Page 386 of The Hallmarked Man
‘You’re right,’ said Strike, ‘I can’t prove it, but it doesn’t matter. Whether or not you tampered with the car, you turned the crash to good account afterwards, didn’t you? You wanted to drive Tyler out of Ironbridge, get him well away from Chloe, and corner him somewhere an undersized little cunt like you might have a chance of getting rid of him. Did Todd ever tell you why he used “Kojak” to draw Tyler in, by the way?’
‘I don’t know who Todd is,’ said sweaty-faced Griffiths.
‘How many short, fat sex offenders have you murdered lately? Kojak. King-Jack. Starting hand at poker. Like you calling yourself Skunk, to chat up Sofia Medina.’
Griffiths’ face was becoming increasingly grey.
‘I don’t—’
‘Skunk Baxter. Guitarist for Steely Dan.’
‘These are just fucking—’
‘Usernames, yeah,’ said Strike, ‘and I admit, on their own, they’re not much, but I’ve got a feeling your hard drive’s going to tell a different story.’
Barclay reappeared, holding pliers in one hand and a bottle of Teacher’s whisky in the other. He handed the latter to Strike.
‘How’re you getting on?’ asked Strike.
‘Nearly there,’ said Barclay.
‘Great. Do me another favour before you go,’ said Strike, letting the bloodstained sheet fall so he could unscrew the bottle of Teacher’s, ‘and search both of them for phones. Not the one who pissed himself,’ he added. ‘The other two.’
Through his undamaged ear, Strike heard the back door open and close. Shortly afterwards, Wardle reappeared in the room.
‘There are no girls tied up opposite.’
‘Didn’t think there would be,’ Strike admitted. He swigged some whisky. It didn’t noticeably ease his pain, but it helped a little, nonetheless.
‘The hell are you drinking for?’ said Wardle.
‘What are you, my fucking wife? Cheers,’ Strike added, as Barclay handed him two mobiles, then left, pliers in hand. ‘Don’t fucking loom over me,’ Strike told Wardle tetchily. ‘Take a seat, if you’re staying.’
Wardle sat down beside Griffiths on the sofa, looking thoroughly disapproving.
‘You look like you’re about to pass out,’ he told Strike.
‘I’m fine,’ said Strike, taking a second, larger swig of whisky. ‘Anyway,’ he continued to Jones and Pratt, ‘Tyler had an EpiPen, right? Because of his peanut allergy?’
‘Yeah,’ said Pratt cautiously.
‘He dropped it in front of witnesses,’ Strike told Griffiths. ‘Lied, tried to cover it up, but they’ll know exactly what it was once they see one.’
Even though he was able to hear out of only one ear, Strike distinctly detected the sound of a distant siren.
‘You called the police?’ he demanded of Wardle.
‘No,’ said Wardle, and, looking confused, he got up again and left the room.
Afraid Wardle was lying, and even more afraid that he wouldn’t be able to finish what he’d started, Strike said to Griffiths:
‘This whole plan was predicated on you being a fucking pygmy, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Griffiths.
‘You didn’t stand a chance in hell of taking on Powell face to face, so you and Todd cooked up a weaselly little plan, didn’t you? You and him did good business back in the nineties, right? Moving girls between brothels and private houses? Gettin’ to rape and abuse with impunity whenever you fancied it? But you managed to slither off before the ring got busted in Belgium, didn’t you?’
‘I’ve never been to Belgium,’ said Griffiths. ‘Ever.’
