Dead Time by Tony Parsons Page B

usually giant freezer trucks and white vans there were a dozen Rapid Response Vehicles, a couple of Specialist Search Team vans and the unmarked cars of detectives from Homicide and Serious Crime Command.
    White-suited SOCOs wearing blue latex gloves moved in and out of the tent that had been erected in front of the main entrance. Uniformed officers stamped their feet to keep warm as they patrolled the taped DO NOT CROSS perimeter that ran right down the middle of Charterhouse Street, up Grand Avenue, round Smithfield Long Lane at the back and looped down East Poultry. It had stopped snowing before dawn and Boxing Day was bright and cold, the memory of that unbroken white blanket in the early hours already fading like a dream.
    And at the heart of it all were four detectives – a Murder Investigation Team out of New Scotland Yard. One of them, a young DI, had interviewed me before I rushed up the stairs to our loft to find that Scout and Stan had slept through it all.
    I could feel my blood boiling that this had happened outside our home.
    ‘Daddy?’
    ‘Sorry, angel,’ I said. ‘I think they might need my help.’
    I admired Scout’s drawing of a German Shepherd. On either side of the taped perimeter there were handler teams from the DSU – Dog Support Unit – and my daughter had drawn one of their beautiful dogs.
    The nice Australian waitress brought me another triple espresso. There was a brand new red bicycle propped up against the window and the waitress nodded at it.
    ‘Is that what Father Christmas brought you?’ she asked Scout.
    A brief shake of the head. ‘No, my daddy bought it online.’
    ‘And do you like riding it?’
    ‘I like looking at it.’
    Scout and I smiled at each other. To both of us her new bike – Red Arrow – seemed like a giant leap forward from the little blue kids’ bike she had wobbled about on for the last few years.
    ‘And what did you buy your daddy?’ the waitress asked.
    ‘I bought him
Nighthawks
by Edward Hopper,’ Scout said. ‘That’s his favourite painting.’
    ‘Wow,’ said the nice Australian waitress, dead impressed.
    A large man with a mop of white-blond hair emerged from the SOCO tent wearing plastic baggies on his shoes, latex gloves on his hands, and a white face mask. He pulled the mask up on his forehead and conferred with the DI who had interviewed me. Then he started across Charterhouse Street towards Smiths. When one of the uniformed officers lifted the tape for him to pass under, I knew he had to be the Senior Investigating Officer. This was his investigation. He came into the cafe and made straight for our table. Stan stirred at Scout’s feet.
    ‘Hello, young lady,’ the detective said to Scout. ‘Is this your dog?’
    ‘Mmmm.’
    ‘Doesn’t he have lovely big eyes?’
    ‘Bulbous eyes are a typical feature of the breed,’ Scout told him, standing up. ‘Toilet,’ she told me.
    ‘Are you all right with that lock?’ I said.
    ‘It’s an easy lock,’ she reassured me, and headed upstairs.
    ‘DC Wolfe?’ the detective said. ‘DCI Flashman of New Scotland Yard.’
    ‘Sir,’ I said, standing up to shake his hand and then having to wait until he took off the blue latex gloves he was still wearing. He took his time. He was young for an SIO, early thirties, with the lazy cockiness that came with men who are both very large and very fit.
    ‘You should have waited, Wolfe,’ he told me. ‘If you’d have waited for back-up, we would have nicked them.’
    ‘I’ve thought about that a lot, sir,’ I said. ‘But a man’s life was in danger.’
    DCI Flashman was unimpressed. ‘And you were never going to save him,’ he said. ‘I read your statement, Wolfe. It’s a bit thin.’
    ‘A bit thin, sir?’
    ‘You can’t identify the men who took the victim from the van.’
    ‘They were wearing ski masks.’
    ‘And you can’t identify the man you claim was impersonating a police officer.’
    I took a breath.
    ‘I’m not
claiming
it,’