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entry? Any sign of damage?’
    ‘Not that anyone mentioned. I’d have photographed it otherwise.’
    Faraday nodded, releasing the pause button and watching the tiny screen again. The shot began on a magazine cover. Then the sight of two women licking a huge erection receded as Coughlin’s body wobbled into view. The camera steadied on the sprawl of dead, white flesh, and for the second time that morning Faradayrealised the power of a single image, a moment frozen in time, a man’s last gasp celebrated in this sordid tableau.
    In the closeness of the tiny van, the photographer began to chuckle.
    ‘Those premium sites charge one pound fifty a minute.’ He indicated the body on the screen. ‘Bloke’s better off dead. Would have cost him a fortune otherwise.’
    An hour later, at Kingston Crescent police station, Faraday took the stairs to Hartigan’s third-floor office. Recently promoted to Chief Superintendent, Hartigan was now in overall charge of the Portsmouth BCU. Basic Command Units came in all shapes and sizes, but Pompey was one of the biggest building blocks in the force-wide command structure. Heading the forces of law and order was, as Hartigan so often reminded visitors, the dream job. Not just top uniform in the county’s most challenging city, but a real chance to make a difference.
    ‘Joe …’
    Without getting to his feet, Hartigan waved Faraday into a chair. Physically, Hartigan was small and obsessively neat, as precise and fussy in his dress sense as he was on paper. Once, in an unguarded moment in the bar, his management assistant let slip that Mrs Hartigan even ironed the great man’s socks.
    ‘Prison officer? Am I right?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Name of Coughlin.’
    ‘Niton Road?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘7a?’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘Next of kin?’
    ‘We’re still checking.’
    Faraday did his best to rein back his rising irritation. He’d watched Hartigan play this game for longer than he cared to remember. It had to do with knowledge andpower, and it sent a message that precious little escaped the Chief Superintendent.
    ‘So … this Impact Assessment …’ Hartigan was frowning. ‘The beatman tells me it’s normally pretty quiet around Niton Road. Unfortunate really, under the circumstances. No?’
    Faraday added what little he could. The first of the seconded DCs, half a dozen guys from the local divisional CID strength, had already joined the investigation and four of them were working the house-to-house enquiries, toting their clipboards the length of Niton Road. So far, according to the DS in charge of Outside Enquiries, they’d turned nothing up, no surprise at this time of day.
    ‘Most people are out at work,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘Won’t be back until this evening.’
    ‘Women as well? Mums?’
    ‘Yes, by and large.’
    ‘Typical. Time was when mums stayed at home for their kids.’
    ‘But their kids are at school.’
    ‘Not the toddlers, Joe. That’s the age that counts.’
    Faraday settled back. Soon enough, they’d come to the meat of the Impact Assessment – the precautionary exploration of ways in which they might keep the inquiry as low profile and non-intrusive as possible. Few householders fancied living in a street blackened by murder. Even fewer relished the prospect of a round-the-clock, high-profile CID operation. Hartigan would doubtless have his views on this, plus a list of neatly pencilled must-action priorities, but for now he was off on another tack.
    ‘Volume crime can be a challenge,’ he mused. ‘I’m not suggesting you’re missing it for one second, not in this new job of yours, but it’s true, you know.’
    ‘What’s true, sir?’
    ‘The minor key. The small print. That’s where we win or lose the battle in this city. Murder? Rape?’ He fluttereda dismissive hand. ‘That’s where the resources go, and maybe that’s the way it should be. But tell me this. We have a bunch of kids in Somerstown, tearing around from corner shop to corner