Page 39 of Savage Justice

“What’s this about?” he asks warily. “I told the police…”

“We don’t give a fuck what line you sold to the police. This is about Molly Lowe and her children. We need to know exactly what your interest in them is.”

“Who? I don’t know any Molly Lowe…”

“Ah. So, here it begins.” I advance on him. “Shall we just cut the bullshit and get on with business?”

“What are you on about? I don’t—”

I boot his remaining crutch away, and he crumples to the stone floor with a scream. He rolls and writhes on the cold slabs, whimpering about being an injured man and knowing nothing about anything.

I lean against the cell door, my arms folded across my chest. Tony perches on the edge of the stone bunk built into the far end of the cell, the only piece of furniture unless you count the bucket in the corner. He pulls Bairstow’s phone from his pocket and opens it up using the code provided by Frankie.

He slants a bored glance at the man on the floor. “Shut the fuck up, arsehole. I’m talking.”

Bairstow continues to protest and plead from his position at Tony’s feet, earning him a vicious kick in the ribs.

“I said, shut up.”

Tony waits until the whimpering subsides to a steady wheeze, then continues. “You were busy, just before you got yourself arrested. Weren’t you, Jonas? I can call you Jonas, can’t I?”

No answer, so Tony plants his foot on the larger of the somewhat grubby plaster casts. “I’m talking to you, knob-cheese.”

Bairstow screams again. I have to assume Tony is pressing on his injury.

“Are you going to answer my friend, or do we need to remove that pot with a sledgehammer?” I offer him the choice.

“I don’t know anything. I just wanted to talk to the kid. I never meant— Aaaagh!” Tony’s entire weight is brought to bear on the broken fibula, reducing Bairstow to a snotty, sobbing mess.

“Cut the crap,” I growl and drop to my haunches beside him. “You know, and we know, how this will end. You’ll tell us all we want to know, and it’ll be the truth. The only question is, how much will we need to hurt you to get us there. And that’s up to you. The easy way. Well, easier. Or hard.”

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. Just let me go after. Back to prison, I don’t mind…”

“How noble of you. Okay, shall we start over. What do you have against Molly Lowe?”

“I… I…”

Tony applies more weight to the plaster cast, which puts an end to the gibberish.

“I was paid to track her down. I’m a detective. A private investigator…”

“Who do you work for?”

“Myself. I was in the police, but—”

“Drummed out? A bent copper?” An educated guess.

“It was just a few fags that went missing from a lorry. Everyone does it …”

I shrug. I daresay he’s right, but Bairstow was stupid enough to get caught.

“Aren’t you going to have a good time inside? Bent copper and a child molester. I’d give the showers a wide berth if I were you.” I’m beginning to rethink the plan to put him out of his misery here and now. A lengthy stint at the mercy of good, honest cons is perhaps a more fitting punishment.

“Who paid you to find Molly?”

There’s just a slight hesitation, then, “Her ex. Borys Glodowski.”

“Who’s he?”

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