The Path of the Bullet

by M C Jacques

  “Well now, old man, you see, I know that you’re used to all that. I mean to say, you even rumbled that big JC himself was a militant! You see what I mean? Natural choice for this one, old man!” McKay did see. He saw all too well. And, as a consequence, and despite a solemn effort on his part, he hardly heard a word from any of Mountfitchet’s exhortations which flowed like a river for the next fifteen minutes or so.

  Yet their meeting continued uninterrupted, save sorties to the bar through the afternoon and well in to the evening, too.

  6

  A stroll along the Backs…

  When the pair finally departed Secret Rooms, Jesus Lane was eerily quiet; gentle shadows lay about the place like grey puddles of absence, corpses from a lazy sky on a sultry eve.

  Having negotiated the Club’s steps, bid their farewells above ground and agreed a time and place to meet soon, they parted. For his part, McKay fancied a circuitous walk around The Backs before sniffing out somewhere to dine. It was the first time he had visited Cambridge, his dad’s city, since the old man had slipped quietly away in Addenbrooke’s, which was getting on for five years ago now.

  An evening amble along the Cam would provide McKay with a welcome opportunity to reflect upon his life as a whole, upon his mottled relationship with his late father in particular, and then, he reckoned, he could turn his attention more fully to chew over the Wing Commander’s request for assistance, as he dined alone.

  The evening was one of those that should never end; the lime-whiteness of King’s College Chapel shimmering gently in the river as it slovenly wended its path about the meadows. The hum of a population – students, visitors, drop-outs – all equally stirred by the prospect of a warm ‘I can do anything’ finale to their day.

  In his dealings with his son, Mark’s father, Flight Lieutenant Malcolm McKay, had not accounted for the possibility of a sudden, untimely death. He had always banked on the probability that there would be time to ‘set matters right’ or to ‘set the record straight’, as he had put it to his son during the last few days of his life in the late autumn of 1996.

  Dad had left Mum and me to perish when I was a toddler, thought McKay, his rate of progress along the riverside faltering slightly – Well, he may as well have done! His thoughts phased into imagery as his mind wandered back to being walked around the twisty lanes of a tiny Leicestershire hamlet, in the shadow of Coleorton Hall, eagerly clasping his mother’s hand whilst yearning to run off and fuss with the Alsatian behind the gate, or the weary tomcat prowling his circuit perimeter along the brick wall, high up in the morning sky.

  But for this evening, at least, he was in Cambridge, and that was his dad’s place. Whatever he thought of his old man ethically, socially, he admitted the old bloke McKay had been a hit: women here, women there and a string of die-hard male friends. And how long is a piece of string? Hardly a week went by without somebody from the old stooge’s past getting in touch. Some wanted to know what had become of him, others asked about what had become of his car. Various forces’ families’ clubs and associations wrote and emailed him about this get-together or that reunion. His dad, curse the old devil, had been a popular bloke.

  And Mark liked to use ‘bloke’ now and again when referring to his old man because he imagined that it might well be linked, philologically, to the term blackguard, and served, therefore, as a discreet euphemism. Mountfitchet, for example, had never said a bad word about his dad. Never. And he probably never would, concluded McKay.

  7

  Dining alone in Cambridge…

  Having assured the waiter that the corner table would be quite suitable, McKay settled and made himself comfortable, ordered a bottle of Orvieto, as well as a jug of still water, and undertook a precursory study of Mountfitchet’s profiles of the staff at the RWM Tuxford.

  Some of the closing words of their earlier meeting still reverberated: ‘It all needs to be done hush, hush, old lad. Matt Fothergill, the Museum Director, and Sarah Millar, the marketing girl, are paranoid about bad publicity! “Lunatic sniper from War Museum bumps off war heroes and Joe Public” – that type of thing!’

  ‘I wonder if that’s all they’re worried about,’ McKay had then stated. Now, though, his imaginative bent was urging him to conjure up and delineate images of some of the key players at the museum for his own delectation and not, it must be said, for clarity’s sake. As a historian, McKay knew the fallacy of such efforts all too well; besides, the waiter’s re-emergence insisted upon a hasty close to such ruminations.

  “Yes, that’s fine; delicious actually. Pour me just a small glass to kick-off with, please.”

  “Certainly, sir. Is sir ready to order his food yet?”

  “A few more minutes, please.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  McKay wrested his compact notebook from its leather case, much to the suppressed amusement of the attentive waiter, recently returned and hovering in a bid to extract his client’s food order.

  “A wise choice, if I may say so, sir. The trout is proving most popular at the moment. May I suggest the Jersey Royals, asparagus and green beans as an accompaniment?”

  “You may. Thanks. Is the trout local?”

  “Indeed it is, sir – from West Stow, near Bury, just along the A14.”

  Before his food arrived, McKay set about distilling Mountfitchet’s (sometimes too) comprehensive profiles of what he had referred to as the ‘key runners and riders’ from among the War Museum staff. The jottings made in his notebook during the course of the evening comprised the following:

  RWM Tuxford

  Executive Staff

  Matt Fothergill

  Museum Director

  Age: 51Time at RWM Tuxford: 2 years

  Address: The Old Forge, Ossler’s Yard, nr Bury St Edmunds

  Possibly having affair with colleague at RWM, Jill Prestons (see below). Member of local gun club.

  Married to Lisa Fothergill, part-time volunteer at RWM, usually works weekends.

  Has attended many courses on armaments, etc.

  Jill Prestons

  Museum Manager

  Age: 42Time at RWM Tuxford: 20 months

  Address: Hazel Grove, Chippenham Ave, Royston, Herts.

  Career woman. Successful management record. Has had previous relationships with number of male colleagues, often younger. Snappy dresser.

  No known record of any recent technical or armament training but served as a cadet.

  Sarah Millar

  Sales Manager and Visits Co-ordinator

  Age: 27Time at RWM Tuxford: 2 years

  Address: Flat 1b, Parson’s Manor, Mill Rd, Cambridge

  Quietly efficient at work. Little known re private life.

  ‘Mediterranean looking’ boyfriend in Cambridge.

  No known record of any technical or armament training.

  Graham Locke

  Head of Maintenance and Technical Support

  Age: 44Time at RWM Tuxford: 21 years

  Address: The Old Pottery, High St, Tuxford, Cambs

  Popular. Reputation for being ‘helpful’.

  Qualified pilot. Broad knowledge of armaments and explosives. Intimate knowledge of rifles and ballistics. Stickler for quality. Popular.

  General notes:

  Scan auxiliary staff in RWM cafés, restaurants, technical and restoration depts. as matter of urgency

  Check details of gun used to kill Sgt Smith

  Contact John Foote and Jay Gould

  8

  Booking in at the White Hart Inn & Hotel, Tuxford Village…

  Not wanting to push his dad’s old Scimitar too far, McKay had cruised along the A1(M), the A14 and the M11 at speeds varying between sixty-five and seventy miles per hour. The car was still comfortable and effortless at such low speeds and the replacement of the worn-out rubber linings a
round the doors had certainly reduced the audible wind noise to as low a level as most modern cars. McKay liked the car, although he was not entirely convinced by the beige and brown duotone livery, he thought, as he slammed the rear hatch firmly and activated the recently installed alarm. The noon sun beat down hard on the car park as McKay entered the hostelry.

  The inside of the White Hart Inn & Hotel, Tuxford, had changed little over the intervening years; the dark beams and friendly fireplaces still attracted the visitor’s attention. One wall may have been removed, that separating the bar from the snug. McKay reckoned it was around seven years since he had last darkened the doorways there for a meal and a pint of IPA.

  “In fact, it was the May Bank Holiday Air Show of 1993,” he assured the attractive, but rather young receptionist, who had asked whether or not the tallish, oldish-looking gent before her had ever stayed ‘with us before’.

  “Here’s your key then, Mr McKay. Room 12. Up the stairs, turn right and then it’s to the left. Breakfast is between seven-thirty and nine o’clock, but if you like it earlier or later just call ‘eleven’ and I’ll sort it. Is that okay? Good. Please have a nice stay with us!”

  That pretty girl’s Eastern European accent has been marginally infiltrated by an East Anglian one, thought McKay, as he just managed to catch a glimpse of her pouncing on the telephone, having first checked carefully that he had left the foyer.

  For one who had stayed in all sorts of hotels, guest houses and hostels pretty much the world over, McKay was very taken with the room, and the firm comfort of his bed, in particular. The bathroom was bright and spotless, too (he especially liked that) and very well appointed for what he had been told by Mountfitchet was an old coaching inn.

  Even the wardrobe revealed no hint of either dampness or mustiness, and McKay struggled to recall when he had last hung his treasured Daks, Crombie and Austin Reed items with a feeling of so much confidence in their wellbeing – not a mothball to be seen or smelt!

  The end room’s two windows overlooked the quiet village’s main street to one side and the ancient yew tree-ringed church to another. A smart and compact, light green minibus with ‘Wardman’s of Long Compton, Warks’ emblazoned on the side, rested empty in the White Hart’s car park. McKay had noticed it as he was unloading his car. He would probably encounter its occupants later on that evening in the bar.

  But, for the present at least, McKay’s attention was fastened upon the RWM and that would be his next port of call. He wondered, too, how that place might have changed over the past seven years or so. That afternoon, he thought, would be suitable for a general scout around the offices, to gain an initial impression, a picture of how the land lay, so to speak. He would restrain his coverage to the main office complex and try to see the senior management threesome of Fothergill, Prestons and Millar.

  Tomorrow, though, he intended to spend the full day in the museum, from ten in the morning until six in the afternoon (being the published Summer Opening Hours of the RWM), which would give him a good opportunity to sample – in every sense – the delights of the three cafés and restaurants on the site. Only then would he seek out those whom Mountfitchet had referred to as ‘the auxiliaries’.

  9

  McKay’s first visit to the Royal War Museum, Tuxford for seven years. Meeting Museum Director, Matt Fothergill…

  Before he was many minutes into his walk, McKay realised that his decision to go by shanks’ pony to the museum had been a bad one. The relentless roar and draught of the speedy traffic was nearly unbearable, and uncomfortable at the very least. By the time he had reached the entrance to the business park hard by the junction with the motorway, he had decided that all future visits were to be made by car or by bus for the remainder of his time at the White Hart.

  Once on the roundabout’s pavement, though, the museum’s hangars cut an immediately impressive profile: bold, dominating and downright. There can be no doubt that you are approaching somewhere special, thought McKay, as he gazed at the looming architectural spectacle, designated as the Airspace Display by the RWM Tuxford’s management.

  *

  “Visiting figures have never been so good for Tuxford or, indeed, for all the arms and wings of the Royal War Museum – we’ve got a branch in the North, you know, too. You are a northerner, aren’t you? With a name like yours, I mean. Ah, good, here’s the coffee! Any digestives for Mr McKay, Tina? Ah, good girl! Many thanks!”

  “I forget myself, sometimes, Mr Fothergill! I think of myself as a Midlander, I suppose, although I did spend a few years tucked away at Oxford and on the South Coast, as well.”

  “Of course. Your dad was in the RAF, wasn’t he? Mountfitchet mentioned it, in his own blundering manner.” The Director audibly sipped his strong, black coffee and cast his eyes fleetingly across in McKay’s broad direction.

  Blundering maybe, endearing mainly, and honest most definitely, thought McKay, who was already having to bridle his feelings from gathering a momentum of dislike towards Fothergill. ‘He’s a man of precious little eye contact and even less substance.’ McKay inwardly acknowledged that the Wing Commander’s statement may well prove to be correct. Thereupon, McKay continued to gauge Fothergill.

  Men have various approaches to the daily chore of shaving: some attack their scalp randomly, especially those using electric razors; some men simply commence the assault below the ears on one side, usually the same side, and thereafter make gradual sliding progression around to the other, circumnavigating northwards for the moustache and chin-burns. But Fothergill was, McKay had concluded, one of those who completes one side of the face and neck, having started beneath the ears, and then completes the same action in a mirror-like process – ears southwards to the chin. Fothergill began on his right side, beneath the ear, which did look pristinely clear, which meant that the final area of his face or neck to be completed was the lower cranium and jaw area just to the left of his chin. By the time his razor reached this area, the blades thereon would always be that little bit blunter, therefore, and the human inclination ever so slightly more inclined to make haste. Day after day, blade after blade. Ironically then, the merely occasional, only just detectable, dark and grey stubs, indicated to McKay just how regular and orderly the Museum Director was in his approach to bathroom routine and, in all probability, to his professional life, too.

  “As I was saying, almost every aspect of the business, well, the Trust, I should strictly say, is going very well, very well indeed, apart from this blessed shooting of the soldier bloke, which is what I assume you’re here about.”

  “I presume you mean Sergeant Smith?” McKay was curt.

  “Sorry, of course, I mean Smith… his name just evaded me for a moment. Bit of an old twit, from most accounts!” McKay could have sworn that Fothergill had really been trying to appear to be ‘cool’, but had no intention of letting him think that he had been.

  “You seem to be preoccupied, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Fothergill. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks; just rather a lot going on here at the moment! Seem to have been almost living here for the past six months or so. Well, Monday to Friday, at least! As I was saying earlier, people just will keep on visiting us, you know!”

  “And that is what’s weighing on your mind?”

  “Well, it’s only half the story when you take into account the complex staffing issues we’ve got here, I suppose! Good on the whole, sure they are, the staff that is, but what with full- and part-timers, general volunteers, technical volunteers, skilled volunteers, semi-skilled volunteers and now all this business with the new Criminal Records Bureau checks, possibly for every single employee – because of the number of schoolchildren who darken our doors – well, I ask you!”

  “You’ve obviously got your hands full, Mr Fothergill.” McKay was rapidly tempering his censure of the Director with sympathy for this highly stressed and
rather nervous individual. “So, let me get to the point; is there anything, anything at all, that you could tell me about the shooting? Something that wasn’t picked up at the time, or anything you forgot to mention, no matter how trivial or incidental it may have seemed then.”

  Fothergill rose and turned towards the window which looked out across the old airfield, about which the various hangars and offices of the RWM were situated. “Look, Mr McKay, let me put my thinking cap on for a day or two.” He quietened as he continued his lengthy stare across the airfield. “Actually, there is one matter which I feel that I can tell you about which, rightly or wrongly, loyalty to the museum prevented me from telling Inspector Burrows, you know, from the Cambridgeshire CID.”

  McKay placed his cup and saucer onto the sunlight-mottled desk aside him. “Go on.” He had considered adding a friendly assurance that there was no need for the Museum Director to carry on biting his lips, but decided against it at the last second. It might have appeared a mite patronising, he considered.

  “Well, you see, the three members of the Senior Management Group here all get on exceedingly well. We all, Jill, Sarah and me…”

  “That’s Jill Prestons and Sarah Millar?”

  “Yes… We all get on so well, and have been so successful in boosting profits, well, income, visitor numbers, that I simply didn’t feel able to divulge what I am about to say to you to a third party. I mean, we are keeping this in-house, aren’t we, McKay? Mountfitchet assured me that…”