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a very good reason to justify a multiple
     homicide like this.
    ‘So what are we thinking, skipper?’ It was the female D/C again. ‘Someone gains entry to the house? Ties them up? Kills them?
     Sets a fire?’
    ‘That’s a possibility, sure.’
    ‘Why? What for?’
    ‘We don’t know. Not for certain,’ said Suttle.
    ‘But?’
    ‘There’s been some digging round the back of the property. A fair-sized hole. It may be recent, it may not. We don’t know
     why it’s there but there’s obviously a possibility that Holman may have been sitting on something valuable.’
    ‘And someone took it off him?’
    ‘Maybe. Maybe not. At this stage it’s speculation. If you fancied a punt, I’d put my money on toot.’
    Suttle acknowledged the nods and smiles around the room. As far as motive was concerned, he was still keeping an open mind,
     but speaking personally he viewed intel enquiries around Holman as an obvious way forward. Over the years the guy had put
     himself around. In short, the key to
Gosling
’s door might lie in Pompey rather than on the island.
    Faraday agreed. Picking up on the work of the local CID, he’d already given the Outside Enquiry D/S a list of actions for
     tomorrow. He wanted more work done on the CCTV. He wanted careful briefings for the local media. He wanted the female D/Cs
     out among the dead girls’ associates, developing whatever lifestyle intelligence they could acquire. Everyone would be traumatised
     by the prospect of the forthcoming funeral – the perfect opportunity, in other words, to get these people onside.
    ‘And the young lad? Robbie whatever?’ The question came from Meg Stanley.
    ‘An absolute priority.’ He shot her a nod of gratitude. ‘We have to find the boy.’
    Minutes later the meeting broke up. Returning to his office, Faraday settled behind the desk and scrolled through the calls
     and messages that had stacked up on his mobile over the last half-hour. Most of them were
Gosling
-related. One, a text, wasn’t.
    Gabrielle.
    *
    It was nearly eight o’clock by the time Winter got to Eastfield Road. Jimmy Suttle lived in the bottom half of a red-brick
     Victorian terrace. This was where Southsea dribbled into an area called Milton, much favoured by estate agents desperate to
     breathe some life into the market. They talked of the ‘village atmosphere’ and the ‘vibrant social scene’, code for street
     after street of bedsits, many of them occupied by partying students.
    Winter waited on the doorstep, then rang the bell again. He hadn’t been here for nearly a year. Finally the door opened. Lizzie
     Hodson was Suttle’s partner, a small vivid woman with a bright smile. She seemed to have put on a bit of weight.
    ‘Paul.’ She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. ‘He’s not here.’
    ‘Inviting me in or what?’
    She looked at him a moment, uncertain. She had nothing on her feet and her toes were curling on the cold tiles.
    ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
    Winter followed her into the flat. The kitchen was at the back. Whatever she was frying included a hefty whack of garlic.
    Winter helped himself to a seat at the breakfast bar.
    ‘How’s tricks? Still working you to death?’
    Lizzie was a reporter on the local daily paper, the Pompey
News.
Winter, who was a bit of a fan, made a point of keeping up with her career. Lately, she’d been doing a series of features
     on the prospects for the local economy: how the credit crunch was affecting Pompey families, how people were coping with lost
     jobs.
    ‘Work’s fine. You want a beer or something?’
    Winter settled for a bottle of Stella. The mountain of rice in the frying pan reminded him how hungry he was. Maybe he should
     have eaten earlier, while he had the chance.
    ‘You fancy some of this?’ Lizzie was ahead of the game. ‘I was expecting Jimmy back but it’s not going to happen.’
    ‘Away, is he?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Might I ask where?’
    ‘Haven’t a clue.’
    Winter grinned