‘This is Hugo’s father?’
‘Yeah. He was putting it about someone on the car park camera, fiddlin’ with it.’
‘Really?’ said Robin. ‘D’you know what that person looked—?’
‘There wasn’t nobody there,’ sneered Jones. ‘White’ead didn’t want to believe his dipshit fucking son was speeding. Sabotage my arse.’
The person off camera laughed again.
‘Tyler was at home the night of the crash, right?’ said Robin.
‘Yeah, ’e ’ad a cold or something.’
‘Were his parents there?’
‘No, they’d buggered off to Florida by then.’
‘D’you know where he’s gone, Wynn?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jones, his smirk widening. ‘But you gotta make it worth my while if I’m gonna tell you that.’
There was yet another bark of laughter in the background.
‘Tyler’s not there now, is he?’ said Robin, struck by a sudden suspicion. ‘Listening to you talk to me?’
Robin heard a door opening and slamming and a lot of chortling.
‘No, ’course not,’ said Jones, grinning more broadly than ever.
‘Could you introduce me to the friend you’ve got there, listening in?’ Robin asked.
The camera made a dizzying spin as Jones turned his phone to face a young man with crooked brown teeth, who was sitting on a sagging tweed armchair. Robin assumed the door behind the latter was the one that had just been slammed, either for comic effect by the snaggle-toothed youth, or by a third party who’d just left. He waved at Robin, leering, and the camera phone swung back towards Jones.
‘Don’t you want to put Dilys’s mind at rest, Wynn?’ Robin asked.
‘I’ve told ’er ’e’s gone to work in a pub, an’ ’e’s told her, and I’ve told ’er it’s not me calling ’er,’ said Jones impatiently. ‘Lugs doesn’t want ’er to know where ’e’s working ’cause ’e doesn’t want the silly old cow bothering ’im, that’s all, but ’e’s told ’er ’e’s alive and she keeps saying “stop it Wynn Jones, I know that’s you”.’
Robin decided to try another tack.
‘Tyler stopped talking to you, you say?’
‘Yer.’
‘When was that?’
‘Can’t remember. Round Christmas?’
‘You’re certain it was really Tyler calling and texting you, though?’
‘’Course I am.’
‘Tell me about Tyler and Anne-Marie,’ said Robin, planning to circle back to the name of the pub.
‘Ain’t nothing to tell.’
‘They were in a relationship, weren’t they?’
‘Nah, it was that Chloe Griffiths ’e ’ad the throbber for.’
The young man with bad teeth laughed again in the background.
‘This is Chloe who lived opposite him?’
‘Yeah. Anne-Marie was nothing, ’e didn’t care. Well,’ Jones corrected himself, ‘’e cared she was dead, but not cause they were shagging.’
‘Wasn’t Anne-Marie Tyler’s girlfriend?’ said Robin.
‘Nah. Just mates.’
‘My information is that Tyler was very upset when they split up.’
‘’Oo told you that, bloody Faber White’ead?’
‘I haven’t spoken to the Whiteheads,’ said Robin.
‘It was that Chloe he liked, not Anne-Marie. He had the proper ’orn for Chloe, and she led him on, and the silly sod thought ’e was going to get somewhere, but I coulda told ’im he was wasting his time.’
‘Why’s that?’ said Robin.
‘She got stuff out of ’im, but never done nothing with ’im, and then she dropped him fucking flat and buggers off with another bloke. Snobby,’ Jones added. ‘A-levels and all that. She wasn’t gonna go with some mechanic.’
‘What stuff did Chloe get out of Tyler?’ asked Robin.
‘Bought her a fucking bracelet, all with flowers on, for her birthday,’ said Jones, as though this was an outlandish thing for Powell to have done, and Robin’s mind darted to the silver charm bracelet hidden in her wardrobe, which she’d still never worn. ‘But ’e never got anything back out of her, silly sod.’
‘Did Tyler ever mention silver to you, on the phone?’ asked Robin.
‘Silver?’ scoffed Jones. ‘Why’d he be talking about bloody silver?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. Can you remember any phone conversation where Tyler mentioned silver, or something that might’ve sounded like silv—?’
‘Sylvain, maybe,’ said Jones, apparently struck by a sudden thought. ‘Sylvain Deslandes.’
‘Who’s Sylvain Deslandes?’ said Robin.
‘Wolves left-back.’
‘A footballer?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jones, smirking again at the London woman’s lack of elementary knowledge.
‘Can you remember Tyler talking to you about Sylvain Deslandes, or do you just think it’s possible that happened?’
‘We could’ve talked about ’im, yeah,’ said Jones. ‘Lugs rated ’im.’
‘D’you know a girl called Zeta?’ asked Robin. ‘She was living in Ironbridge around the time Tyler left.’
‘No, I don’t know no Zeta,’ said Jones. ‘I don’t live in Ironbridge, I live in Apeton.’
‘Zeta told me Tyler overheard her talking about him, and he threatened her.’
‘Don’t blame ’im,’ said Jones forcefully. ‘If they was saying shit like that about me, I’d’ve bloody decked ’em – girl or not,’ he added, and took another swig of lager.
‘Did Tyler ever borrow any of the cars at the garage where he worked?’
‘No, ’course ’e didn’t. Why?’
‘Zeta says a car nearly hit her on Wellsey Road, and she thought—’
‘Wesley Road,’ Jones corrected her, with a local’s pedantic pleasure in correcting the ignorant out-of-towner.
‘So you do know Ironbridge?’ said Robin.
‘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.