‘I was at school there, wa’n I? And I go there for a drink sometimes.’
‘But you’ve never run across Zeta?’
‘No, and if she’s saying Lugs fuckin’ tried to run ’er over, she’s a fuckin’ attention-seeking liar.’
‘What about Rita?’ said Robin. ‘Did you ever hear Tyler mention anyone of that name?’
‘Zeta, Rita – ’oo’s next, Peter?’
‘Ryvita,’ said the out-of-sight youth with the crooked teeth, and both young men guffawed.
‘So he never talked about a woman called Rita, or Reata?’ Robin persisted.
‘Bloody ’ell, I jus’ told you, it was fucking Chloe Griffiths ’e liked,’ said Jones impatiently, ‘so Zeta and Rita and all those tossers going on about the crash, they was talking bollocks, and if they was claiming ’e done stuff to them, too, they’re full of shit, all right? Chasing clout off the back of all what ’appened.’
‘Wynn, I’d be really glad if you’d give me the name of the pub where Tyler’s working. I’d just like to reassure Dilys that he’s alive, and that’ll be the end of it.’
‘Maybe I’ll give you the name if you give me something,’ said Jones, and the out-of-sight young man snorted with laughter.
‘Did Tyler have any other friends I might talk to, about where he’s gone?’ said Robin, ignoring the second hint that Jones wanted quid pro quos.
‘No,’ said Jones, and then, ‘well, yeah, he had friends, but nobody knows more’n I know.’
‘Can you please give me the name of the pub where he’s working, Wynn?’
Jones took a large swig from his Carlsberg can, emptying it, then crushed it one-handed and bent down to fetch another; Robin caught a glimpse of a dirty carpet and an overflowing ashtray.
‘Whachew gonna give me?’ said Jones, his fat face even redder for having bent over. He laid his mobile on his lap and Robin now saw a nicotine-stained ceiling and the underside of the can Jones was opening before his face filled the screen again.
‘Don’t you want to put Dilys’s mind at rest?’ asked Robin.
‘That old cow badmouths me, I don’t give a shit whether ’er mind’s at rest or not,’ said Jones. ‘Tell you what—’
Jones’ friend had started laughing harder than ever, although the punchline hadn’t yet been delivered. Robin thought she knew what was coming; it had become ever more likely since that first drooling emoji. Jones either didn’t know Powell’s whereabouts, or had promised his friend he would keep his secrets. He was boorish and childish, and a woman he was unlikely ever to meet was good only for amusing himself and his mates with.
‘—show us your tits and I’ll give ya—’
Robin ended the call.
She slumped back in her chair and rubbed her tired eyes. She couldn’t help thinking that Powell’s friendship with the crudely offensive Jones tended to add weight to the portrait of him given by Chloe and Zeta, rather than the one offered by Dilys and Griffiths. Opening her eyes again, Robin looked back down at her notebook.
For some reason, she was experiencing a tiny, nagging doubt, but she didn’t know why. Had she just missed something, failed to make an important connection? She read back over her notes, but couldn’t see anything obvious, so she tried to remember everything Jones had said, aside from the bits she’d thought important enough to transcribe.
Robin heard the door of the flat open and close; Murphy had returned. He entered the room seconds later, rummaging in his gym bag.
‘Oh, for
‘Here,’ said Robin, holding out her own.
Murphy called his own phone and, after a brief conversation, hung up.
‘They’ve got it at the front desk. Shall I pick up a curry on my way back?’
‘That’d be great,’ said Robin, yawning.
Murphy departed again. Robin sat thinking about Tyler Powell, for whom she’d never found any social media. Turning back to her laptop, she opened both Twitter and Instagram and began searching for variations on the names ‘Lugs’ and ‘Powell’.
After twenty minutes, she found an Instagram account she thought might, possibly, have been Tyler’s: LugzCarz. It featured nothing but pictures of vintage motors interspersed with photos of engines on which the person posting was working. The account had few followers, but two things made Robin suspect it was Powell’s: there had been no additions since May of the previous year, when Powell had left Ironbridge under a cloud of suspicion, and beneath a picture of a 1965 Austin-Healey Mark III somebody had replied:
Robin closed down the website, stretched and got to her feet.
Murphy had left his gym bag behind. It had leaked a puddle of clear fluid. Evidently he hadn’t put the lid of his water bottle on securely enough.
