Borrowed Light by Graham Hurley Read Free Book Online

peered ahead, the wipers on double speed, checking the route against a
     scribbled map on his lap. He’d borrowed the Fiesta from the local CID boys. They didn’t stretch to satnavs.
    ‘Punchy, wasn’t she? A result on this job will set her up nicely.’
    ‘What for?’ Faraday’s eyes were closed. Half an hour of Parsons at full throttle had robbed him of everything.
    ‘The Superintendent’s job. She’ll get the exams sorted, no problem. What she needs after that is the next vacancy. There’s
     a queue. Like always.’
    ‘You think she does queueing? You think she
ever
did queueing?’
    The thought of Parsons meekly waiting her turn brought a smile to Faraday’s face. At the end of the meeting, oblivious to
     Faraday’s lack of input, she announced that Operation
Gosling
would be transferring to the satellite Major Incident Room at Ryde police station. Given her ever-increasing workload on
     the mainland, she’d be bossing the investigation from her office in the Major Crime suite at Fratton. Which put Faraday, as
     Deputy SIO, in charge of a sizeable team of detectives on the spot.
    A tight corner threw him sideways against the passenger door. For a second or two he thought he was in Eygpt again, at the
     mercy of another set of doctors, but then the car came to a halt and Suttle waswinding down the window to offer his warrant card to the uniform beside the flapping blue and white tape.
    ‘Over there, sir. Beside the white van.’
    Suttle parked the Fiesta and killed the engine. For a long moment Faraday could hear nothing but the steady drumming of rain
     on the car roof and the sigh of the wind in the trees overhead. A thick hedge hid the farmhouse and outbuildings and it was
     tempting to wind the clock back half a generation and imagine that he was Suttle’s age, out by himself at the start of a long
     weekend, preparing to tramp deep into the countryside in pursuit of chiffchaffs or siskins. In those days he’d have had his
     deaf-mute son for company – a whirl of fingers and thumbs, oblivious like his dad to the weather. By the age of eight, J-J
     could describe a dozen birds in fluent sign, an achievement which, even now, brought a smile to Faraday’s face.
    ‘OK, boss? You up for this?’ Suttle gave Faraday’s arm a squeeze.
    Faraday looked him in the eye. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Bring it on.’
    Suttle grinned at him, another squeeze, then he was out in the rain, wrestling with an umbrella he’d found in the back of
     the car, stepping round the bonnet to open the passenger door and offer shelter. Faraday, grateful, walked beside him down
     the track towards the farmhouse. The path had been churned up by the fire engines and all the other vehicles that had attended
     since, and there were deep tyre gouges on the verge, exposing slicks of glistening clay beneath the sodden grass.
    Beside the open gate they paused. The remains of Monkswell Farm lay before them. The property occupied a hollow, slightly
     below the level of the surrounding fields. It was a long, squat, narrow building, all four walls still standing, the white
     cob walls blackened with smoke. Two brick chimney stacks had also survived the fire, standing proud among the black tangle
     of assorted debris, somehow adding to the sense of ruin. Not just a building, Faraday thought, but a family too.
    Despite the rain, a couple of Crime Scene Investigators were sieving debris onto a layer of clear polythene beside what must
     have been the front door. One of them spotted Faraday and offered a nod of welcome. Inside, among the wreckage, Faraday glimpsed
     another figure – tall, a fireman in a helmet and a red tabard, stooping from one pile of wreckage to another. As Faraday watched,
     he produced a camera, took a few shots, then scribbled himself a note. This has to be the Fire Investigator, Faraday thought,
     the guy who’d try and tease some kind of conversation from the sour breath of the sodden embers. How the fire had started.