Page 217 of The Hallmarked Man
Matthew Arnold
The Buried Life
‘I think we can get back down to the High Street that way,’ said Robin, looking at an almost vertically descending lane just around the corner from Griffiths’ house, which seemed to lead towards the foot of the hill, ‘but—’
‘I’d rather go back the way we came,’ said Strike, which wasn’t entirely true: what he’d rather have done was get into a cable car that would take him painlessly back to his car.
They retraced their steps in silence. The ascent of New Street had been bad enough; the descent was placing so much strain on Strike’s right knee he was afraid at every step it was going to buckle. Dilys hadn’t yet reached her house. She was ambling along very slowly with the aid of the walking frame in the distance, small and squat in her tartan coat, but as Strike and Robin were moving in such dilatory fashion themselves they barely gained on her, and Dilys had let herself into her cottage and closed the door before they drew alongside it.
‘D’you want to eat something while we debrief?’ said Strike when they finally reached the bottom of the street, trying not to wince and hoping it wasn’t obvious how much he was sweating.
‘OK,’ said Robin.
‘There’s a pub where I left my car,’ said Strike, so they headed for the Swan Taphouse, a large, light grey hotel that faced the slow-moving river. Wooden tables were set outside, sheltered by square blueumbrellas. Strike fixed his eyes on the nearest bench until he reached it. Having dropped onto it with relief, he caught Robin’s eye, and remembered that women tended not to share his indifference to cold.
‘If you’d rather go inside—’
‘No,’ said Robin stiffly, torn between irritation that he hadn’t consulted her and reluctant compassion, because she could tell that he was in agony, ‘it’s fine. I’ll get some drinks; what d’you want?’
‘Zero-alcohol beer,’ said Strike. ‘Any kind.’
A barmaid came out of the building shortly after Robin had entered it. Though clearly surprised to find customers who preferred the beer garden to interior seating in January, she handed Strike two paper menus. He took out his notebook, but watched the khaki-coloured water, and people walking along the bank with their dogs, until Robin reappeared with his beer and a tomato juice for herself.
‘So,’ said Strike, when she’d sat down opposite him, ‘thoughts on Powell?’
‘Well, he mentioned silver,’ said Robin, ‘allegedly – but…’
‘He might’ve been talking about a car he was re-spraying at his garage, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Although there must be pubs called the silver something. Think “Silver”’s a surname, too, unless that was just Long John.’
He’d hoped this might raise a flicker of a smile from Robin, but was disappointed.
‘Well, we should definitely speak to this friend of Tyler’s, Wynn Jones,’ Strike continued. ‘We could go and find the farm after we’ve eaten.’
‘I can’t hang around that long. I’m supposed to be watching Fyola Fay’s house first thing tomorrow. You can do Jones alone.’
‘Right,’ said Strike.And you’ve got to go and look at more houses with fucking Murphy, of course.
Both were having difficulty looking the other in the eye. The bench put less space between them than the table in the Tontine Hotel, and Robin, determined to keep talk on work matters, and not to give Strike any pretexts for asking about her coldness, said,
‘Tyler seems a good candidate for visiting Abused and Accused.’
‘Yeah, he does,’ said Strike, while Robin pulled out her phone to examine the pictures she’d taken of the WhatsApp messages between Tyler and Dilys.
‘Tyler’s last message from his old number was just before Wrightwas murdered. Then he sends her a new number, saying he’s being “hassled” on the old one. She thought Wynn Jones was pretending to be him, for some reason… I’m going to try that number.’
The phone rang a few times and then a pre-recorded message played.
‘This is Tyler, I’m busy, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Hi Tyler,’ said Robin. ‘My name’s Robin Ellacott and I’d really like to talk to you if possible.’ She dictated her own mobile number, then hung up.
‘Coincidental timing, him starting to text from a new number right after Wright was murdered,’ said Strike.
‘Yes,’ said Robin, still examining the messages rather than looking Strike in the eye. ‘Although peoplewereangry with him. In those Instagram comments I found, they were demanding Chloe Griffiths take down her pictures of him, because they didn’t want to look at him. He might well have got sick of getting horrible texts or calls.’
‘True,’ said Strike, whose overriding aim at the moment was to ease the tension between himself and Robin.
‘But the police must have seen these messages,’ said Robin, still looking at the phone rather than her partner, ‘and they didn’t rule him out, so presumably they haven’t got credible evidence he’s still alive.’
