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established that Coughlin – or someone using his computer – had logged on at seventeen minutes past midnight. Given the fact that the site remained live for sixteen hours, Coughlin had run up a bill of nearly fifteen hundred pounds.
    The laughter this time was louder. For fifteen hundred quid, a porn site owed you something truly special.
    Willard took the briefing back to Coughlin. He’d put a two-man interview team into Gosport prison. They’d spent the afternoon talking to Coughlin’s colleagues andan interesting story was beginning to emerge. Willard glanced towards Dave Michaels.
    ‘Yeah.’ Michaels took his time. ‘Seems the guy was an arsehole. Bev?’
    Bev Yates had been one of the interview team. He’d just returned from Gosport and briefly he paraphrased the findings from half a dozen interviews. POs on the same wing as Coughlin were naturally wary of speaking out of turn, but the agreed consensus on the dead man was clear enough. The bloke was a loner, no friends, no drinking buddies, and precious little small talk. On shift, he kept himself to himself, never overtly aggressive, nothing like that, but not the kind of bloke you’d want to pass the time of day with. Nothing seemed to excite him. Not football. Not women. Not DIY. Not even car boot sales. Ask Coughlin the time and you were lucky to get a reply. Ask him for a loan of his
Sun
and he’d tell you to buy your own copy.
    ‘Why does that make him an arsehole?’
    Yates looked up from his notes. Willard’s was a fair question.
    ‘It doesn’t, sir. But one of the blokes I talked to took it a bit further. This guy’s off on a transfer to another nick next week so maybe he doesn’t mind having a pop.’
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘He said that Coughlin had a terrible reputation amongst the prisoners.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘Bullying.’
    ‘And nothing got reported?’
    ‘Apparently not. He seems to have chosen his targets. He knew the weaker ones would keep their mouths shut and he’d take it out on them. But he’d try it on with others too, nothing physical, but little games, wind-ups, you know the way it is inside.’
    ‘You checked this out with the governor?’
    ‘He was away this afternoon.’
    Willard nodded, scribbling himself a note, aware of a stir of movement amongst the DCs blocking the open doorway to the corridor. Then the bodies parted and a tall figure in a well-cut suit slipped in. He was young, mid-twenties, with neatly cropped hair, steady eyes and the kind of all-over leanness that suggested regular work-outs. Spot him in a magazine, and you’d have said footballer or dotcom entrepreneur. Either way, he wasn’t averse to attention.
    He nodded at Willard and apologised for the late entrance. Flat London vowels, and a voice pitched slightly higher than you’d expect. Willard, who clearly hadn’t a clue who he was, demanded a name.
    ‘DC Corbett, sir. Working with DC Yates.’
    ‘We’ve been going twenty minutes, Corbett. Where the fuck were you?’
    ‘On the phone, sir. To the nick.’
    ‘That’s not an answer. That’s an excuse. On this squad, briefings mean just that. You drop what you’re doing and turn up. End of story. You understand that?’
    ‘Yes, sir. I apologise.’
    Faraday was watching Bev Yates. It had been Faraday’s decision to pair them up and send them into Gosport prison, and just now Bev seemed as curious as everyone else to find out what kind of phone conversation could possibly have kept Corbett out of the squad briefing.
    ‘Well?’ Willard, too, wanted to know.
    Corbett had found himself the corner of a desk by the window. Silhouetted against the light, it was difficult to read his expression. As he produced a pocketbook from an inside pocket and began to flick through, Faraday had the feeling that he was watching some kind of performance. The self-possession, the sheer nerve, was too measured to be spontaneous.
    ‘His name’s Ainsley Davidson, sir,’ he said at last. ‘I’vebeen