Summers sighed loudly as if he’d said all there was to say on the matter. “It’s a film production company. We specialize in travel documentaries. Teams of people drive all over the country, filming resorts, hotels, places of interest. We use it to promote holidays in Britain.”
“What’s your involvement?” asked Gardener.
“I put up the money.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes, Mr Gardener, that’s it.”
“Where is it based?”
“Buckinghamshire, inside Pinewood Studios.”
“Rather a long way. How did you become involved?”
“I think you’re straying from the point. I thought the reason for your visit was to establish my movements last night.”
Gardener stood up fast, banging his fist on the desk. “Don’t tell me my job. I’m investigating a series of murders. I’ll ask whatever questions I please. Do you understand me?”
Summers didn’t answer, but his expression said they had him worried.
Reilly spoke up. “Seeing as we have a warrant, you’ll have no objection to me having a nosey round, will you, Mr Summers?”
“So long as you have no objection to my butler joining you.”
“None at all. In fact, I’d appreciate the company.” The butler was summoned, and the pair of them left the study, leaving Gardener alone with Summers.
“So, where was I?” Gardener feigned losing his train of thought. “Oh, yes. Plum, Thornwell, and Myers all worked as Santas for you. They sometimes doubled as clowns. They never appeared in the films you make, did they?”
“Not at all, Mr Gardener. The film side of my business is strictly separate.”
“And the only films you’re involved with are travel documentaries?”
“I’ve told you.”
Gardener left the desk, studying the movie posters. He scrutinized each one. The frames, the edges, everything he could take in, down to the most infinitesimal detail. He was certain the man was involved, and if he was going to avoid being dragged over hot coals for the warrant he had acquired, he needed evidence. Maybe he also needed a change of tactics. “Are you a big movie buff, Mr Summers?”
“Yes. I’ve always loved the cinema, particularly the old-time musicals. They don’t make them like that anymore.”
“No. And have you always wanted to be involved with films?” Gardener had moved over to the door in the corner. The aroma of perfume was stronger. He turned to face Summers, leaning back against the door.
“No. Not really, Mr Gardener.” Summers stood up. “Look, if you’re here to establish where I was last night, I’ve told you. All this talk of films is leading nowhere. I run a film production company that has nothing to do with my theatrical business. Now, I appreciate you have an investigation to carry out, but I suspect you’d be better employed elsewhere. The only common link for the three Santas is that they worked for me. I had nothing to do with their deaths and, if necessary, I can provide alibis for the nights they were murdered.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But what really gets me, apart from the fact they all worked for you, is their common interest in pornography. I find it hard to accept they all had such an obsession with it, that they should end up starring in the films themselves.”
“Pardon?” said Summers, clearly disturbed.
“You heard me. I have in my possession a pornographic film in which Herbert Plum was having sex with underaged girls. And not just any underaged girls.”
Gardener walked slowly across the room, to within an inch of the entertainment agent. His disgust of the man was beginning to increase. He could smell guilt, but he needed more. “Teenagers that are currently on the missing persons list. So, that makes more than one common link, Mr Summers.”
Even through the cigar smoke, Gardener could see that the colour in his face had drained.
When he finally spoke, his once calm reserve had disappeared. “Are you saying that the people I employed to work with children are part of a paedophile ring?”
“I seem to remember hinting at it last time, only you weren’t so concerned then.”
Gardener sat back down.