‘Zeta? No, I don’t think so. Unless she was in Harvey and Hugo’s friendship groups, I wouldn’t have. Why?’
‘She alleges that Tyler did something threatening to her, after he heard her repeating the rumour about him sabotaging the Mazda.’
‘I don’t really blame him,’ said Whitehead stoutly. ‘Being accused of something like that…’
‘She alleges that he almost ran her over.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,’ said Whitehead at once. ‘No, no, that wouldn’t be like Tyler. His friend Wynn Jones, now, I’d believe it of him, he’s a proper lout – but not Tyler. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he suspected Chloe was behind the crash himself. I’m very, very keen on finding him, and getting some answers, and helping him clear his name… I think we’re going to have to wrap this up soon,’ said Whitehead, with a now nervous glance at the dark sky outside the un-curtained window. ‘If Lucinda comes back early—’
‘Of course,’ said Robin. ‘Just got one more question. If Chloe was using Tyler for lifts, does that mean she didn’t have her own car?’
‘No, but she could have borrowed her father’s, couldn’t she? It was when she didn’t have access to it that she relied on Tyler.’
‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘Well, thank you so much for your time.’
‘You know,’ said Whitehead, leading Robin back into the hall, ‘Hugo did like speed, nobody’s pretending he didn’t – he was a young man – but never in those conditions, and not with a passenger. And,’ he added, taking Robin’s coat off its hook and handing it to her, ‘he knew the storm was on its way. We all did.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ said Robin, unable to think of anything else to say.
‘You’ll let me know, if you find Tyler?’
‘If we find him, I’ll ask him whether he minds us letting you know,’ promised Robin.
It was chilly outside. She walked briskly up the street to the Land Rover and got inside, thinking about all she’d just heard. Then she took out her phone and typed out a new message for Chloe Griffiths.
Hi Chloe, this is Robin Ellacott. I’m sorry to contact you again, but I’ve got a few more questions and I think you’re the only person who can answer them. I do understand how difficult this is for you, and I wouldn’t disturb you again if I didn’t think it was important.
Having sent this message, Robin sat thinking. For some reason, the name ‘Horse & Jockey’ ran through her mind, but she wasn’t sure why. She’d just opened Google to look at the place when the door beside her was wrenched open. Before she could scream, a hand closed around her throat.
103
… mark
What one weak woman can achieve alone.
He was on top of her, forcing her backwards onto the passenger seat; she felt the handbrake pressing into her back; she couldn’t cry out, because of his hands around her throat; he was crawling on top of her, pinning her down; and she felt her handbag slide into the footwell—
He was trying to force her further into the car and she knew his plan was to drive off with her; she heard her phone fall with a clunk; saw his face in strangely cubic light and shadow, the ferocity, the thick eyebrows—
She managed to free her right hand from beneath him and seized his wrist, trying to drag it from her throat, but with her left, she was groping on the floor, in darkness; it was there, she knew it was there, she’d checked before leaving the flat that morning—
Her fingers closed on the plastic, felt for the nozzle, and now black spots were popping in front of her eyes, but she had it—
The first spray didn’t hit him – she felt the sting of it in the air—
The second covered the side of his head and Robin closed her eyes—
She heard him choke, splutter and gasp; the grip on her neck loosened; she sprayed again and again and heard him swear – now he was trying to evade the spray but still kneeling on her—
With every bit of strength she could muster she punched blindly upwards with her right hand and heard the thud of knuckle on bone—
She opened her eyes; they began to water from the noxious vapour now thick in the air, but she knew where to aim, now—
Another spray and another, directly to his face—
She drew breath and her lungs burned, too, but no matter: she screamed as loudly as she’d ever screamed in her life, now hanging on to fistfuls of his curly hair.
104
To envenom a name by libels, that already is openly tainted, is to add stripes with an iron rod to one that is flayed with whipping…
Strike was currently on the M4, heading back towards London. His detour to Yeovil and the Quicksilver Mail had been pointless: nobody at the pub had recognised Tyler Powell’s picture.
‘Nah, Dave was quite, you know – porky,’ one of the barmaids had told him, sketching an invisible hula hoop around her own middle to demonstrate the sizeable girth of the vanished Dave.
Tempting though it was to believe that Tyler Powell had packed on the pounds to become ‘Dave’, Strike thought it unlikely he could have gained that substantial a belly in a month, so having thanked them all he returned to his BMW and headed off for London. In spite of his touchily defiant statement to Robin that he’d cope just fine with another few hours’ driving, his right leg was cramping. He was also extremely hungry; his Beefy Boys’ Dirty Boy Burger now a distant memory. The anger he continued to feel towards Ralph Lawrence kept recurring, like heartburn.
Ten miles from the city, his phone rang.
‘It’s me,’ said a panicky voice. ‘Danny de Leon.’
‘Got my message, did you?’ said Strike. Too tired, sore and hungry for any social niceties, he said, ‘I warned you when we met I’d have to go ahead without you if you left it too long to spill the beans.’
‘I didn’t know who to contact,’ said the agitated voice. ‘OK? I didn’t know how you do something like this—’
‘Then you should’ve called and asked me,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll send you the contact details for a journalist called Fergus Robertson, who’s already interested in Branfoot, but you need to make the call now if you’d rather not live the rest of your life known as Branfoot’s predator-for-hire, and make sure you act bloody contrite about what you did.’
‘Make sure I what?’
‘Act contrite,’ said Strike loudly. ‘Ashamed. Guilty. If you don’t want to be charged, and you want to avoid his retaliation, expose the fucker now.’
Strike ended the call and drove on, wondering whether it mightn’t be a good idea to stop at the next services to eat, rather than waiting until he reached the heart of London.
Ten minutes later, at Heston services, Strike texted Danny de Leon Fergus Robertson’s contact details, noting as he did so that there was still no response from Robin to his texted apology. He then visited the bathroom and, having peed, headed to get some food, thinking of nothing except his own depression and the appropriate noises he was going to have to make when Robin announced her engagement.
When his mobile rang yet again, and he saw it was Fergus Robertson, he let the call go to voicemail. Presumably de Leon had just contacted the journalist and Robertson wanted confirmation from Strike that the man was legit, but as Strike had just reached the front of the queue for food, he ignored the call.