The Kill: (Maeve Kerrigan 5)

by Jane Casey

  ‘I thought pistols were banned,’ I said, and got a weary look.

  ‘Muzzle-loading pistols are perfectly legal. They’re an old design but gun manufacturers are still making them. They’re also called black powder pistols because you pour gunpowder into the barrel and push a lead ball in afterwards. Think of duelling pistols.’

  ‘That’s not what we’re looking for,’ Derwent said to me.

  Hardy brightened. ‘What kind of gun are you looking for?’

  ‘A high-powered rifle capable of being fitted with a telescopic sight,’ Derwent said. ‘A sniper rifle.’

  ‘Those are illegal.’

  ‘Yes, we know that. That’s why it isn’t registered and we’re chasing around the gun clubs trying to trace likely owners.’

  ‘You’re in the wrong shop here.’ Hardy looked at the door, as if he was hoping to encourage us to leave.

  ‘Is there a screening process for members? Do you even try to weed out the nutters?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Of course. We’re very particular about the people who use these facilities. Shooting is an Olympic sport, you know, and some of our members took part in the London games. It’s all thoroughly respectable.’

  ‘Thoroughly,’ I agreed. ‘How many members do you have?’

  ‘Just over two hundred. We have about fifty junior members as well. Obviously not all of the members would use the club regularly, but we have a close-knit group who come consistently. I get many requests to join the club every year but at the moment membership is closed. We simply can’t accommodate everyone who wants to come and shoot here. Not that most of them would be able to join anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘Is it expensive to join?’

  ‘Not really. A couple of hundred pounds. It’s just that you need a personal reference from another member to join. That’s how our vetting system works. We vouch for each other.’

  Derwent was nodding. ‘It’s the same with the police.’

  ‘Really?’ Hardy asked.

  ‘No.’ He moved on before Hardy’s face had time to register disappointment. ‘How come it’s so cheap?’

  ‘We don’t have big expenses. We own the club building. The refurbishment was carried out from donations and fundraising, not from membership fees, and any maintenance work is similarly funded as and when it’s necessary to do so. I’m the only employee, and I’m part-time. The instructors are all volunteers. There’s a cleaner once a week for the club but otherwise it’s all down to the members.’

  ‘Starting with them, are there any who concern you?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Concern me? I don’t think—’

  ‘Any who might own illegal weapons. Anyone who might be a little bit too much in love with shooting to be sensible.’

  Hardy leaned back in his chair and laughed awkwardly. ‘No, no. No one who would ever dream of killing someone.’

  Derwent pounced. ‘But there is someone who fits that description.’

  There was a long pause. ‘One person comes to mind. But he truly is harmless.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Rex Gibney.’ He swivelled on his chair and pulled open a drawer of the filing cabinet behind him, flicking through folders until he found the right one. He peered into it, holding it up so we couldn’t see what he was reading. ‘He’s been a member here for … thirty-two years, I see. Very dedicated. He worked as the club secretary at one time, although that was before I joined.’

  ‘Is he an older gentleman?’

  ‘He retired a couple of years ago. He ran his own business. I think he leased equipment to the building industry.’

  ‘Successful?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘I would say so, yes. I don’t think paying the membership subscription has ever been an issue for him. Beautiful house the other side of Guildford. He hosts a Christmas party every year for the club’s members.’

  ‘I’m going to need the address,’ I said.

  Hardy detached a piece of paper from the front of the file and handed it to me. I noted the address and phone number. No mobile, no email address. The house was called Callancote and was located on Tigg’s Lane, which sounded small and rural to me. There was no street number, but I guessed the place would be hard to miss from what Hardy had said about it. I handed the page back to Hardy who spent a great deal of time reinserting it into the file.

  ‘Rex Gibney may be old in years but he’s young at heart. A true enthusiast. Not a great shot any more but he loves to encourage the young members. I know he’s sponsored a few of the most talented youngsters to help them with getting better equipment. He covers their travel expenses and competition entry fees. He never looks for anything in return.’

  ‘Has he ever been CRB checked?’ Derwent was permanently suspicious of anyone who volunteered to spend time with young people when they didn’t have to.

  ‘CRB? Oh – to see if he has a criminal record? No, no. Our instructors are all checked out, but Rex doesn’t have any dealings with the young people on his own. He puts his hand in his pocket if we tell him he can help someone, but he doesn’t see them much. In the club sometimes. He comes to watch them practise. He’s a true enthusiast.’

  ‘He sounds like a useful person to have around,’ I said.

  ‘He is. Very.’ Hardy tapped his fingers on the file. ‘In any other circumstances I wouldn’t mention him to you. But I have my concerns about how closely he adheres to the law on firearms. In fact, I would go so far as to say that everyone at the club knows he owns a couple of guns that are not registered. I’ve never seen one, you understand, but I am aware that others have.’

  ‘Including these youngsters he encourages?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Possibly.’ Hardy shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine him doing anything wrong deliberately. I think he’s just like a child. A little bit spoilt. He can’t understand why he isn’t allowed to own the guns he loves. He subscribes to magazines from America and of course they have so many really extraordinary weapons available to buy so easily.’

  ‘And he can afford to pay a premium to have them smuggled in,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know how he acquired them and I don’t want to know.’

  ‘What does he have?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘I have heard,’ Hardy said carefully, ‘that he has a Dragunov SVD Tigr and a ZVI Falcon. But I haven’t seen them, as I said, and I have never asked him about them.’

  ‘Because you’d have a responsibility to report him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he’d be very likely to leave your club and go somewhere else.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘And you’d be responsible for killing the golden goose.’

  ‘I don’t understand the reference,’ Hardy said stiffly.

  ‘Did he make a contribution to developing the facilities here?’ I asked. ‘A donation?’

  ‘Yes. But he made the donation privately. No one knew, except for the club’s financial committee and me. That’s typical of the man, you see. He doesn’t look for praise or thanks. He simply wants to use his wealth in good and useful ways.’

  ‘I can think of more useful ways to spend a fortune.’

  Hardy glared at me, the broken veins on his cheeks disappearing into an angry flush. ‘Of course, if you’re not interested in shooting you might not see it as important. But shooting is worth £1.6 billion to the UK economy. It’s not a minority interest at all.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just not my thing.’

  ‘What about you?’ He turned to Derwent. ‘Do you want to try your hand at some shooting?’

  ‘I could have a go,’ Derwent said, sounding uncharacteristically tentative. I looked sideways at him and got a flicker of the eyelids that told me to say nothing.

  Hardy stood up, good humour restored. He ushered us out, locking the door to his tiny office after himself as if to demonstrate his commitment to security. It would have meant more to me if I hadn’t noticed it was unlocked when we got ther
e.

  In the hallway, Hardy stopped. ‘This is the ammunition store.’

  It was a blank door to the left of the entrance; I hadn’t even noticed it when we came in. There was an alarm keypad beside it, though, and Hardy keyed in the code, pressing very slightly too hard on the numbers. He opened the door and went in, choosing a box of .22 ammunition and making a note in the logbook by the door. Derwent leaned in, scanning the shelves, looking for the type of ammunition our killer had used. He straightened back up and gave the slightest shake of his head. Nothing there.

  Or nothing there now.

  ‘Does every member have access to this ammunition?’ I asked.

  ‘Only if they know the code for the door, and of course that’s only passed on to our most highly trained members and those who work as instructors so it’s completely secure.’

  ‘Four, three, nine, nine,’ I recited.

  Derwent grinned at me. Hardy looked pained. ‘You looked over my shoulder.’

  ‘Sorry. It doesn’t seem all that secure, though.’

  ‘It’s police-checked and approved. All of our security arrangements are monitored by the police. It’s a Home Office regulation.’

  And there wasn’t an alarm system in the world that could account for human error. I let it go, because there was no point in telling him that he had rendered his security arrangements worthless.

  Hardy guided us through an empty club room, with chairs and tables stacked up against one wall. A small bar set into the wall was dark, with steel shutters padlocked in front of it. The room smelt of stale beer.

  ‘This is where we have our socials. We have two or three a year. Great fun. And the bar is open on Saturdays and Mondays. All run by the members.’

  ‘I’m still not joining,’ I whispered to Derwent.

  ‘This is the armoury.’ It was another blank door, but this time it opened as we approached it and a man came out, carrying a rifle and an armful of equipment.

  ‘Stuart, just the person I needed. Can you take this gentleman to the firing range and let him have a go at shooting?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘Not unless he’s got a firearms certificate, Andrew. You know that.’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ Derwent said. He was still uncharacteristically quiet. ‘I actually do have a firearms cert. I’m firearms qualified.’

  Stuart took a long look at him. He was younger than Hardy, with a shrewd demeanour. He hefted the rifle. ‘Ever fired one of these?’

  ‘Not for years.’

  He held it out to Derwent, who took it and pointed it towards the ground. He pulled back the bolt and squinted down the barrel. Apparently satisfied, he pushed the bolt forward to close the breech and pulled the trigger. There was a click as the firing pin connected with nothing.

  ‘You were in the services,’ Stuart said.

  ‘The army.’

  Stuart nodded. ‘I’ll take you out. Are you right-handed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You can use my kit, then. Here’s the jacket. Might be a bit tight on you.’

  It was a special shooting jacket, with a leather patch at the shoulder and a strap that attached to the gun. Derwent shrugged it on while Stuart waited to hand him a single heavy glove.

  ‘Stuart is one of our instructors,’ Hardy explained to me. ‘Stuart Pilgrew. Competed in the World Championships in 2004.’

  ‘It was 2005.’ Stuart flicked a look at me. ‘And I didn’t get anywhere.’

  ‘Still pretty impressive,’ I said, which was what Hardy had seemed to be expecting me to say. He turned back to Derwent and I wandered past him into the armoury, expecting at any moment to be called back. It was a small room, lined with racks for rifles and a cupboard for pistols. There was a teenager in there, a rifle in pieces on a table in front of him as he cleaned it. It occurred to me he might be one of Gibney’s protégés. He glanced up, his eyes wary. Brown hair, very short. His eyebrows were faint and almost invisible. It gave his face a vulnerable look.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m a police officer. I’m just looking around.’

  He mumbled something and then stood up, knocking the table with one leg as he headed for the door. The rifle parts slid sideways and almost fell. He steadied the table and hurried out, his face bright red.

  The horror of being a self-conscious teenager, I thought. ‘You don’t have to go.’

  It was too late. By the time I got to the door he was walking across the club room, head down, making for the door with a sign for toilets.

  ‘Jonny, where are you going?’ It was Stuart who called out to him, his voice tight with irritation. The boy’s shoulders hunched up further around his ears and he disappeared through the door without breaking his stride.

  ‘Is he yours?’ I asked.

  ‘So my wife says.’

  Derwent laughed. I didn’t. I was thinking that a lot of teenage boys seemed to be running away from me these days. The fifteen-year-old me would have been heartbroken.

  Hardy said, ‘Sorry, Stuart. I didn’t know you were here with Jonny. If you need to go, I can find someone else to take DI Derwent to the shooting range.’

  ‘It’s fine. We’ve only just got here. Jonny’s making himself useful while I get some practice in. It’ll be his turn in an hour.’

  ‘Does he come and watch you?’ I asked.

  ‘Not him. He used to. Now he thinks he knows it all.’ Stuart hefted a mat on to his shoulder. ‘Unfortunately for me, he shoots a lot better than I do. He shoots better than I ever did.’

  ‘That’s annoying,’ Derwent said.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  The two of them went out together, ahead of me and Hardy, talking in low voices as they walked. There was a short path down to the range, which was essentially a long, low concrete shelter. Three others were shooting, though we’d arrived during a break. Hardy handed me a pair of ear defenders.

  ‘Put them on, please. It gets loud down here.’

  Stuart went out to put up some new targets for Derwent. There were three, at intervals in front of us – 25 metres, 50 metres and 100 metres. I stood at the back of the shelter, watching as Derwent settled himself on the ground and peered through the sights.

  Stuart came back and lay down next to Derwent. He conferred with him, gesturing from the gun to the targets. Derwent nodded a couple of times, but not in his usual bored way. He was concentrating, for once. This mattered to him. He leaned in, his body completely still, his gloved hand supporting the weapon as he focused on the first target.

  Even with the ear defenders, the sound of four rifles firing more or less in unison was shatteringly loud. My eyesight wasn’t good enough to let me see how well Derwent was doing, but Hardy was watching through binoculars and he nodded a couple of times. I lost count of how many rounds they fired. Ejected casings rang and rattled as they fell on the concrete beside Derwent.

  As the firing died away, the man in charge of the range shouted, ‘Cease firing. Breeches open. Change targets.’

  Derwent did as he was told, then sat up, turning his back on the range, ripping his ear defenders off and letting them fall to the ground beside him. He leaned his elbows on his knees and stared into space with a concentrated expression. Stuart went out to collect the targets and I took my ear defenders off.

  ‘Impressive,’ Hardy said. Derwent didn’t answer. He stood up instead and slid off the jacket and glove. He gave them to me and went straight past me, up the path, heading for the car park.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Hardy asked.

  ‘Usually,’ I said.

  Stuart came back to us and took the equipment from me, giving me the targets instead. ‘That was good shooting. Very good. He said he hadn’t used a rifle in years, but you’d never know from these.’

  ‘He should compete,’ Hardy said. ‘I could see about getting a recommendation for him from a member. Being a police officer I don’t think we’d have any problem about admitting him.’

  ‘I’ll let him kn
ow.’ I gave back the ear defenders and thanked them both, then followed Derwent’s route back to the car.

  I’d expected him to be waiting for me but I couldn’t see him at first. Then I heard retching nearby. I went around the car and saw him leaning on the boot of the one parked next to us. As I approached he gave another heave and I heard the splatter of vomit on tarmac. I stood and waited until he seemed to have stopped. He was still bent over, but his breathing was returning to normal.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine.’ He straightened up and wiped his mouth.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

  ‘You’ve just thrown up all over someone’s car. That’s not nothing.’

  He glanced at the car, which was a dusty green Nissan with a dent in one door. I was glad it wasn’t one of the smarter models in the car park.

  ‘It’s just a few splashes. They won’t notice.’

  ‘They might.’

  ‘Who cares,’ he said on an exhalation.

  ‘They might,’ I said again.

  ‘The rain will take care of it.’ His tone told me the subject was now closed. He unlocked the car and got in. I hurried around to my side and got in, looking across at him as I put on my seatbelt. He leaned across to get a stick of chewing gum from the glove box.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you want these?’ I handed him the targets and he threw them into the back seat without looking at them. ‘They said you were good.’

  ‘Yeah, obviously.’

  ‘They said you should compete.’

  ‘Fuck, no.’ He drove out of the car park at speed. We bumped down the track towards the main road in silence, far too fast for comfort. I braced one hand on the dashboard, knowing that it would annoy him.

  While we were stopped, waiting to pull out into traffic, Derwent said, ‘And don’t ask about it any more.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’