‘I don’t know the ins and outs of what happened that night, but basically: there was some concert in Birmingham a group of them wanted to go to, but Hugo couldn’t get a lend of Daddy’s Range Rover, so he asked Ty if he and Anne-Marie could get a lift with him, see. There was nothing in that,’ said Griffiths quickly. ‘Ty’s good-natured, see? He’d do anything for anyone. But at the last minute, Ty says he’s feeling ill, see, but that Hugo can still borrow his car. Ty loves cars. He got this one cheap and did it up. It was his pride and bloody joy, so people are effing deluded thinking…
‘Anyway… Hugo had only just passed his test, and he crashed it. Anne-Marie was killed outright and Hugo was in a coma for three months. Brain dead, but his mother didn’t want to pull the plug.
‘People round here were upset,’ said Griffiths, ‘obviously. Anne-Marie was local, grew up in a flat over a sweet shop on the High Street. Everyone knew her. And Hugo being in the coma, and the Whiteheads being everyone’s flavour of the month…
‘And then the Whiteheads started putting it about that it couldn’t have been Hugo’s driving, see. There must’ve been something up with Ty’s car – it wasn’t roadworthy, or whatever. But then people started saying something had been
67
Robert Browning
Dilys Powell was a small, saggy-cheeked woman with wispy white hair, who looked frail and ill. She was wearing a thick tartan winter coat and entered the room very slowly, using a walking frame, a large black handbag over one arm.
‘Hello, Mrs Powell,’ said Robin, getting to her feet. ‘I’m Robin Ellacott. We spoke on the phone about your grandson, Tyler?’
Dilys’s only reply was a sniff.
‘She was up the church,’ said Griffiths, guiding Dilys to a chair. ‘It’s where her husband’s buried. I’ve been telling them about the car accident, Dilys,’ he told the old woman, raising his voice. ‘About Hugo and Anne-Marie, and why Tyler left Ironbridge.’
‘He never did nothing to that car,’ mumbled Dilys.
‘That’s what I told them,’ said Griffiths.
‘Never did nothing,’ repeated Dilys. She released the walking frame, then sank, with Griffiths’ aid, into an armchair.
‘We were hoping to ask you some questions, Mrs Powell,’ said Robin, ‘about why you thought the man in the vault could have been Ty—’
‘Took off,’ said Dilys. ‘Never told me where he was going. Told
‘Only—’ began Griffiths.
‘Silver,’ said Dilys.
‘What about silver, Mrs Powell?’ asked Robin.
‘He was talking about silver. On the phone.’
‘Tyler was?’
‘Yer.’
‘What did he say about silver?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Who was he talking to? You?’
‘Jones, probably.’
‘Who’s Jones?’ said Robin.
‘His friend,’ said Dilys. ‘Up Higwell Farm, by Apeton.’
‘What’s Jones’ first name?’ asked Robin.
‘Wynn,’ said Dilys, as Strike’s pen moved rapidly across the page.
‘Is Wynn a good friend of Tyler’s?’
‘Yer,’ said Dilys, scowling. ‘I don’t like him.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Robin.
‘Rude,’ said Dilys. She turned to look at Griffiths. ‘I need the loo.’
‘Right ho,’ said Griffiths, getting up again. He helped Dilys out of the armchair and guided her hands back on to the walking frame. ‘First on the left, down the hall.’
Dilys left the room slowly. Once she was out of earshot, Griffiths said quietly,
‘She’s gone downhill a lot since Ty left. He was good to her, did her shopping and that. She took it hard, him leaving, ’specially after his parents left for Florida. Ivor’s Dilys’s son. We all offer to help her, but Dilys likes her independence.’
‘There’s a great-niece, isn’t there?’ asked Robin. ‘I spoke to her before Christmas.’