by Jane Casey
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You’re the one who brought it up.’
‘Don’t mention it again. To anyone.’
‘Fine.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I understand.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t. Now, where’s this rich bloke’s house?’
‘Do you want to talk to him now?’ I was scrabbling for the map and my notebook, trying to recall whether we needed to start by turning right or left and coming up blank.
He gave me a filthy look. ‘No, I suppose not. It’s only a murder investigation. Only a dead copper. Nothing too urgent, is it? No need for a quick-time response.’
‘Right,’ I said under my breath. Because of course, for every revelation of weakness, there had to be an equal and opposite show of strength. I should have expected it. I knew to expect it. I concentrated on the map and told myself I didn’t mind.
It almost worked.
Chapter 12
Tigg’s Lane was a devil to find, and by the time we located Callancote’s high gates, Derwent was in a correspondingly demonic mood. I took on the job of dealing with the intercom, holding up my warrant card to the camera and hoping it was legible enough to get us in. The gates wheezed open eventually and Derwent drove in, leaving me to walk up the winding drive. I didn’t mind. It gave me time to look at the well-kept gardens and the neat Georgian symmetry of the redbrick house.
The door was open when I reached the front steps, where Derwent was already deep in conversation with a small, plump man who looked as if his face was made for smiling. Currently, though, he wasn’t.
Derwent gave me a warning look that had just a touch of pleading in it, and I braced myself without knowing what to expect. ‘This is Rex Gibney. Mr Gibney, this is my colleague, DC Maeve Kerrigan.’
Gibney’s response told me exactly what I was dealing with: a good old-fashioned sexist. ‘The lady from the gate. I was just telling your pal here I wouldn’t have let him in if he’d buzzed. Good thing he sent you to do it. I couldn’t say no to a female in distress, could I?’
‘I hope I didn’t look as if I was in distress.’ I smiled at him. ‘It’s good of you to see us, Mr Gibney. I’m sorry to turn up without warning.’
‘Andrew Hardy rang me.’
‘Did he?’ I shouldn’t have been surprised. I hadn’t told him not to warn Gibney that we were on our way. ‘What did he say?’
‘That you had questions about the shooting in Richmond Park. I doubt I can help you.’ Behind small glasses, his eyes were as cold as glacier ice. ‘I don’t know why Hardy thought I could.’
‘We asked him about people who were enthusiasts for guns and shooting and he gave us your name. We just have a few general questions.’ There was a timely gust of wind that carried a handful of rain and I didn’t have to pretend to shiver. ‘If we could come inside for a few moments …’
‘As I said, I doubt I can help.’ He stood there for a few seconds, not moving. We didn’t move either. This was a world away from the warmth and generosity Hardy had described, and I thought two things: that most wealthy people didn’t make their fortune by being nice, and that Gibney probably wasn’t a big fan of the police if his interest in guns ran beyond what was legal.
Possibly it was the fact that my teeth were chattering that roused Gibney’s conscience.
‘Come in, if you must.’ He stood back and we piled into the marble-tiled hall without waiting for him to think again. It wasn’t a large house but the proportions were lovely. I looked up at the ceiling. It was a riot of ornate plasterwork, an elaborate procession of sheaves of wheat and bunches of grapes and musical instruments.
‘All original.’ Gibney sounded very slightly more friendly. ‘We had it restored when we moved in.’
‘It’s amazing.’
‘You’d better come through to the study. It’s the other side of the sitting room. These old houses, the rooms lead into one another. They didn’t believe in corridors.’
As Gibney turned to open a heavy mahogany door, Derwent applauded silently. I gathered I was being thanked for getting us out of the hall. I shook my head at him. I hadn’t been faking an interest in the house, and if I had been pretending I thought Gibney would have noticed it. He was sharp, despite his age and cuddly appearance. Derwent needed to watch his step, and so did I.
There was a grey-haired woman in the sitting room with a Pomeranian perched on her lap. She looked up at us, surprised, but Gibney just waved at her and kept walking. No introductions, but this was Mrs Gibney, I gathered. I smiled at her in what I hoped was a reassuring way. The room was warm and comfortable rather than formal, but the overall impression was of wealth and furniture chosen to be in keeping with the period of the house.
The study was small and not the book-lined room I’d been anticipating. There was one breakfront bookcase but the books in it looked as if they had been bought by the yard, matching sets jammed in tightly so you’d break the spine if you tried to pull one out. An ottoman in front of the fireplace had a stack of newspapers on it, and Gibney sat in a chair nearby with the air of a man coming home.
‘I read the papers every day. Keep up with the news.’
‘And the crossword?’ Derwent asked, sitting opposite him.
‘No. Can’t be bothered with that sort of thing. Pointless. Pat yourself on the back for being clever enough to work out something that thousands of people have guessed before you.’
‘Mr Hardy told us you used to have a business hiring out equipment to builders,’ I said.
‘We had everything. Cranes and cherry-pickers. The big stuff. If you wanted it there on time and in good working order, you called Gibney’s. We guaranteed to supply what you needed when you needed it or you’d get what you wanted half-price. But we hardly ever had to do that.’
‘Looks as if it was a good line of work,’ Derwent commented.
‘Because of this place?’ Gibney chuckled. ‘Well, we’re lucky. We’re not short of cash, put it that way. But we bought this house in the eighties. The previous owners were direct descendants of the family who built it in the eighteenth century. I don’t know how they’d hung on to it for so long; the last one who had any money was the one who built Callancote. I got it for next to nothing. They were desperate to sell and no one wanted to buy it. There was a recession on. Anyway, it wasn’t a country estate. It was in the suburbs, according to the estate agent.’ He laughed again. ‘Nearest house is a mile and a half away but that’s not far enough for some people.’
‘It feels as if we’re in the middle of the country,’ I said, glancing out the window at the mature oak trees that ringed an immaculate lawn.
‘Yes, but that’s an illusion. We’ve no land. The previous owners had sold it off, bit by bit, to developers. There’s a housing estate that way,’ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, ‘and a garden centre further down Tigg’s Lane. A big one, too. Then there’s a golf course on another few acres that used to belong to Callancote. Not that I mind. I can’t see ’em or hear ’em and I never saw myself as a gentleman farmer anyway. Not a gentleman, for starters.’ He twinkled at me and I found myself smiling at him.
Derwent’s next question put an end to the friendly demeanour. ‘So why the interest in guns?’
He shifted in his chair, at a loss. ‘I don’t know. Why is anyone interested in anything? It could have been football but I prefer to do things than sit and watch someone else do it. I was all right at it. I started off and I was no good but I got better. I worked hard at it. I got a buzz out of it.’
‘You like the guns, don’t you?’
‘As machines? Of course. The design that goes into them. The thought.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘They’re effective and beautiful. What more could you want?’
‘They’re designed to kill,’ I said.
‘They’re designed to hit a target. What that target may be depends on the man shooting. People kill people, in lots of different ways. They jus
t use guns to do it sometimes.’
‘And you don’t have a problem with that,’ I said.
‘I don’t approve of murder, miss. But I don’t make the mistake of blaming the instrument, any more than I’d blame the car manufacturers if my vehicle was hit by a drunk driver.’
‘Let’s talk about your involvement with the gun club,’ Derwent said. ‘You’re pretty hands-on, aren’t you?’
‘No. Not any more. Not in an official capacity.’
‘But you host a party for the members every year.’
‘Just a little get-together. The clubhouse isn’t what you’d call glamorous, and we have the space. There’s a drawing room on the other side of the hall that’s four times the size of the sitting room. We put a bar in the hall and give people a few canapés and mince pies. Simple, but it’s nice for the wives to get dressed up.’
‘The wives? Aren’t there any female members?’ I had to ask.
‘Oh, probably. I just assume they’re interested because their husbands or boyfriends shoot. Or because they want to meet men.’
Derwent’s expression was pure glee. He cleared his throat though, and I got the message: play nice.
‘Maybe so,’ I said, through gritted teeth.
‘The party was supposed to be hosted by a different committee member each time, but I have this place and most people don’t have a home big enough to accommodate everyone who wants to come. It just became my responsibility after a while. Not that I minded. I love a party.’
‘And you love the gun club.’
‘Yes.’ He glared at me, daring me to find it strange. ‘I like the people. I like the guns. I like shooting and watching other people shoot.’
‘And you like to help the younger club members.’
‘When I can. Financially, you know.’
‘Do you ever invite them to the house?’
‘They’re invited to the party along with their parents. It wouldn’t be fair to exclude them. We make sure they don’t get any alcohol,’ he added quickly.
‘Don’t worry. We’re not going to nick you for facilitating underage drinking,’ Derwent drawled. ‘I’m more interested in knowing whether you ever spend any time with them alone.’
Gibney went bright red. ‘What are you implying?’
‘It’s just a question.’
‘No. Never. If they come here for any reason it’s in the company of their parents. I have little interest in getting to know them, you understand. I like to see the talented ones do well and I like them to tell me about the competitions they go to around the country and abroad. Sometimes I have them over for tea, if I’ve funded a trip. But there’s nothing strange about it and I resent the suggestion that I am trying to get access to them for a sinister purpose.’
Derwent smiled. ‘You know, I never said anything of the kind.’
‘I knew what you meant. Everyone has a filthy mind these days. Everyone expects the worst of people. Whatever happened to trust?’
‘It was abused and children suffered.’ Derwent’s voice was crisp. ‘Ever been in trouble with the police?’
‘No.’
‘Ever been run through the Criminal Records Bureau?’
‘No.’
‘Did you deliberately avoid being CRB checked?’
‘No, I did not.’ It was a shout, followed almost immediately by a gentle tap on the door. It opened a few inches and Gibney’s wife put her head into the room.
‘Is everything all right, dear?’
‘It’s fine. Go away, Evelyn.’
She shut the door again, softly, as if that would make up for having disturbed us. Gibney sat in his chair, his fingers digging into the arms, his chest rising and falling quickly. I hoped he wasn’t going to have a heart attack on us.
‘We have to ask these things, Mr Gibney,’ I said.
‘I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘I don’t know where this is going. Why are you attacking me?’ he asked Derwent, who shrugged.
‘Because there’s something strange about a grown man who likes playing with guns. I got talking to a few people at the club. Other members. People who said you had a stash of illegal weapons.’
People named Andrew Hardy, I thought, but I appreciated Derwent’s uncharacteristic subtlety.
‘That’s not true.’
‘A Dragunov and a Falcon, I heard.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘Dangerous weapons, those.’
‘In the wrong hands,’ Gibney allowed.
‘Do you know what the minimum sentence is if you’re found to be in possession of a weapon such as either of those?’
Gibney went very still. Through stiff lips, he whispered, ‘No.’
‘Five years. That’s the minimum. Five years. Not in a country club kind of prison either. You’d be in with the scum. Cat A, Cat B. No one you’d want to know. Not the kind of people who have country houses, with or without land. Even in the suburbs.’ Derwent laughed, even though Gibney was a long way from amused.
‘I don’t see how this is relevant to me.’
‘It isn’t. Unless I get a search team in here and we take the place apart. Get some dogs in who can sniff out a gun a mile off. Check the attic. Under the bed. The garden shed.’
There was a flicker behind Gibney’s glasses at the mention of the garden. I saw it and Derwent saw it. His voice hardened.
‘You see, you’d hide them somewhere clever. I’m not underestimating you. You wouldn’t leave them lying around. But you’d want to look at them. You’d want to show them off to people who came to the house. Like-minded people, I mean. People who could be trusted not to talk.’ He leaned forward. ‘That’s the thing, though. People always talk in the end. It’s human nature. Like thinking the rules don’t apply to you just because you’re rich and irresponsible.’
‘I’m not irresponsible.’
‘You own illegal weapons. You’ve caused them to be brought into this country, from what I hear. You’re looking at a serious set of charges. Serious jail time. And you will be convicted, Rex. You needn’t think you can buy a good QC and get off. Juries hate millionaires and they hate guns. Judges hate them more. The sentences are mandatory and they are long and you will loathe every minute of being inside, if you make it to the end of your sentence, which I doubt. What are you, seventy? There’s not a lot of seventy-year-olds in jail. You don’t get the healthcare, you see. Basic stuff, yes, but not the kind of tests and medications you’d be used to.’
‘What do you want?’ Gibney ground out.
‘World peace and a cottage by the sea.’ Derwent sat back. ‘But I’ll settle for a trip to your gun stash.’
‘You must think I’m stupid, Inspector Derwent. If you saw that I had illegal guns you’d arrest me.’
‘Not if you told us someone had put them on your land unbeknownst to you. Not if I could recover them and hand them in to Surrey Police. Not if I got a personal, private assurance from you that you wouldn’t dream of buying anything similar again. Not if Scotland Yard got an anonymous tip-off about the person who acts as your dealer in the UK and the route they used to get the guns into the country. Shop them, give me the guns and save yourself a lot of trouble, Mr Gibney.’
He considered it for a full minute, his eyes locked on Derwent’s face. I knew he was weighing up the risks, looking for something else to offer us, trying to see his way to making a better deal. But there was no better deal on offer, as he obviously deduced.
‘I could promise you anything,’ he said at last. ‘Why would you believe me if I said I wouldn’t buy an illegal weapon in the future?’
‘Because once or twice a year the local coppers are going to call on you. They’re going to have a look around. And if they find so much as a bit of lead shot you shouldn’t own, you’re going to get done.’
Gibney nodded. ‘You’re a hard man, Inspector.’
‘Fair, Mr Gibney. I want the gu
ns. I don’t care much about what happens to you. You’ve been stupid and self-indulgent and you’ve broken the law but I don’t believe you meant to do any harm with your weapons. You just thought the laws didn’t apply to you. Not my favourite attitude, but I’ll give you a chance to change it.’
Luck is a funny thing. We had been lucky in finding Rex Gibney, and Derwent had been lucky to break him so quickly. It was bad luck that the rain had settled down to a steady drizzle by the time Gibney took us out to the vegetable garden and pointed out a patch of ground near the marrows. It was worse luck that Gibney had buried the weapons there only a couple of months earlier, having decided their previous hiding place in a nice dry outbuilding was too risky. Even more unfortunate was that the weapons were buried deeper than Gibney had remembered, and that the soil was a particularly heavy, clinging clay that was a bugger to dig. Gibney had an umbrella but I didn’t, and I couldn’t exactly ask to borrow one. To give him his due, Derwent didn’t complain about the miserable conditions. He handed me his coat and jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and dug until the spade hit something solid, by which time his hair was drenched and his shirt was so wet it was translucent. He worked around the package carefully, loosening the earth from the edges so he could lever it up. I helped him to pull it out of the soil and we laid it on the ground beside the hole. What he had uncovered was long and wrapped in plastic.
‘That’s the ZVI.’ Gibney pulled a penknife from his pocket and slit the plastic, revealing a hard plastic casing with the manufacturer’s name stencilled on it. He opened it briefly, shielding the case with his umbrella so the rain didn’t get on the parts of the gun as they nestled in the protective foam. ‘All there. The other one should be underneath it.’
Derwent peered into the hole. ‘Beside it?’
‘Underneath.’ Gibney sniffed. ‘I thought this was the first one in, actually, but it must have been second. Easy to get the two confused.’
Derwent had jumped down into the hole again and was poking around with the tip of the spade. ‘Nothing here, mate.’
‘There must be.’
‘No.’ He stuck the spade into the sides and bottom of the hole, pushing down with his foot to go as far as he could. ‘Nothing.’