlie.’
‘Reg. Stay on the line a minute, will you?’
‘Got to go, lass. You take care now.’
Gilchrist realized she was gripping her mobile so tightly her fingers were aching. The line went dead.
Reg Williamson had seen a film a couple of years earlier. Made in the sixties in Brighton. A B-movie but it had been on at the Duke of York’s in a retrospective of Brighton-based films. He couldn’t remember how he’d ended up there. The Odeon was more his sort of cinema. In one scene they’d sent a car over Beachy Head for real. He’d expected it to soar — like Thelma and Louise’s convertible over the Grand Canyon — but its head had dipped and it had kind of rolled down the cliff face. He’d guessed they’d had to roll it because there was no stuntman foolish enough to drive it at speed towards the edge then jump out.
He didn’t imagine his wife had soared. She wasn’t the soaring type, especially after David’s suicide.
He looked at Laker beside him, gaffer-taped to his seat, in loop after brown loop, more tape round his mouth, his eyes bugging. Williamson was pretty sure the gangster had fouled his pants. He’d probably be doing it again soon.