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’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?
‘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.’
‘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 fucking
‘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.’