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shop. They operate mob-handed. They’re completely upfront. They go through a shop like a bunch of locusts and nick anything they can get their hands on: money, goods, alcohol, even shop fittings. They’re out beyond the law, out beyond society, and they couldn’t care a monkey’s. Terrifying, eh Joe? So what are Major Crimes proposing to do about that?’
    ‘Nothing. Unless they kill someone.’
    ‘But occasionally they do, Joe, they do. As well you know.’
    Faraday ducked his head, trying to work out whether Hartigan had just paid him a compliment. A year back, still on division as DI at Highland Road, Faraday had cracked a case that ended up making national headlines. A fourteen-year-old who’d thrown herself off a Somerstown tower block. And an even younger kid – ten, for God’s sake – happy to burn a house down and kill a man to revenge a separate death. The day after the boy had been found guilty, the
Guardian
had caught the mood with its page three feature analysis. ‘Fallen’, the headline had read.
    ‘About Niton Road …’ Faraday began. Hartigan ignored him.
    ‘The kids should be at school, Joe. They should be motivated, keen. They should be committed. Instead of which we’re chasing them around Somerstown at God knows what expense. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t resent the resource implications. That’s what we’re here for. But where does it lead? Where is it taking us as a society? Any ideas, Joe?’
    For a moment, Faraday was tempted to believe that this was a prelude to a serious debate, that Hartigan really was keen to follow through on the events of last year, but then the little figure behind the desk gavehimself away, mentioning a speech he was due to make to the Government Office for the South-East up in Guildford, and at once Faraday realised that this little outburst of civic concern was simply a rehearsal. Real life goes on, Hartigan was saying. While you guys hog the money.
    Ten minutes later, after agreeing that Major Crimes should tread as carefully as possible in Niton Road, Hartigan brought the conversation to an end. Only at the door did Faraday voice his misgivings.
    ‘You’re sure that’s enough?’ he queried. ‘Assessment-wise?’
    Hartigan, back behind the desk, glanced sharply up.
    ‘It’s all about absent mothers, Joe.’ He shook his head. ‘Kids go off the rails. I’m surprised you can’t see that.’

Two
    TUESDAY , 4 JUNE , 2002,
17.30
    When the bent figure in the stained polyester dress tottered back with yet more refreshments, even DC Paul Winter couldn’t manage it. He and DC Dawn Ellis had been sitting in Doris Ackerman’s tiny bay window since lunchtime. A fourth pot of Shopper’s Choice teabags, and his kidneys would explode.
    ‘No thanks, love.’ Winter eased her gently back towards the open door. ‘Nice thought, though.’
    Ellis looked around the stuffy little sitting room. The furniture had seen better days and there was a powerful smell of cats. A copy of last month’s
News
lay folded on the dresser and a limp-looking plant on the mantelpiece badly needed watering. The framed black and white snap beside it showed a much younger Doris arm in arm with a sailor.
    Denied a perch in the corner store itself by the nervous Bangladeshi shopkeeper, Winter had phoned Mrs Ackerman first thing from the CID office at Southsea’s Highland Road police station. Mrs Ackerman remembered nothing of her previous encounter with DC Paul Winter, but was happy to confirm that her house was right across from Mr Patel’s corner shop. She often went over for biscuits and cat food. Saved her legs the trip down Elm Grove to the Co-op.
    Ellis, as amazed as ever by the sheer depth of Winter’s contacts book, had been curious about this woman’s willingness to convert her front room into a CID observation point. In an area as rough and unforgiving as the Somerstown estate, any association with the Filth wasa guaranteed brick through the window. So how come she was