‘Pretty sure he’s still concussed,’ said Wardle.
‘Skull thick as his, he’ll be fine,’ said Strike.
‘You need—’
‘Can you get me something for this fucking ear?’ asked Strike, keen to get rid of the ex-policeman. Wardle grudgingly left the room again.
Strike dragged the chair in which Dilys had sat months previously into the middle of the room, and dropped into it, which was a relief; his head spun slightly less, sitting. Distant clanging and Barclay’s voice reached the room.
‘Right,’ Strike said to Griffiths. ‘Where’s your daughter, Chloe?’
‘You haven’t got the right to ask us questions,’ said Griffiths in a nasal voice. ‘You’ve broken the law, you broke in, you’ve assaulted us—’
‘That’s not how I remember it,’ said Strike. ‘I knocked on your door, you opened it, some of your friends scarpered, you tried to stab me in the face, which led me to suspect you had a guilty conscience, a theory confirmed when I lifted the trapdoor in your hall. That’s how my friends will remember it, too. You don’t want to take Wardle too seriously. He’s only just left the police. Still got old-fashioned ideas about procedure and not using extreme violence on suspects. Where’s Chloe?’
After a brief pause, Griffiths said,
‘Interrailing with her boyfriend.’
‘Is she fuck, that Instagram account of hers is as fake as your Oz one. You’ve just pasted her and some random guy in front of landmarks.’
Agony though Strike was in, he took satisfaction in the whitening of Griffiths’ face.
‘I’ve done nothing. I’ve done nothing,’ whimpered the bearded man on the floor.
‘Shut up,’ Strike told him. ‘You—’ He pointed at the youth with the bad teeth. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Darren Pratt,’ the youth whispered.
‘And him?’ said Strike.
‘Wynn Jones.’
‘And him?’ he asked, pointing at the bearded man.
‘Mickey Edwar—’
‘Don’t tell him!’ squealed Edwards.
‘If you’re Mickey, you were definitely about to do something, you cunt,’ said Strike, ‘and I’d bet both my bollocks you’ve done it before.’
‘Please… please… I’m married, I’ve got kids…’
‘Then they’d probably do best to move well away from Ironbridge and change their surnames,’ said Strike. ‘They’re not going to have a lot of fun in the playground once I’m done with you. Any of you know where Chloe is?’ he asked the three men on the floor.
‘Interrailin’,’ said Jones in a low voice. ‘Griff just fuckin’ told you.’
‘You don’t have to answer his fucking questions!’ said Griffiths.
‘They do if they want to keep their teeth,’ said Strike, and addressing Pratt again, he said,
‘Tyler gave Chloe a bracelet for her birthday, right?’
Pratt glanced at Griffiths and kept silent.
‘Scared the shit out of you, that bracelet, didn’t it?’ Strike said to Griffiths. ‘And we both know why Chloe went berserk in the pub when people wouldn’t stop banging on about it, don’t we? Purple. Violets. We’ll be coming back to that.’
Wardle re-entered the room holding what looked like a clean bedsheet, which he held out to Strike. The latter took it and pressed it to the left side of his head, which was only marginally less agonising than sticking his finger in his ear had been.
‘Well,’ said Strike, addressing the four handcuffed men with the sheet pressed to his head wound and wishing he felt less sick, ‘you’re all going to be done for the rape of the girl in the basement: that’s a given. The real question is how complicit you are in the other things your friendly neighbourhood pimp has been up to. Were you aware you’ve been palling around with a killer, as well as a sex trafficker?’
‘She ain’t trafficked!’ snarled Jones, peering malevolently up at Strike. ‘She’s up for it!’
‘Is that right?’
‘She’s a runaway,’ said Griffiths. ‘I gave her a place to stay. So she likes sex, so what?’
‘Why’s she chained to a fucking pipe?’
‘Fifty Shades,’ said Griffiths. ‘They like it that way, young girls these days. Ask her. She’ll tell you.’
‘I thought she was consenting!’ sobbed Edwards.
‘Ever stick it in Chloe, Mickey?’ Strike asked. ‘Before she got moved out and Sapphire was moved in?’
‘Never,’ squealed Edwards.
‘Wardle,’ said Strike, ‘get Barclay to pass you up my skeleton keys out of my coat pocket and go and check the house opposite, see whether there’s another girl tied up in there.’
‘You need—’
‘Just go and check the bloody house.’
Wardle left. Strike turned back to the men on the floor.
‘I’m about to do you three a favour.’
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 deny everything, I’m innocent! They’d say it even if blood was dripping from their hands, convinced they could touch hard law-enforcing hearts with carefully feigned pathos. However, the very wiliness of Jones’ stare told Strike a strong self-protective instinct lay within. The skinny youth with bad teeth looked terrified, but even he might be turned to good account. Strike thought it safe to assume both gullibility and malleability in a man so inept he was wearing his hoodie inside out.
‘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? I’m the one who stuck up for Tyler when everyone fucking turned—’
‘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.’