Deadlight Read Free Page B

crucify you.
    ‘Sir?’
    It was the photographer from Netley. He’d emerged from the house with a bagful of gear.
    ‘You’re through?’
    ‘Yep.’ He pulled back the hood on his one-piece suit and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Christ knows what the bloke had to eat last night. It stinks in there.’
    Faraday was looking down at the bag. As Deputy SIO it was his right to inspect the room where Coughlin had died, but no detective in his right mind would hazard precious forensic evidence until the CSM declared his work done. More and more often, court convictions turned on a tiny particle of DNA recovered from the scene of crime.
    ‘What kind of state was he in?’
    ‘I’ve seen worse. He certainly got a kicking. Here and here especially.’ The photographer touched his upper body and groin. ‘But you’re not talking loads of blood.’
    ‘Face?’
    ‘Couple of bruises. Swelling. Nothing more.’
    ‘Weapon?’
    ‘Nothing obvious. As far as the body’s concerned, I’d wait until the PM. Maybe the bloke choked to death. There’s a bucketful of spew on the carpet.’
    ‘No question about the injuries, though?’
    ‘None. The room’s a mess, too. Here.’ The photographer bent to the bag and pulled out the video camera. Rewinding the tape, he shielded the tiny screen with his hand until he found the spot he wanted. Then he handed the camera to Faraday.
    ‘Hit play.’
    Faraday did his best to make sense of the image but the bright sunlight washed away the detail. Crouched in the back of the photographer’s Fiesta van, he tried again.
    ‘Starts with the body. Are you seeing the body? Big bloke?’
    ‘Got him.’
    Coughlin was lying on his side on the carpet, his knees drawn up towards his chest, his hands knotted protectively across his groin. He was a big, flabby man, a couple of stones overweight, and there were curls of black body hair across the spread of his belly. The bruising to his rib cage purpled the white flesh and there were more bruises around his thighs and buttocks. A day’s growth of beard darkened his lower face and a thin dribble of vomit had caked across his swollen chin. His eyes were open, gazing sightlessly across the soiled carpet. Even in life, he wouldn’t have been a handsome man.
    The camera offered a couple of extra angles on the body, revealing a serpent tattoo on his left arm. Then came a slow pan around the living room. Faraday wedged himself more tightly against the wheel arch. The photographer was right. The room had been wrecked: chairs overturned, pictures smashed, a bookcase emptied, the tiny hearth full of debris from the mantelpiece above. The shot finally settled on half a dozen magazines, spread in a semi-circle around Coughlin’s feet. The images were explicit, stuff you wouldn’t buy in W. H. Smith’s.
    The photographer was squatting beside Faraday.
    ‘Porn,’ he said. ‘Stuff’s everywhere. He had the computer on, too. One of those premium sites. All-night wrist shandy.’
    ‘And it’s still on?’
    The photographer nodded and Faraday made a mental note to talk to the CSM. The specialist Computer Crime guys at Netley would have to come out and make the disconnection. No way should Scenes of Crime touch the machine.
    ‘Was there more of this stuff?’ Faraday had paused the camera on the porn mags.
    ‘Yeah. Whole pile down by the desk the computer’s on. Bloke must have wanked for England.’
    ‘And these’ … Faraday pointed at the spread of magazines on the screen … ‘you think someone did that little arrangement?’
    ‘Must have.’
    Faraday tried to imagine the sequence of events that might have led to this carefully mounted little scene.
    ‘We’re talking a flat here? Self-contained?’
    ‘Yep. Two bedrooms. Kitchen. Bathroom. Usual shit conversion.’
    ‘Any damage?’
    ‘None the guys could see.’
    ‘What about upstairs? Who lives there?’
    ‘Dunno.’
    ‘Shared front door?’
    ‘So I’m told.’
    ‘What about