THIRTEEN
LONDON, 2012 AD
David Briggs felt his priority mobile phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. Breaking off a dictation, with no explanation to his secretary, he hurried through to his office and shut the door.
“What have you got for me?”
He listened and, unimpressed, treated Bentley to one of his polished cross-examinations; he circled, like a fencer, feinting, waiting to thrust home. He listened as the detective struggled to convince him.
“As I say, I’ve got the box. No. I’m quite sure the girl had no more to tell me. She was wetting herself with fear. No, I didn’t need to use physical methods. Well, not many. No, of course not. Yes, I am sure. I know how to do my job.” By now exasperated, Bentley stared at his reflection in the lounge mirror and wasn’t pleased at the angry expre
