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’s
‘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,
‘
‘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—’
‘
‘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—’
‘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.