Blunt Force

by La Plante, Lynda

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Letter from the author

  Copyright

  To all my readers who follow me on Twitter and Facebook, and visit my website, your support and messages mean so much to me. Thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wearing a worn tracksuit over her tights and leotard, Jane Tennison was hurrying out of Holmes Place Health Club on Fulham Road after a strenuous aerobics class, worried that the time on her parking meter would have expired.

  She ran the last few yards to her car as she spotted a traffic warden checking the meter.

  ‘I’m here!’ she yelled.

  The warden gave her a cursory glance before moving off to check the next meter. Jane was throwing her kit bag and towel into the car when she heard someone call out her name. She turned, not recognising the voice for a moment.

  ‘Hi, it’s Dave Morgan.’

  She was still flustered, but then remembered exactly who he was.

  ‘Dabs!’ she cried out fondly.

  Dabs was the diminutive SOCO she had worked with on the first day she had been with the Flying Squad. He gave her a hug and she quickly pulled away.

  ‘Oh God, Dabs, I must stink! I’ve just been doing a workout at my club and didn’t have time for a shower as my meter was about to expire.’

  Dabs nodded in the direction of Holmes Place. ‘That’s a posh place, isn’t it? What are you doing there? Self-defence?’

  Jane laughed. ‘No, I had enough of that when I was training. I’m doing aerobics.’

  ‘Oh, the Green Goddess? I’ve seen her on breakfast TV. Fine for most people, but working alongside those macho blokes in the Sweeney, I’d probably take up boxing.’

  Jane gave a pensive smile, not wanting to discuss her time with the ‘blokes’ Dabs had so aptly described.

  ‘So, what have you been up to?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  He leant forward. ‘Been on a big case . . . Still on it. Checking out a bad situation, a triple murder with a lot of weapons. Seeing the damage some crazy idiot could do with a rifle, I decided I needed some hands-on experience, so I’m doing this course at a gun club. I’ll give you my phone number if you’re interested . . . I might be able to fast-track you at the club.’

  Jane sat sideways on the driving seat of her car as Dabs jotted down his home number and passed it to her. She thanked him, swung her legs in and shut the car door. As she took out her car keys she felt the emotion welling up inside her. She was sure Dabs knew about her situation at the Sweeney, and that was why he had given her the card. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if this opportunity was just what she needed.

  She called him later that day to take up his offer and they arranged to meet near Norbiton train station, in Kingston. Dabs told her to park her car there and he would pick her up and drive her to the shooting club.

  ‘Can’t you just give me the address and I’ll meet you there?’

  ‘I could, but it’s like a rabbit warren of small roads off a big council estate and it’s quite hard to find. Plus, there’s a secure entrance gate, which you have to have a code for . . . so it’s just easier if I take you there.’

  *

  At 6.30 p.m. the following Thursday Jane followed Dabs’s instructions, parked near the station and then stood outside a fish and chip shop waiting to be collected. He turned up a few minutes later driving a rather beat-up green Mini Clubman.

  ‘Sorry for all the junk in the back,’ he said, opening the passenger door for her. ‘I’ve been working more or less twenty-four/seven.’

  ‘Well, thank you for giving me your time, Dabs, I really appreciate it.’

  He went quiet for a moment as he concentrated on driving through the narrow back streets with large council estates on either side.

  ‘Are you married?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I am. Fifteen years. She’s a professional carer. We lost our only boy when he was seven. He had myeloid leukaemia, and for Joan caring for others has helped her get over it. Same for me, really.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about your son,’ Jane said. It was strange how little you really knew the people you worked with. All she had remembered about Dabs was his sheer professionalism and knowledge of ballistics. Now she realised he was also a very decent man.

  Dabs put on the headlights as they continued along a narrow, dimly lit road.

  ‘I’ve been here so many times but I still drive past it. Here it is!’

  Jane frowned. ‘You sure?’

  They were in a narrow dead-end road.

  Dabs laughed. ‘Well, it’s a pretty exclusive place, this. Not many people know about it, unless you’re into shooting, even though it’s been here for over fifty years. It used to be part of a leisure club attached to the post office in Surbiton back in 1966.’

  They stopped by two large wooden gates with a sign on the wall saying ‘Surbiton Postal Rifle Club’. Dabs got out of the car and used a set of keys to unlock one side of the gates, sliding it open, then returned to the car. They entered a large car park and Dabs parked, returned to slide the main gate closed, and re-locked it. Jane climbed out as Dabs opened the rear double doors of the Mini and took out a black leather holdall. He placed it down on the ground beside him as he locked the car.

  ‘I’ve still got a lot of my equipment in here, but I know this is very secure. Right, follow me.’

  They walked to the rear of the car park where there was an iron door with a keypad. Dabs entered a code and waited, then pushed the heavy door open. Jane heard it click behind them as she followed him down a stone corridor lit by an overhead strip light.

  She was taken aback when they entered a large room. One corner near the entrance had a coffee bar and a vending machine. There was also a small cooker and kitchen sink. Standing at the sink washing up mugs was an attractive middle-aged woman who Dabs introduced as Vera.

  As she and Dabs chatted, Jane was able to have a good look around the large common room filled with sofas and easy chairs, and a long table with sixteen chairs placed around it. Dominating the walls were rows of awards and cups, but it appeared that the three of them were the only people there that evening.

  Dabs asked Jane for her ID and took some documents over to the large table for her to complete the membership application. Jane studied the application form, which requested details of her work, medical profile and previous experience with firearms, plus the name of three referees.

  Dabs tapped the paper. ‘Put in here that you had experience with the Flying Squad, you had training at the academy, but you feel this would be useful further experience as there are not that many opportunities.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘For women and particularly female police officers.’

  Jane finished filling in the forms as Dabs joined Vera for a cup of coffee. A tall, broad-shouldered man joined them at the
coffee bar.

  Dabs shook the man’s hand, then turned to Jane. ‘This is your instructor, Elliott Norman. He is also the secretary, so he can go through your documents now, while I show you the rest of the club.’

  ‘You’re a policewoman,’ Elliott said, turning towards her.

  ‘Yes, detective sergeant.’

  He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight smile. His age was uncertain because he was completely bald, but had a youthful face. He was also an impressive size, at least six foot three, and dwarfed the diminutive Dabs.

  Jane was led along the length of the common room to a bolted door at the back, which went into a large locker room area. Dabs pointed out that all the members have a locker, and their own keys, as it was imperative it was a secure area. From the moment they had entered the room they had not seen one window. He took out his own keys and opened a locker, showing Jane his rifle. She was impressed and watched as he carefully put it back into the locker and repocketed his keys.

  ‘My wife bought it for our wedding anniversary,’ he told her. ‘OK, follow me. We’re going to go into the long-range shooting area. This is where you learn the military technique of firing when lying down.’

  Yet again Jane was stunned at the size of the area, which must have once been a massive underground car park.

  They returned to the coffee-bar area, where Elliott was waiting.

  ‘Dabs has told me you want to have some instruction in small-arms shooting. A .22, is that right?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘The .22 is one of the oldest firearm calibres in existence. It survived the jump from black powder to smokeless. As a handgun round, it’s pretty much worthless except for training or target shooting. Although you may hear of people carrying these guns for self-defence, this is a horrible idea. Not only is the calibre insufficient, the guns normally designed for this cartridge are not up to standard. On the other hand, the nine millimetre is the most prolific handgun calibre in the world. More cartridges of a nine-millimetre ammunition are produced, sold and fired than almost every other calibre in existence. They are extremely popular because of how cheap the cartridges are and it’s normally considered to be the bare minimum for self-defence. It is carried by most militaries and law enforcement agencies in the United States.’

  Jane gave a light cough. ‘I need to practise with a .22, and at some time in the future, go on to a nine millimetre and then maybe a rifle. But right now, I think I need training that would just basically give me confidence in handling a gun.’

  ‘I’m surprised that the Met don’t give weapons training to their recruits.’

  Jane flushed. ‘I doubt that will ever happen. Some specialist squads and police stations have a small number of officers who are trained as “authorised shots”, but even then, firearms can only be issued by a sergeant with good reason. I don’t know of any women officers who are authorised. Personally, I’d just like to learn more about guns and handling them. Then if ever I get the opportunity to apply for a firearms course, I can say that I have previous experience.’

  Elliott nodded and pushed his chair back. ‘I should process your application first, but as you’re a police officer I’ll take you through to the range where you can get the feel of a handgun. We’ll do a few basic exercises and see how it goes.’

  Jane looked around for Dabs. Vera gave her a warm smile.

  ‘He’s gone to the long range,’ she said.

  Elliott took off his overcoat and checked the roster. ‘Right, Vera, I’m only going to be ten minutes. We’ve got all stalls available.’ He turned to Jane. ‘Club starts filling up at around eight p.m. with people coming in after work.’

  Jane followed him through a door opposite the coffee bar and down a narrow corridor to another door with a light above it.

  ‘When the light is on red,’ Elliott explained, ‘you don’t enter as there’s a practice or often a competition going on. So, you have to wait for clearance.’

  Elliott gestured for Jane to go ahead of him and closed the door behind them. She wondered when she was going to get hold of a gun and actually start shooting. He walked her right to the end of the twenty-five-yard range where there were six targets with bullseyes in the centre.

  ‘Right, Jane, we never have the handgun and the rifle sessions at the same time. Right now, the range is set up for rifle shooting. Take a look at the marksman’s astonishing shots from stall two.’ He pointed at the bullseye where she could see six small bullet holes.

  ‘The club and all members are very security-conscious. You fire a cartridge, you pick it up, and you never leave a gun loaded in the stall. Now, I want you to stand on the cross in the centre of the range.’

  Jane went and took up the position as instructed. Elliott stood beside her.

  ‘Now, what I want you to do is put your feet slightly apart so your balance is good. OK?’

  ‘Yes, I feel balanced.’

  ‘Good. Now, you are actually facing target three.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘Are you left- or right-handed?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘OK. Lift your right hand, stretch out your arm and point to the bullseye on target three.’

  Jane did as instructed. Feet apart, pointing directly at the bullseye. Elliott stared at her as she still held out her arm, her finger pointing.

  ‘Good. Now, that is exactly how you fire towards your target. Follow your arm, your hand, then finger pointing to it, then fire. So, what we have just learnt is balance, eye, target. Now, what I am going to do is show you how you hold your gun.’

  Elliott opened his vest and removed a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver from his holster. He released the cylinder catch, opened the cylinder and showed Jane the gun was empty.

  ‘We only load up when standing in the range-firing cubicle. It’s the same first principle as for shotgun users. So, listen carefully to me.’ He looked her in the eye as he spoke.

  ‘I will, I mean, I am . . .’ she replied nervously.

  ‘Never, never let your gun be pointed at anyone. That it may be unloaded matters not the least to me,’ he continued, looking serious.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ Jane replied, reciting it in her mind.

  ‘Now, you’ll be holding the gun in your right hand, but this doesn’t mean the support hand is not important. Quite the contrary. The support hand stabilises the handgun and makes the shooter two to three times more accurate than if the shooter used just one hand. Why? The shooter must perform two tasks with the shooting hand when firing a gun: hold the gun and press the trigger. I deliberately use the word “press” not “pull” because just like pressing a doorbell button, you press the button until the bell rings, and then stop. You don’t continue pressing until the button breaks. To me, the word “pulling” is the whole hand and arm, and “squeezing” is something performed by all the fingers.’

  He loaded the revolver, handed it to Jane and told her to aim at the target. He then stood behind her and, using his hands on her shoulders, got her to stand in a semi-crouched position, then put his arms on hers to help hold her steady.

  ‘OK, slowly press the trigger and fire one shot only.’

  Jane could feel his hot breath on her ear as he spoke. Making sure her fingers and thumb were in the correct position, she aimed at the target and pressed the trigger. The loud bang made her jump and the recoil made her hands jerk upwards, but Elliott held them steady.

  ‘Not bad. You at least hit the target.’

  ‘Only thanks to you helping me.’

  ‘OK, on your own now.’ He stepped away from her.

  She got into position, took a deep breath, then fired, but missed the target.

  ‘Do you know what you did wrong?’ Elliott asked.

  ‘Was I not holding it correctly?’

  ‘No, you were, but you flinched just before you pressed the trigger. It’s known as recoil anticipation, and one of the most common reasons shooters miss the target. That said, it’s not difficult to fix with
some “dry fire” practice.’

  ‘What’s dry fire?’ she asked.

  ‘Practising with an empty gun. When dry firing, there’s no recoil to worry about, so the anticipation and flinching goes away quickly. The key is to dry fire like it is live fire by maintaining a firm grip, so when there is recoil, the firm grip is there to reduce it. Not up, not down, not sideways, just firm and steady.’

  ‘Practice makes perfect.’ She smiled.

  He didn’t smile back. ‘Practice does not make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect,’ he said firmly.

  *

  Dabs had come off the long range and was quite eager to get home, so he came to see how Jane was doing. Jane was now in one of the stalls, wearing a set of ear defenders, and a new human silhouette target had been brought to ten yards from the firing line. She fired her three shots in quick succession and removed the ear defenders as Elliott pressed clearance on the door and Dabs came in.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ she said, with a frown.

  Elliott told her to open the gun barrel and make sure the revolver was empty, put the gun on the table and to come and have a look at the target.

  ‘Bit of a calamity, Jane. You only got one shot in the inner ring,’ Elliott said.

  Jane glanced at Dabs and felt herself flush. ‘I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong,’ she said nervously.

  ‘Your stance is fine, as is your grip,’ Elliott reassured her. ‘But you’re still anticipating the recoil and flinching before you fire. Like I said, it happens with first-time shooters, so don’t let it get you down. You just need to do more dry practice, and there’s some other drills I can teach you that will help.’

  ‘On that note, Jane, I really need to get myself home,’ Dabs said, looking at his watch.

  By the time Jane got back to her car she felt totally drained. For some reason, she had thought that by the end of the evening her old confidence would have returned, but quite the opposite had happened.

  *

  After a long, tedious day at work, Jane felt the evening on the range hadn’t been such a bad experience after all, despite her disappointing performance, and while things didn’t improve dramatically on the next session, by the fourth lesson she knew she had made great strides forward and her membership was accepted. One of the most important problems she had overcome was the panicked feeling whenever she pressed the trigger. Elliott had given her one of his lengthy monologues about controlling her breathing to keep her mind calm, and it seemed to have worked. She no longer felt he talked down to her quite so much, and couldn’t help respecting his expertise.