Deadlight Read Free Page A

they were already firing up HOLMES but there was a problem with the indexers. One of them was on leave. The other was in bed with a migraine. Willard wanted it sorted, priority.
    ‘OK?’
    Faraday didn’t bother to hide his smile. HOLMES was the major inquiry cross-referencing system, a powerful piece of computer software with a huge appetite for data. It swallowed every shred of emerging evidence, filing it away for the moment when a pattern began to emerge. It was fed by the inputting indexers, civilian operators shackled to their keyboards, and migraine had become one of their milder occupational hazards. PDFs, along with House Occupants Forms and the House-to-House Enquiry Questionnaire, ran to five dense pages of hand-scribbled information. No wonder the indexers were tempted to stay in bed in the morning.
    ‘You want me to go round with an aspirin?’
    Willard, scenting a joke, changed the subject. Staffing on this one was going to be tricky. The force had two other Major Crime teams and both were working flat out. The Receiver, Statement Reader and Action Allocator – key HOLMES players – were local decisions that made themselves. Ditto the officers who would handle Exhibits and Disclosure. But Willard never settled for less than the pick of the force-wide talent and he didn’t want some knobber turning up as FLO. The Family Liaison Officer mopped up the puddles of grief that every murder left in its wake. A good FLO, winning the trust of immediate family and friends, could also be a priceless intelligence source.
    Willard mentioned a couple of names. No way would he give either of them house room. He also wanted a squad briefing, six p.m.
    ‘OK?’
    Faraday nodded. Conversations with Willard seldom made allowances for small talk but this morning’s exchange was especially blunt. Reviewing his mental checklist – miracles to be worked over the next hour or so – Faraday began to wonder what lay behind this opening barrage.
    ‘You’re SIO?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And me?’
    ‘Deputy.’ Willard had produced his car keys. ‘I’m off on a course tomorrow. Wyboston Lakes. Kidnap and extortion.’ Bending to the car door, he glanced back at Faraday. ‘Be OK on your own, will you?’
    The question was a joke, and Faraday knew it. Wyboston Lakes was up in Bedfordshire, a Centrex training facility specialising in senior command courses, but no way would Willard let a hundred miles come between himself and a job as high profile as this one. Senior Investigating Officers sat on top of every inquiry, responsible for keeping the investigation on track, and having Willard across the corridor at Kingston Crescent was pressure enough. Reporting to him on the phone ten times a day would be a nightmare.
    ‘How long are you away, sir?’
    ‘Five days.’ For the first time, a ghost of a smile. ‘Unless you fuck it up.’
    Willard gone, Faraday stood on the pavement for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. He’d been on Major Crimes for four brief months but already he’d realised how each successive job banged you up in a world of your own.
    The need for focus and concentration was intense. Dedicated inquiry teams and six-figure budgets were a luxury beyond the reach of journeyman DIs on division, but the sheer weight of responsibility on Major Crimes was immense. Real life – shopping, cooking, even asnatched half day out on the marshes looking at his precious birds – became a memory. Enquire about the day of the week, and you wouldn’t have a clue. But ask about alibi parameters, or forensic submissions, or arrest strategies, or the current state of the overtime budget, and you’d be word perfect, the undisputed king of a virtual world of the murderer’s making.
    With luck, and ceaseless attention to detail, you’d get a result. And even if you didn’t, there still remained a kind of awe at the sheer reach and power of the system. On good days, it did your bidding. On bad days, it could