Page 384 of The Hallmarked Man
Wardle re-entered the room holding what looked like a clean bedsheet, which he held out to Strike. The latter took it and pressed it to the left side of his head, which was only marginally less agonising than sticking his finger in his ear had been.
‘Well,’ said Strike, addressing the four handcuffed men with the sheet pressed to his head wound and wishing he felt less sick, ‘you’re all going to be done for the rape of the girl in the basement: that’s a given. The real question is how complicit you are in the other things your friendly neighbourhood pimp has been up to. Were you aware you’ve been palling around with a killer, as well as a sex trafficker?’
‘She ain’t trafficked!’ snarled Jones, peering malevolently up at Strike. ‘She’s up for it!’
‘Is that right?’
‘She’s a runaway,’ said Griffiths. ‘I gave her a place to stay. So she likes sex, so what?’
‘Why’s she chained to a fucking pipe?’
‘Fifty Shades,’ said Griffiths. ‘They like it that way, young girls these days. Ask her. She’ll tell you.’
‘I thought she was consenting!’ sobbed Edwards.
‘Ever stick it in Chloe, Mickey?’ Strike asked. ‘Before she got moved out and Sapphire was moved in?’
‘Never,’ squealed Edwards.
‘Wardle,’ said Strike, ‘get Barclay to pass you up my skeleton keys out of my coat pocket and go and check the house opposite, see whether there’s another girl tied up in there.’
‘You need—’
‘Just go and check the bloody house.’
Wardle left. Strike turned back to the men on the floor.
‘I’m about to do you three a favour.’
He didn’t believe they knew everything; on the contrary, he suspected Griffiths had told them as little as he could get away with. The one who’d known most about Griffiths had undoubtedly been Todd, which was why Todd had had to die. Nevertheless, Strike was certain Griffiths had used these men, too, drawing them carefully into his sordid, secret, hidden life. Men like Griffiths were good at spotting the willing rapist in others; they knew how to bind associates and cats paws to them, compromising them, making them complicit. That would have been how Griffiths, or his deputy Todd, had used grubby-minded, greedy Larry McGee. A big, empty crate from Gibsons, a couple of swapped labels, McGee lured by the promise, not only of money, but also of sex. Perhaps he’d even been permitted to feel Medina up around the corner, while she was distracting him from what was really going on at the rear of his delivery truck.
But Strike, too, was a good assessor of men; Strike, too, knew how to use people. He judged the sobbing Edwards to be worthless; he knew the type:I deny everything, I’m innocent!They’d say it even if blood was dripping from their hands, convinced they could touch hard law-enforcing hearts with carefully feigned pathos. However, the very wiliness of Jones’ stare told Strike a strong self-protectiveinstinct lay within. The skinny youth with bad teeth looked terrified, but even he might be turned to good account. Strike thought it safe to assume both gullibility and malleability in a man so inept he was wearing his hoodie inside out.
‘I’ve done nothing,’ whispered Edwards again. ‘Nothing! I don’t understand…’
‘I’ll help you fucking understand, don’t worry about that,’ said Strike. ‘You two were mates of Tyler’s, right?’ he said to Pratt and Jones.
‘Yeah,’ said Jones aggressively. ‘So?’
‘Let’s talk about that highly convenient car crash.’
‘Lugs never done nothing to that car!’ said Pratt at once.
‘I know that, shit-for-brains,’ said Strike. ‘It was convenient for your mate Griff, not Tyler.’
‘Stop answering his fucking questions!’ said Griffiths, and, clearly feeling it was best to take his defence into his own hands rather than rely on the others, he said, ‘How was it convenient for me?I’mthe one who stuck up for Tyler when everyone fucking turned—’
‘Don’t give me that bollocks. Tyler knew you were at the bottom of those rumours. Posted about you on Abused and Accused, didn’t he? “My girlfriend’s father’s spreading rumours about me.” He was wise to your fucking Oz gambit, as well. Chloe must’ve told him. He tried to tell the real Osgood who you were. It’s partly down to the bloke you think wouldn’t’ve set the world alight with his brains that you’re fucked.’
To Strike’s great satisfaction, the remaining colour now drained out of Griffiths’ face.
This next part of the interview, Strike knew, was key. What he really needed was one of the men to turn, whether deliberately or accidentally, on Griffiths, because it was here, in a tangle of mistaken loyalties and unprovable connections, that justice for Tyler Powell might yet slip beyond his grasp.
‘Did you know,’ said Strike, addressing Jones and Pratt while Edwards continued to quietly sob, ‘that Tyler posted on Abused and Accused, asking for advice?’
‘He’s trying to trap you,’ said the dry-mouthed Griffiths.
‘I’m doing them a favour,’ Strike repeated. ‘I’m showing them you’ve tried to implicate them in murder.’
