Shooting Elvis

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘This is more important than banging off a few rounds.’

  ‘I know.’ It would have waited until morning, but this was Dave’s show and he was rarin’ to go. He’d worked harder on the case than anybody, come up with more useful suggestions than the rest of us put together. And he’d opened the door of the microwave. I said, ‘Do you realise how many people they’ll have on their books, Dave?’

  ‘Yeah, about ten thousand.’

  ‘Right. Look. You get round there – I can tell you’re itching to – and concentrate on that call. It may have been anything. See if anybody remembers it. Then tell them we want a complete list of all their patients, soon as poss. With luck it may have been one of them making an appointment. Don’t spend all night on it. We’ll give it everything we’ve got in the morning. And ring me later.’

  It was a quarter past four. I went downstairs with a spring in my steps. It was all starting to fall in place.

  ‘You want a gun,’ Arthur at the front desk told me.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘What is it? The neighbour’s cat?’

  ‘Kids riding their bikes on the pavement,’ I said. ‘It’s the only language they understand.’

  He found two big keys – one in a drawer, one hanging on a hook – and led the way along the corridor past the cells and interview rooms towards the armoury.

  ‘Going for some practice?’ he asked, as he unlocked the heavy door and swung it open.

  ‘That’s right.’

  He lifted the counter flap and let himself inside. I stood outside.

  ‘Glock 17, I believe.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You don’t have to, y’know, Charlie.’

  ‘It’s OK, Arthur,’ I said. ‘I’ve had the sermons. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He took a pistol from a rack and pushed it across the counter. ‘Ever used one of these?’

  ‘No. Tell me about it.’

  ‘OK. Designed by Herr Glock, who had never made a gun before, for the German police. He set out to make a better gun and won the contract. Nine millimetre, plastic frame, metal barrel and other bits. The magazine holds seventeen bullets but we only put fifteen in.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Tell me about the sights.’

  He held the gun so I could see them. ‘Line the white dots up and you’re away. Any questions?’

  ‘Yes. Where’s the safety catch?’

  ‘It’s built into the trigger, or, in other words, there isn’t one. A safety catch is to prevent the gun firing if accidentally dropped. It isn’t there to switch the gun on and off. The trigger pull is long and heavy – it’ll only fire when you mean it to.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, putting the weapon in my jacket pocket. ‘Got any bullets?’

  He plonked the gun’s magazine on the counter and produced a new box of fifty 9mm soft-nosed bullets. They’re nasty, real nasty. They mushroom on impact and all their energy is dissipated in the first thing they hit. There’s little chance of them going straight through the intended target and hitting someone else. Arthur lifted the lid off and they sat there, brass, copper and lead, glowing like jewels. Beautiful, deadly jewels. His fingers flipped a bullet up and he clicked it into the magazine with the ease of an expert, followed by another and another, until his phone rang and broke the sequence.

  ‘Put fifteen in,’ he said, pushing the magazine towards me and turning to answer the phone, ‘and sign the book.’

  ‘How many have you put in?’ I asked his retreating back, but his reply was drowned by the next ring of the phone. The bullets in the box didn’t flip up for me like they did for him, and I couldn’t hook my fingernails under them, so I tipped them onto the counter and started pressing them, one by one, into the magazine.

  It felt strange, walking down the corridor with my jacket weighed down by the gun in one pocket and the magazine in the other. I placed the box of the remaining bullets on the passenger seat and pulled my seatbelt on. It was rush hour, and I was loaded for bear, so keep out of my way. The Yardies are right about that: carrying a gun definitely gives you an edge.

  You reach the range by driving through the grounds of the hotel, round their one-way system and over the speed bumps and the golf cart crossings. The speed limit is ten miles per hour, which is well meant but completely unrealistic. The grass had that permanently newly mown look and smell and the trees were at their best. I’ve never played golf, but if it was an excuse to be out in the fresh air in these surroundings I could see the attraction. Pity about the trousers. Approaching the hotel I took a right turn onto an un-signposted track that led towards the long, low building of the shooting range.

  There were two cars parked outside, a BMW and a racy Ford Escort. I picked up the box of bullets and swung my legs out onto the tarmac. The outer door of the range opened and let me into a sort of airlock, but the steel inner door was locked. I pressed the buzzer and a voice said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Charlie Priest,’ I said into the microphone.

  A moment later I heard the clunk of a well-oiled bolt and the door swung inwards. Superintendent Mark Stanwick was standing there, a big friendly smile on his face.

  ‘Hello Charlie,’ he greeted me. ‘We thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Traffic,’ I explained. ‘I didn’t realise you would be here, Mr Stanwick.’

  He closed the door behind me and I heard the bolt slide home. ‘Oh, I like to keep my hand in, you know. Did you bring a gun, eh?’

  I patted my pocket. ‘Right here.’ He didn’t tell me to call him Mark.

  ‘Good, good. I was in the Met shooting team. Black powder, mainly. Loaded my own cartridges. Had a Colt revolver until they changed the law. Damian said you were coming tonight, so I asked him if I could join you. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s gone for a sandwich. Apparently he has something going with one of the chefs and she feeds him. Lucky devil, eh. He said I had to show you this and we were to have some practice until he got back.’ A long rifle was lying on the counter, with a telescopic sight and extended bipod legs at the front. He traced his fingers along its length as lovingly as if it were the stocking-clad leg of a Pretty Polly model.

  ‘Practice?’ I said. ‘Did we ought to?’

  ‘It’s OK, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘I’ll look after you.’

  The range is long and low. Fifty metres long, but you’d swear it was nearer twice that length. It goes on forever, the far end dimly lit and diffused with smoke. The lighting is concealed behind the roof girders for protection and there is the constant hum of a powerful air extraction system. The walls and ceiling are cushioned with sound insulating material and will withstand a close-range hit from most of the weapons currently available.

  ‘So what is it?’ I asked, eyeing the long gun. There’s a counter at this end of the range, with a small office and control room behind the counter. The lights weren’t on in the control room.

  ‘It’s a sniper rifle, by Accuracy International. Only .243 calibre, but state of the art. Damian said I’ve to give you the demonstration.’

  ‘The demonstration? That sounds intriguing.’ I took the Glock and its magazine from my pockets and placed them on the counter next to the box of bullets. I removed my jacket and laid it on there with them. My mobile phone was in my shirt pocket, so I lifted that out and sat it on my jacket. Another Glock, presumably for Stanwick, was at the far end of the counter. Several pairs of safety spectacles and ear defenders were there, too, in a cardboard box, so I chose a pair of each and pulled them on. Stanwick came from behind the counter carrying a Castrol GTX five litre plastic container and walked about halfway down the range with it.

  ‘You putting these on?’ I said, offering him a set of glasses and ear muffs as he came back. My voice sounded hollow through the ear defenders.

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘No, that’s OK. You’ve never seen anything like this, Charlie,’ he went on, his eyes gleaming. He
picked up the sniper rifle, rotated his shoulders a couple of times and knelt on the floor, gently placing the long gun on the concrete. He lined it up with the oil drum and lay full length, the butt of the gun pulled into his right shoulder, squinting into the telescopic sight.

  The Castrol container was filled with water. There was a crack, deafeningly loud even with the muffs on, and the container exploded. Water flew up to the roof and halfway towards us, and the container leapt into the air. Stanwick rose to his feet and grinned.

  The drum was ripped open and turned inside out. Most of the water had flown towards the gun, not away from it.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ Stanwick asked, as proud as a granddad at the school sports.

  ‘Amazing,’ I confessed. I picked up the mangled container and examined it. ‘What happened to the bullet?’ There was a grey film on the plastic, with tiny flecks of copper like gold dust in a prospector’s pan.

  ‘That’s it,’ Stanwick said, wiping the leaden smear with a finger and showing his fingertip to me. ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘And why did most of the water fly that way?’ I gestured towards the rifle, standing there propped up on its bipod legs, pointing towards us.

  ‘The shock wave,’ he explained. ‘The bullet is travelling at over twice the speed of sound. It leaves a great vacuum in its wake.’ He spoke like one newly converted, the enthusiasm lighting up his face. Fire power impressed him. It terrifies me.

  ‘Right,’ he declared. ‘The show’s over. Let’s have some practice. I’ve set up a couple of targets.’ I’d seen the two effigies hanging from the wires that ran the length of the range. Last time I was here they were outlines of a Capone-like figure, but these were of a young, slim guy with a lock of hair falling across his brow. It could almost have been Elvis. Something clicked in my brain. Elvis, aka the King. That was the in-joke that I hadn’t understood, in the office all those weeks ago. They hung in the gloom about fifteen yards down the range. The King and his twin brother.

  ‘I’ll just move this out of the way, eh.’ Stanwick picked up the sniper rifle and moved it forward a few feet. I’d have put it on the counter, but decided he was probably right: it was safer on the floor, where we could see it.

  ‘OK, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Let’s see you put a pattern of five between his eyes.’

  ‘Five?’ I queried. I was taught to shoot in groups of two or three.

  ‘That’s right. If you’re going to kill someone you might as well do it properly.’

  I clicked the magazine into place and raised the gun two-handed. The sights on the Glock are three white dots: two on the rear sight, one on the front. You focus on the front dot, place it over the target, and bring the two dots on the rear sight in line with it on either side. Like this:

  o o o

  Then you pull the trigger.

  I was slow. The gun boomed in my ears and jerked upwards. I dragged the dots back in line and kept firing, the ejected cartridge cases brushing my cheek as they flew out. Bang…bang…bang… bang…bang.

  Elvis had five bullet holes in his face. I lowered the gun, more than satisfied with my handiwork.

  ‘Pretty good,’ Stanwick told me. I thought so, too. He raised his gun and banged off his five in about half the time it took me. He was slightly more accurate, too, but not much.

  ‘You win that one,’ I conceded.

  ‘Practice, Charlie. That’s all it is. It’s you to nominate, my turn to fire first.’

  ‘Um, his sternum,’ I said.

  He rattled five into the cardboard cut-out, all as near on target as would make no difference. I lifted my gun and put five into my Elvis slightly more smartly than the first five. He wouldn’t have come back for more.

  ‘You’re getting better,’ Stanwick told me. ‘We’ll make a marksman of you yet. Your turn to go first. Let’s see you put the last five into his heart, finish him off.’

  I was taking a few deep breaths, calming myself, letting the adrenaline level settle down, when I heard a mobile phone ringing. ‘That sounds like mine,’ I said, turning towards the counter. I’d recognise it anywhere. Dave’s son set it up for me, so it plays the first stanza of ‘Like a Rolling Stone’.

  ‘Let it ring,’ Stanwick said.

  ‘I’m expecting a call,’ I told him. I picked the phone up at about Throw the bums a dime and spoke my name into it.

  ‘It’s me, Chas,’ I heard Dave say, breathless with excitement. ‘I’ve cracked it. I’ve cracked it.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘I’m outside the dentist’s. It’s on Brighouse Road, near the magistrates’ court. They offered to run their entire list off for me, after I’d convinced them how important it was, and I sat down to wait. I was looking through today’s appointments when I noticed a name. You’ll never guess who.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘A lady called Dorothea Stanwick. She rang in and made an appointment for emergency treatment at exactly the right time this morning. I’ve checked her address and it’s Mark Stanwick’s wife. Superintendent Stanwick. He’s on the books, too, but the appointment was for her. She rang on the same phone that the Executioner uses, Charlie. It’s him. It must be. I was wrong. I’d have gambled it was…well, you know who, but I was wrong, and it all fits.’

  I turned and looked at Stanwick. He gave me a half-hearted, impatient smile and I rolled my eyes as if annoyed with the caller. Stanwick was holding his Glock down by his side.

  I was pressing the phone to the side of my face so no stray sound waves could escape from it, and said, ‘OK, no problem. What time’s the kick-off?’

  ‘What?’ Dave demanded.

  ‘Eight? I’ll be there. Do I have to bring my own whistle?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘See you there, then.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Dave was saying. ‘Oh my God. Are you at the range?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s with you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh Christ! Have you got a gun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shoot him, Charlie! For Christ’s sake shoot him. Now, while I’m listening. I’ll take the blame. Shoot him!’

  ‘I’ll see you there, then,’ I said, and broke the connection.

  ‘Your pal Dave?’ Stanwick asked as I pulled the ear defenders back in place.

  ‘Yes. His son’s playing in a five-a-side competition at the sports centre and they need a referee. Dave coaches them; I help out now and again.’

  ‘Sounds fun, and highly commendable, being engaged with the community. Your turn to shoot first, I believe. Let’s see you put the last five in his heart.’

  I took my place at the line and raised the gun. The middle o swam about, hovering around the target. When I thought it was as steady as I could hold it I brought the two outer o’s in line with it and pulled the trigger.

  Four times.

  The echo died down and the smoke drifted away. I stood there, gun aloft, and lined the dots up again. The fifth shot hit plumb dead centre. If Elvis wasn’t dead before, he was now.

  ‘Your turn,’ I said.

  Sparks flew from the end of the barrel as the gun kicked. Stanwick stood for a moment, as if frozen, and slowly turned to face me, the gun still held aloft. I felt an icy dampness creep up my legs and clutch my loins.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘This is dangerous. Put the gun down, Mark.’

  ‘Superintendent to you, Inspector,’ he hissed.

  ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘It’s about you and me, Priest. That’s what it’s about.’ The gun wasn’t wavering, and I knew that the central spot was somewhere between my eyes.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do. You’ve blighted my career, right from the start. Old Mother Twanky. You couldn’t resist going to the press, could you? “There’s no such thing as spontaneous human combustion”, you told them, ridiculing what I’d said. I was first officer on the job. It was my
case, and you took it over and belittled me.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’ I wondered what Dave would do. He ought to organise the FSG and surround the place, but he was just as likely to come blustering in all by himself. It was a worry I could do without. And Damian. Where was Damian?

  ‘I’ve followed your career,’ he went on. ‘Mr One Hundred Per Cent, they call you. Detective Inspector Priest, scourge of the murderers. Well now you’ll go to the grave with three unsolved cases on your record.’

  ‘Where’s Damian?’ I demanded. ‘What have you done with Damian?’

  ‘Damian had an accident, like you are going to do.’

  ‘You’ve killed him,’ I hissed. ‘Just like that? You’ve killed him to suit your pathetic mind game?’

  ‘Not quite. The official line will be that he killed himself. There was a tragic accident and you were shot. He was showing you the sniper rifle and it went off. He couldn’t face the disgrace it would bring upon him, so he took his own life. There’ll be no blame on you. They’ll give you a big send-off. Coffin bearers, best uniforms, the works.’ He laughed silently at the thought, his shoulders shaking but his expression not changing,

  ‘So why did you kill Alfred Armitage?’ I asked. I reckoned it would take at least half an hour for an FSG to get here. They might drag a couple of ARVs off the motorway and send them, but they weren’t trained for a shoot-out. Their job was to contain a situation until the real gunslingers arrived. Still, I thought, they’d be most welcome. Right then, Osama Bin Laden would have been most welcome. Stanwick still had the Glock pointing at me, with four bullets in it. My arms were down by my sides, and I was still holding my weapon.

  ‘Alfred was a strange case, don’t you agree? An unfortunate man. As far as I’m concerned it was Terence Paul Hutchinson that I killed, aka the Midnight Strangler.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I protested.

  ‘Not to the parents of his victims,’ Stanwick claimed. ‘Not to them. They’d lived their lives in anguish for what had happened to their children. All that pain. All that bitterness. I helped them get over it. I brought some comfort into their lives. As far as they knew, it was the Strangler who’d been killed, and good riddance to him.’