‘That’s Berriman too,’ he said.
‘Exactly, boss. Spot the difference?’
Faraday’s gaze returned to the two shots, then he nodded, shook his head, closed his eyes, sat back in the chair. At the party Berriman had been wearing a pink surfie T-shirt. Hours later, at Newbury nick, the T-shirt was white.
‘Shit,’ he said softly,
‘Exactly. So what does that make us?’
Faraday eased his chair away from the desk, clasped his hands behind his neck, gazed up at the ceiling. In truth, with an investigation as complex as
Mandolin
, he could think of endless excuses, but in his heart he knew that none of them was sufficient.
‘It makes us stupid,’ he said at last. ‘And lazy. And somewhat overwhelmed. You agree?’
‘Sure.’ Suttle nodded. ‘And what does it make Winter?’
Another good question. Faraday took his time. From a number of adjectives he finally chose the least despairing. ‘Lucky.’
‘You believe that?’
‘No …’ he shook his head ‘… sadly I don’t.’