The Sound Of Crying

by Nigel Cooper

  ‘So, does Accuracy International make the scope too?’ I asked.

  ‘No, this is a Schmidt and Bender PM2 scope, a police marksman series. This one’s the 3-12 x 50 zoom model. It’s ideal for long range shots.’

  ‘It looks like an expensive bit of kit.’

  ‘About two and a half grand.’

  ‘What about the rifle?’

  ‘This model’s the AX308, they’re about five grand,’ he said, as he removed a magazine and a box of bullets from his bag.

  ‘Wow, it all starts to add up.’

  ‘Yeah, it can.’

  ‘Do you have a silencer?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I never use one.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘They interfere with the rifle’s accuracy. Once you fit a silencer the range of accuracy is only good up to about two hundred meters. I have a tactical suppressor though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s kind of like a silencer, only not quite as effective, but at least it doesn’t interfere with the rifle’s accuracy. Basically it reduces the flash at the front considerably, something you’d want in the field so the enemy don’t see where you’re shooting from.’

  ‘What about the sound?’

  ‘Well, it’s not as effective as a silencer, but it still reduces the volume by about fifty per cent perhaps. But anybody standing fifty meters away from the shooter wouldn’t know it’s a gunshot as it doesn’t really sound like a gunshot with the suppressor attached because it changes the sound characteristics.’

  ‘Are we going to use one today?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll put it on if you like. In fact, you can do it,’ he said, smiling up at me. He reached into the rifle bag and removed the tactical suppressor, a long black metal tube, about ten inches long and a lot thicker than the barrel of the rifle. ‘It just screws on the end of the barrel, only it screws the other way, anti-clockwise,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘The rifle’s safe, there’s no magazine and nothing in the chamber,’ he said. I knelt down next to the rifle and screwed the suppressor into place. Even though the gun was not loaded, I still kept my hand and fingers clear of the exit hole at the business end of the rifle, I guess it was just a psychological thing.

  The black metal suppressor didn’t look out of place attached to the tan green coloured rifle. In fact, it actually made the rifle look more intimidating, frightening even.

  ‘So, for the purposes of my novel, what ammo would my fictitious assassin use, I mean, what would be the best ammo for a 400-meter urban shot?’

  ‘Probably these,’ he said, removing a few small boxes of ammunition from his bag and handing me a black and orange box with Lapua written on the front. I turned the heavy little box around to read the side, the stick on label read: .308 Win 167-grain. Each individual bullet looked impressive, the shiny light yellowish brass case and the darker copper bullet itself, leading to a skull-penetrating point.

  ‘Wow, this is really fascinating stuff. I really appreciate you educating me, it’s going to make my book so authentic,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like to take the first shot?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I think the professional should go first,’ I said, light-hearted. But I also wanted to watch Peter shoot so I could study his posture and position, to learn.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing me some ear defenders.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, following Peter’s lead and putting them on. He put ten rounds into the slightly larger magazine to the one we used last time and snapped it into the under section of the rifle, then he laid down and got into position. He made a few corrections to the scope, relaxed and took a few breaths, paused, then fired. The rifle kicked back a few inches with the explosive force from the .308 calibre bullet. He lifted the bolt-action up and pulled it back to eject the casing – which flipped a few inches to the right, extinguished gunpowder smoke emitting from the open chamber – before driving the bolt back forward and down.

  ‘You ready?’ he said, standing up.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, lying down and getting into position.

  ‘Do you remember what I taught you last time? Your left hand comes underneath and just supports the back of the rifle, then your right hand comes forward into the trigger position,’ he said. I remembered, this time it came more naturally, but I followed his instructions anyway.

  ‘I’m going to adjust the shoulder rest slightly, pull it out a bit more so it fits snuggly into your shoulder,’ he said, making a quick adjustment. ‘Try that,’ he said. ‘The cheek piece needs to come up a little too,’ he said, again, making a quick adjustment. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Seems pretty good,’ I said, pushing my cheek into it and checking my eye position against the scope.

  ‘Ok, don’t put your finger on the trigger just yet, get your whole body comfortable and relax into it. Put your cheek into the rest and make sure you’ve got a good clear view of the target.’

  The target – as before, a meter square piece of white paper with a black circle in the middle, a mango-size black circle – seemed much larger in the scope compared to last time, which of course it was; 400 yards instead of 600 yards.

  ‘If you need to adjust the focus, just turn this here,’ he said, demonstrating. I made some adjustments until the target was pin-sharp in the scope. I squeezed the small canvas sandbag a trifle – which Peter had placed under the butt of the rifle – to drop the sights a little, then I nudged the butt of the gun a miniscule to the right, putting the target bang in the middle of the crosshairs.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ok, as before, relax your breathing, take two or three slow breaths, then on the last one, breathe out and hold it, relax for two or three seconds, then gently squeeze off the shot.’

  I did as Peter instructed, but I’d remembered everything from last time I was here. As I fired I heard a muted crack as the bullet exploded from the barrel. The slight kick of the rifle caused it to jump a fraction to the right, enough for the target to jump over to the left side of the scope. I nudged the butt of the rifle back to the left, bringing the target back centre. As there was no rain this time around and it was a clear day, I could see my bullet hit on the target through the powerful Schmidt and Bender zoom scope. I’d hit the small black circle, but the bullet hole was at the two o’clock position about half an inch from the edge. Peter was watching the target through his tripod-mounted spotting scope. I was disappointed that I hadn’t hit it more central.

  ‘Ok, there’s a bit of wind, let me make a small adjustment,’ he said, leaning down and adjusting the scope. I must get him to teach me how to do this. How to work out the wind speed, the distance, the amount of clicks I’d need to dial in, and how. ‘Ok, try that. There’s quite a bit of crosswind at the moment, but it’s very intermittent so keep both your eyes open, with your left eye watch that flag just to the left of the target, while keeping your right eye on the target through the scope. I know that will seem a little strange, trying to focus on the target in the scope while watching the flag with your other eye, but you’ll get used to it. What you want to do is wait until the flag settles or until it is blowing directly towards you, then shoot. I’ve adjusted the scope for minimal wind so as long as you wait until the flag settles you’ll be ok.’

  I did as he said, I relaxed, breathed and watched the flag with my left eye while focusing on the target through the scope with my right. I could feel the wind blowing cold against my left cheek, the flag blowing aggressively across to the right. I waited a good thirty seconds or so until the wind died down and the flag dropped considerably and I couldn’t feel the wind on my face. This was as calm as it was going to get but I knew that the flag might whip up again any second so instead of taking three relaxed breaths, I only took one as time was of the essence here. I let out a slow controlled breath, held it, then gently squeezed the trigger. Much better this time, more central, about an inch off centre in fact.

  ‘Well done, that was
excellent. Why don’t you fire off a few more rounds, there’s plenty left in the magazine,’ he said. ‘Try and keep your cheek against the rest and your eyes focused on the target when you throw the bolt.’

  Having seen Tom Cruise do this while on a shooting range in the movie Jack Reacher, I knew exactly what Peter meant. I figured if a marksman knew his rifle well enough he would not have to take his (or her) eye from the scope to look for the mechanics of the gun. Even after my minimal amount of shooting time with Peter, I was starting to feel familiar with the AX308. Without looking, my right hand fell right on the bolt-action first time.

  I took another four shots, back-to-back, aiming dead centre of the black circle. As before, I watched the flag and waited for it to settle while maintaining focus on the target. Peter was right, after a few more shots my brain had adapted focusing on two different things at once. Afterwards I tried to check my bullet grouping on the target through the scope, it looked pretty good to me, but I looked up to Peter – who’d been watching my bullets hit the target through his spotting scope – for feedback.

  ‘That looks pretty damn impressive; you really are a dab hand at this. I say we jump in the car and drive around to the back of the targets and take a closer look.’

  ‘Ok,’ I said. Peter packed up the rifle and other bits. I carried the ground sheet and smaller bag to his car, while he carried the rifle and heavier bag. During the short 300-yard drive I asked him other technical sniper questions.

  ‘Ok, so the character in my novel is going to be taking a shot from about 370 meters, what would the flight time of the bullet be?’

  ‘Not long, not at that range, half a second perhaps, maybe a trifle longer. It’s not like one of those shots taken from a mile out, where the flight time could be around three seconds. In fact, the man who holds the world record for the longest sniper kill is a guy called—’

  ‘Craig Harrison,’ I said, interrupting.

  ‘That’s right, you’ve done your research,’ he said, smiling. ‘Craig killed two Taliban machine gunners from a mile and a half away; the flight time of those shots was four seconds. During those four seconds the intended target could get up and walk away and you’d miss by quite a long way, well, as many feet as the target managed to walk or run during those four seconds I suppose.’

  ‘I read about Harrison while doing my book research, that was an incredible shot, I had no idea that sort of thing was possible,’ I said. I was happy with Peter’s estimated half-second flight time over a 362-meter distance. Derek Stanton wouldn’t be getting up and walking anywhere during that time, he’d be tucking into his sandwiches, for the last time – Father Derek Stanton’s last supper as it were.

  Peter parked at the target end of the range and we walked along the long stretch behind the targets, which was perfectly safe from anybody else who might have been shooting (there wasn’t on this particular day) as the targets are on top of a ten-foot high mound, which we were shielded behind. When we arrived at my target, number 74, Peter used the chain pulley system to lower the target down to our level so we could take a closer look at the bullet holes and my resulting groupings.

  ‘Wow, this does look good,’ he said, taking a tape measure from his jacket pocket. He measured up the five bullet holes, which were all tightly grouped together. ‘That’s just incredible, you’ve got a grouping of just 44 millimetres,’ he said.

  ‘Is that good?’ I asked, suspecting it was. Peter was a really nice guy, but when it came to his profession, he simply didn’t do platitudes, not even for me. If it was bad, or could have been improved upon, he would have said so.

  ‘It’s remarkable, Natalie. There are trained snipers out there who can’t achieve a grouping this close from four hundred yards, and plenty more who’d be happy to achieve this with consistency.’

  I was flying inside, five bullet hits all tightly grouped together within a little 44 millimetre circle. Basically, that meant that from 400 yards or 365 meters, I could hit something the equivalent size of a boiled egg five times in succession, with a slight wind. Now I knew without a shadow of doubt that I’d be able to hit Derek Stanton at the range of 362 meters from the Job Centre roof on Chesterton Road across the park to the bench where he sat every day at noon. Or at least I’d be able to with this particular rifle using this particular type of ammunition.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ said John, as he answered the door to the FLO, DC Aria Dubois. ‘I was just making a cup of tea, would you like one?’

  ‘I’d love one, thank you.’

  ‘Ok, tell me about your concerns,’ said DC Dubois, settling on the sofa.

  ‘It’s Helen, she’s vanished off the face of the planet,’ said John.

  ‘Vanished?’

  ‘Well, after the court case things started to get a little heated between Helen and I. As you know we tried everything we could try and turn it around, so that Stanton would go to jail, but every time we hit a brick wall Helen started to change, for the worse, she found it hard to accept that the case got thrown like that. She couldn’t come to terms with the fact that Stanton had got away with it. I tried desperately to get her to accept the judge’s ruling so we could make some sort of effort to move forward with our lives, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t. We started to argue about it, more and more, sometimes quite heated. Anyway, she packed some things into a suitcase and moved out.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just over two weeks ago now.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘That’s just it, I have no idea, she didn’t say, she just stormed out of the house with whatever she’d crammed into her case and drove off.’

  ‘You’ve tried calling her mobile I presume?’

  ‘Of course, it’s switched off, has been pretty much since she ran off like that.’

  ‘Did you try leaving a message?’

  ‘I can’t, just keep getting a message saying number currently unavailable and there’s no option to leave a message.’

  ‘Friends, family?’

  ‘I’ve tried everyone, they haven’t heard from her either; they’re just as concerned as I am. Thing is, I’m really worried.’

  ‘That’s understandable, John.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand, there’s something else, something she said as she left.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said that if there was nothing the police could do then there was something she could do. She was talking about revenge, avenging our children’s deaths. I think she’s going to do something stupid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about th—’

  ‘No, really, you don’t know her like I do, once she gets an idea into her head she’s like a dog with a bone. Trust me, this is her new hobby horse, whatever it is she’s planning to do, she’ll go through with it.’

  DC Dubois could see that John was deadly serious, she felt the atmosphere in the room change and she believed him. ‘Ok, we’ll see what we can do to find her,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to lose my wife.’

  ‘You’re not going to lose your wife, John.’

  ‘You don’t know that. If she’s planning to enforce her own brand of justice and she goes after Stanton I might lose her.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Like I said, I know my wife, you didn’t see the look in her eyes as she left, sheer deamination, and the way she spat the words out … like venom. If my wife decides to hurt, or even kill, Derek Stanton, trust me, he’ll end up hurt or dead and Helen will go to jail. You can’t let that happen, you have to find her.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Dubois, scribbling some notes in her pad. ‘You don’t need me to tell you to call me straight away if you hear from her,’ she said, getting up to leave.

  * * *

  DC Aria Dubois went straight to her DI, Vince Carver, to update him and get his advice regarding Helen Kramer and John’s concerns.

  ‘Ok, I’ll get somebody on it right
away,’ said DI Carver.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Dubois, heading out of Carver’s office.

  ‘Oh, could you ask DS Rhodes to come up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Damon, there’s something I want you to look into for me,’ said Carver, as Damon entered his office. ‘One of the FLOs is concerned that Helen Kramer’s might be planning some sort of revenge on Derek Stanton.’

  ‘How serious is it?’

  ‘Well, her husband’s convinced she’s going after Stanton and she’s going to hurt him in some way, maybe even kill him.’

  ‘Does the FLO think she’ll actually follow through?’ said Rhodes.

  ‘Yes, she does. DC Dubois is superb at this sort of thing: her people skills and her ability to read them, well, it’s uncanny really, she just has a nose for this sort of thing. She’s convinced that John Kramer doesn’t doubt his wife’s words for one second. He’s totally convinced that his wife’s going to do something stupid and he’s worried that if she does, and she gets caught, she could go to jail and he’ll lose her.’

  ‘So she actually told her husband that she was going to kill Stanton?’

  ‘Not in so many words, no, but in a round about way, yes. She was talking about revenge, avenging her children’s deaths and getting justice for them. She feels that the police and the justice system have let her down.’

  ‘Ok, so where do you want me to start?’

  ‘Well, first you’re going to have to find her; she’s dropped off the map, apparently. Also, much as I hate to have to say this, but it is the law, I want you to let Stanton know and offer him protective custody … I know, it sucks, but do it anyway, issue him an Osman warning.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I want you to give this your full attention, sergeant. The other cases you’re working on can wait. As for the rugby club assault, I’ll give that to somebody else, DC Ruddock probably, big Jack will be able to handle himself down there with that cauliflower eared lot.’