Dead at First Sight

110 Friday 12 October

Shortly before 9 a.m., partly through hunger and partly to relieve the monotony, Doug Riley opened his rucksack, removed the lid of the plastic box inside and ate a breakfast of the egg sandwich, tomatoes and cucumber his wife had prepared for him. Just as he finished, his earpiece crackled.

‘Mike Whisky One?’

‘Mike Whisky One,’ Riley replied to the support van.

‘Two covert entry officers approaching in a white Ford van, index Juliet Foxtrot, Five Nine, Papa November Echo. They said to thank you for the photographs.’

‘Glad we had the time to fit them in,’ Riley answered, facetiously.

Moments later the van passed him and halted outside the house. Two officers in forensic protective suits climbed out and hurried to the front door, one carrying a toolbox.

Riley watched through his binoculars as the one with the toolbox opened the lid, selected a device that looked like a pocketknife and inserted a rod into the lock. Within seconds the door opened and they went in.

Ten minutes later they came back out, closing the door, and drove off. Riley radioed in what he had seen.

His earpiece crackled into life again. ‘Mike Whisky One,’ he said.

‘Mike Whisky Two. An overweight British Blue cat has just appeared through the rear-door flap.’

‘Thanks for that information, Mike Whisky Two.’

‘Just thought you’d like to know.’

‘Sure it’s not a cat burglar?’

‘Might be going cat-fishing,’ Hastings retorted.

Riley groaned. ‘Just don’t let it piss on you.’

Half an hour later there was another break in the monotony when a post van appeared. The driver pulled up, got out, shoved several envelopes through the letter box in the door and drove off.

Riley radioed his colleague to tell him.

‘Any mail for me?’ Hastings asked.