Page 207 of The Hallmarked Man

‘No,’ said Strike, interested in this assumption. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a card. ‘We’re private detectives.’

Robin assumed the man was Tyler’s neighbour Ian Griffiths, because he’d just emerged from the house she knew Ian Griffiths owned. Robin had grown up in a tall family – the only person in it who was of average height was her mother, and all her brothers were around six feet tall – and she felt slightly guilty (was there such a thing as sizeism?) that the first thing she’d noticed about Ian Griffiths was that he wasn’t much over five feet tall. She had to admire his courage, though, because he was facing up to Strike as though more than willing to challenge him physically, in spite of the height difference between them of over a foot, and the fact that Strike was considerably broader. Possibly, she thought, Griffiths intended using the guitar as a weapon. He all but snatched the card out of Strike’s hand.

‘Detectives?’ Griffiths snarled, reading the card. ‘ShropshirebloodyStar, is it?’

‘No,’ said Robin, before Strike could answer; she sensed some placation might be necessary, and Strike’s gifts in that area were variable. ‘Dilys Powell invited us here to talk about her grandson Tyler, but she doesn’t seem to be at home.’

‘Dilyshired you?’ said Griffiths, in clear disbelief.

‘No, we’re working for a different client,’ said Robin.

‘Faber bloody Whitehead, is it?’ said Griffiths, looking still more incensed.

‘I don’t know anyone called Whitehead,’ said Robin mildly. ‘Dilys thinks Tyler might have been the man found dead in a silver shop in London last June. That’s why she wanted to talk to us.’

‘Oh,’ said Griffiths. Some of the wind appeared to have been taken out of his sails. ‘Yeah. She mentioned something about that…’

‘You wouldn’t happen to know where Dilys is?’ asked Robin.

‘No,’ said Griffiths, looking down the road in the direction of Dilys’s house. ‘She’s probably forgotten you’re coming. She’s on a lot of medication. She had a bad fall a couple of months ago. Lethal, this hill, when it’s icy.’

His belligerence seemed to be turning into embarrassment. Helooked in his mid-forties; dark, with hazel eyes and a dimple in his chin, quite a handsome man. Now he glanced down at the guitar as though surprised to find himself holding it.

‘You’ll know Tyler Powell, I suppose?’ said Robin. ‘Living opposite his parents?’

‘Yeah, I know him,’ said Griffiths, who seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. He squinted back up at Strike, who he seemed to find particularly suspicious. ‘You’re definitely not working for the Whiteheads?’

‘Never heard of them,’ said Strike.

‘OK, well… you can come in here and wait for Dilys, if you want. She won’t have gone far. Have a cup of tea. It’s bloody cold.’

‘Very good of you,’ said Strike, grateful for the chance to take the weight off his right knee. ‘Thanks.’

‘Ian Griffiths,’ said the man, at last holding out a hand, which first Strike, then Robin shook. ‘But everyone calls me Griff.’

Still holding his guitar, Griffiths led Strike and Robin in through his back gate. His back garden was full of whimsical sculptures, including a gargoyle.

Strike, who’d dropped out of university at the end of his first year, had only a vague memory of student accommodation, but in his disapproving view, the interior of Ian Griffiths’ house spoke of someone who’d never aged out of their late teens. Not only did the place stink of joss sticks, to which Strike had a strong aversion, because they’d been one of the signature smells of the various houses to which Leda had dragged him in childhood, but the sitting room into which Griffiths led them was cluttered with kitschy objects that Strike mentally classed as ‘tat’: Day of the Dead figurines, snow globes filled with glitter, a Rastafarian teddy bear, scatter cushions in psychedelic patterns and a framed poster of Jesus smoking a joint were among the objects for which Strike would have had no earthly use. Candles had been stuck in empty wine bottles, ramshackle shelves held a combination of LPs and CDs, and a keyboard and two more guitars stood in the corner, though Strike noted grudgingly that the place seemed basically clean.

There were a lot of framed photographs, the largest of which showed a pretty dark-haired woman in a tie-dyed shirt and beaded necklace who had her arms around an equally pretty little girl. The same child featured in other photographs, in two of which she was wearing school uniform.

Seeing Robin’s eyes on the photographs, Griffiths said,

‘I lost my wife seven years ago. Breast cancer.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Robin.

‘Thanks,’ said Griffiths. ‘We moved to Ironbridge to be near my brother and his wife. Chloe’s all grown up now and interrailing with her boyfriend, so it’s just me at the moment. What d’you take in your tea?’

When they’d given their requests and Griffiths had left to make the drinks, Strike and Robin sat down on the sofa, which was covered in a throw patterned with a mandala. Robin, who knew exactly what Strike’s feelings would be about their host’s taste in décor, might have passed comment, but chose instead to get out her notebook.

‘You question him,’ said Strike in a low voice. ‘I’ll take notes. Think he likes you better than me.’

‘Fine,’ said Robin, returning her notebook to her pocket.

Griffiths returned after five minutes with three mugs of tea and a plate of Tunnock’s Teacakes. Strike thanked him and placed his mug beside him on a rickety wicker tray with legs, which meant shifting aside the gold figurine of a small boy apparently about to take a piss and a large purple candle studded with crystals.

‘You’re a musician, Mr Griffiths?’ asked Robin.