No Lovelier Death Read Free Page A

week Faraday had countersigned an invoice from the Forensic Science Service. For DNA analysis on just five items of clothing, the bill had come to £3460. Multiply that one hundred times and they’d be looking at over a third of a million quid. Parsons was right. Total nightmare.
    She was off the mobile. Willard, she said, had been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable responsible for CID. On a busy Saturday night the force operations room had so far identified a mere thirty-seven available custody cells county-wide and a call had gone out to abandon further arrests unless absolutely necessary. Given the shortfall in custody space, the ACC had no choice but to invoke the standing mutual aid arrangements and control room staff were now in touch with neighbouring forces. Kids who’d started their Saturday night by necking a litre of Diamond White on Southsea Common might well end their evening in a cell in Reading. Or Dorchester. Or Worthing. Such was the thinness of the thin blue line.
    Parsons was gazing at the house across the road. Another dozen partygoers were being escorted towards a waiting minibus. One of them stumbled and fell. Heavily gelled, he was wearing Adidas track bottoms and a Henri Lloyd top. Face down, he lay sprawled on the pavement. Seconds later he began to throw up. None of the other kids, stepping carefully round the spreading pool of vomit, stopped to help him.
    Faraday glanced back at Parsons. She looked exhausted.
    ‘What’s the story on the party?’
    ‘Too early to tell. Word obviously got round. This city can be rough. Nice Craneswater kids? Loads of booze on the premises? Easy pickings? Who knows …’
    Faraday, watching the kids again, knew she was right. In a city as claustrophobic and tightly packed as Portsmouth, the script would write itself. The invite would have spread from estate to estate. Nowhere was more than a couple of miles from anywhere else. Who fancies a trip down to leafy Craneswater? All those posh kids? Be a laugh, wouldn’t it?
    ‘Spot of social revenge, then? Is that what we’re thinking? Booze? Drugs? Chance of a decent ruck?’
    Parsons didn’t answer. Instead, she spelled out the way she wanted to handle the coming days. Over the weekend the duty Detective Superintendent would babysit the operation, with Parsons acting as his deputy until Martin Barrie, in charge of the Major Crime Team, returned from leave. Jerry Proctor, as Crime Scene Coordinator, would be steering the forensic operation. D/S Glen Thatcher would supervise Outside Enquiries, with acting D/S Jimmy Suttle in charge of the Intelligence Cell. Jenny Cutler would doubtless be pushing for a Sunday morning slot at Winchester for the post-mortems and forensic teams would be starting on the multiple crime scenes after daybreak. The investigation already had a codename. Operation Mandolin.
    ‘What about the kids upstairs?’ Faraday was looking at the house again.
    ‘The FSU lads have scoped a rear entry. As soon as we’ve shipped the rest out, they don’t anticipate a problem.’
    Faraday nodded. At close quarters, a confrontation with the Force Support Unit could be a terrifying experience. They worked in shield pairs, moving from room to room, cornering the stroppiest customers, lots of noise, lots of verbal, lots of aggression, a slap or two if needed before the cuffs went on. On special occasions, like tonight, they might even put a dog or two in. They called them ‘land sharks’.
    Parsons was scribbling herself a note. Faraday watched two uniforms handcuff the youth on the pavement then manhandle him into the minibus. White faces stared out as the boy tried to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. The door slammed shut and the minibus growled away towards the seafront.
    ‘And what do you want me to do, boss?’
    ‘Sort out the interviews, Joe. We’re talking God knows how many custody centres. Thames Valley. West Sussex. Dorset. You name it. We need a strategy. We need command and