Page 385 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Fuckin’ murder,’ sneered Jones. ‘’Oo’s murdered?’
‘Your friend Tyler,’ said Strike.
‘’E’s workin’ in a pub!’
‘Proof?’ said Strike.
‘In touch wiv ’im, ’i’n I?’
‘Spoken to him? Not just texts?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Be very fucking careful what you claim here,’ said Strike. ‘Because if it was only texts – and all this is checkable – it’ll go better for you in court. Easy to miss an impersonation by text, not so easy when hearing a voice. Think carefully, now. You keep lying about speaking to Tyler post June last year, you’ll be wishing all they’ve got on you’s rape. You’ll be an accessory to murder, colluding with Griffiths to pretend Tyler’s still alive. Didn’t you think it was strange, Tyler asking you from his new number to call his grandmother and pose as him?’
‘That was jus’ a joke—’ began Jones.
‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ bellowed Griffiths. ‘He’s fuckingtrappingyou, can’t—?’
‘I’m not trapping you,’ said Strike, still talking to Jones. ‘If you believed you were being asked favours by an old mate, having a bit of fun with a daft old lady, that’s a whole different ball game to covering up a killing.’
Strike thought he understood the category of youthful male friendship to which Powell, Pratt and Jones had belonged. Shared schooldays, banter, drink, but no deeper understanding whatsoever, and never any confidences. It didn’t surprise him that all had hidden gigantic secrets from each other; he’d had friendships like those himself. And in any case, Powell would have known that, had he told these two idiots the truth about Griffiths’ hidden home life, he’d risk more than his own life.
There was movement in the doorway behind Strike. He turned his head gingerly, because of the extreme pain in the ear to which he was pressing the bedsheet, and saw Barclay.
‘Only ever seen one other gadgie piss himself,’ said Barclay, surveying the men on the rug with an air of academic interest. Sure enough, whether because he’d drunk too much in the Horsehay pub, or had felt so much panic at the trend of the conversation he couldn’t help himself, Mickey Edwards had just lost control of his bladder. A large wet stain was spreading on the rug and Jones was now sitting in the man’s urine.
‘Fuck’ssake,Mick!’ he roared.
‘Strike,’ said Barclay, now looking at the detective’s injury, ‘your fucking ear—’
‘What’s happening with the girl?’
‘Need pliers. When’s the ambulance—?’
‘When I call it. Go see if you can find whisky or brandy – fucking anything strong. Bring the bottle.’
Barclay disappeared again.
‘You’ve been played,’ Strike told Jones, who was now sitting in a puddle of piss, ‘and what you decide to do now could make a difference of ten years to your jail sentence. Your friend Tyler’s dead and he was lured to his death through the Abused and Accused website. I think one of you two recommended that site to him, because he sure as fuck wouldn’t have taken advice from this cunt,’ he said, indicating Griffiths. ‘So, which way round did it go? Did one of you mention Abused and Accused to Tyler, and then tell Griffiths he was posting there? Or did Griffiths recommend it to you, as a place Tyler could go for adv—’
‘Yea—’ began Pratt, but Griffiths suddenly shouted,
‘Shut it!’
‘You was helping him,’ said Pratt, evidently in the belief he was assisting Griffiths, and Strike would have grinned but for the fact that grinning would require muscles connected to his bleeding ear.
‘Did Griffiths tell you not to tell Tyler the recommendation came from him?’
‘Y—’
‘Shut it, for fuck’s sake!’ howled Griffiths.
‘You’re a smart man, Darren,’ said Strike, and Pratt gaped at him, doubtless because he’d never been told he was clever in his life. ‘Keep telling the truth, and it’ll go far better for you with the police, I promise you that.
‘So,’ said Strike to Griffiths, ‘Tyler posts under the name of his favourite car, Austin “H” for Healey, and he says “my girlfriend’s father’s spreading rumours about me”, because he fucking knew you were behind it all, didn’t he? He might even have suspected you caused the crash. A midget-sized person was caught on camera skulking around the car in Birmingham. Nobody ever seems to have asked themselves whether the intended target of the crash wasn’t Tyler himself, seeing as it was his car and he was supposed to be going to the concert.’
‘You can’t—’
