by Andy Maslen
Half an hour later, using the time-of-death estimate from the PM report and the time Adlam had found the body, he had something he felt sure Ford would want to know straight away. Straightening his tie, he went to find his boss.
Ford signalled for Olly to sit down while he finished his call with Sandy. He smiled at him. Was that a new tie? Olly did love his designer gear.
‘Yes, Olly. What’ve you got for me?’
‘I found Owen on the CCTV. Guv, we got Dr Eustace’s report on Friday, right? Well, she said Owen had been dead for a week to ten days. If her estimate for time of death is accurate, even allowing for the range, then I calculate that Owen was murdered not in a three-day window but a twenty-four-hour window.’
‘Good work. What’s the window?’
‘I think Owen was killed between Thursday the twenty-ninth of April after 9.00 a.m. and Friday the thirtieth of April at, say, the same time.’
‘Let’s add on a few hours as a safety margin, but that’s good work. Well done.’
He caught the corners of Olly’s mouth twitching upwards as he stood to leave. Maybe the boy had the makings of a decent detective after all.
Ford looked down to see his hand clamped across his stomach. His stomach had been churning all morning. He knew why. It was the day of the wake. And Ford was nowhere near making an arrest. Even if he did have Joe Hibberd in his sights.
He went to find Jools.
‘How are you doing with the gun clubs?’
‘I’ve already been to one. Salisbury and District Shooting Club.’
‘Any joy?’
‘No. The membership secretary showed me their list. No matches to the Royal Colleges lists. No butchers, either. A couple had bought .308 rounds in the last month, but they were full metal jackets not ballistic tips.’
‘Where’s the next one on your list?’
‘New Forest Shooting Centre in Nomansland.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’re coming?’
‘I need to get out and do something.’
On the way out, Ford stopped by Olly’s desk. ‘Can you check whether Hibberd has a record?’
‘On it,’ he said, mimicking – whether consciously or not, Ford didn’t know – Jools’s favourite response to a request.
Thirty minutes later, Ford buzzed his window down as Jools drove along the bumpy track to the gun club. He could smell plenty of spring growth and – a sour counterpoint to the natural scent of trees in leaf or bud – the sharp tang of burned propellant.
Distant reports grew louder as Jools rolled up to a pine-clad single-storey building with a large ‘Welcome’ sign above the front door. Ford led the way inside. A Gaggia espresso machine hissed behind a heavily varnished pine counter, the nearest thing to a reception desk.
A cluster of round tables filled the far end of the room. At one of them, a couple of men dressed in olive drab shirts under sleeveless shooting jackets were drinking coffee.
Wooden plaques on the wall behind them bore columns of names and dates in gold lettering. Club trophy winners, Ford assumed. A glass cabinet beneath the plaques groaned with silverware, reinforcing the impression.
‘Need some help?’ one of the men asked with a smile.
Ford turned. ‘Yes, we’re looking for someone who runs the club. The secretary?’
‘That’ll be Jim. He’s out on the rifle range at the moment.’
‘Which way is that?’
The man shook his head. ‘You can’t go walking around, son, sorry. It’s a members-only club. If you’re thinking of joining I can give you a leaflet.’
Ford showed his ID. ‘Can you take us to him?’
The man peered at the warrant card. Then he nodded. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘It’s fine. You weren’t to know.’
Ford and Jools followed their guide from the clubhouse down a wide path covered in bark chips, freshly laid judging by the smell of creosote emanating from the bright orange scraps of wood.
The reports of the firearms grew louder. Ford thought he could detect at least three different types. Deep-throated barks he imagined to be shotguns. Louder, sharper cracks he thought were rifles. And a third that eluded him.
A volley of the latter echoed through the woods surrounding them.
‘What type of weapon is that?’ he asked.
‘Long-barrelled revolver. We’ve got a separate range for them. They’re legal,’ he added in an anxious tone.
‘I’m sure they are. Don’t worry, we’re not here to inspect licences.’
‘It wouldn’t matter if you were. Jim’s a monster for paperwork. You could go through the office with a team of sniffer dogs and you wouldn’t find a comma in the wrong place.’
They emerged from the cover of a stand of birches into a wide-open grassy area about a hundred yards by thirty. A tall sandbank capped off the far end. Thick shrubs and tree cover demarcated the left and right edges. A row of targets marked by fluttering orange flags stood in front of the sandbank.
The man led them to the shooters’ stations, a row of tables protected by a sloping wooden roof. Beside individual tables laden with ammunition, gloves and notepads, men and a lone woman stood, kneeled or lay, a rifle in their hands or by their side as they checked their latest shots with binoculars. The volleys of shots made conversation impossible.
Ford caught Jools’s eye. ‘Loud, isn’t it?’ he yelled.
She grimaced. ‘Should have brought earplugs.’
Their guide walked down the row and tapped one of the shooters on the shoulder. The latter removed a pair of olive-green ear defenders and turned round.
‘There’s a couple of police want to talk to you.’
The man got to his feet. A beer belly bulged from beneath a green jumper with leather shoulder pads. He flicked on the safety and laid his rifle carefully on the ground, then backed out of his station and came over to Ford and Jools.
He pointed back the way they’d come, then cupped his hands around his mouth.
‘Let’s talk in the clubhouse,’ he bawled.
They sat at a corner table, well away from the other patrons. Jim fetched three coffees, and once they were seated, he looked first at Jools, then at Ford.
‘How can I help?’
‘We’d like to see a list of your members,’ Jools said.
Jim swivelled in his chair to look at her. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘We’re investigating two murders. Both victims were shot. We’re talking to local gun owners.’
‘Oh, right. Is paper OK or do you want it as a digital file?’
‘Digital would be better,’ Jools said. ‘Would it have records of what guns your members own?’
Jim shook his head. ‘Only contact details, that sort of thing. But I know all the members personally. If there’s somebody you’re interested in specifically, I could tell you what they usually shoot.’
‘Just the list for now, please.’ She handed him her card. ‘My email’s on there.’
He got to his feet. ‘Won’t be a minute.’
While they waited, Ford wandered over to the wall-mounted plaques. One bore the heading, in ornate black and gold Gothic lettering:
NEW FOREST SHOOTING CENTRE
50M RIFLE THREE-POSITION TROPHY
Columns of names and dates marched across the rest of the polished surface. Ford scanned the list. Clearly, this club had its crack shots: people who won several years in a row, then dropped a couple before returning, triumphant, to claim another trophy.
One name in particular cropped up with amazing regularity: P. Martival. Seven times in the last fifteen years, with a recent run of three consecutive years and another of two. Ford made a note of the name.
‘Here you are, Inspector!’
Ford turned to see Jim waving a sheaf of stapled sheets, and rejoined the table.
‘I did email them to you as well,’ Jim said to Jools. ‘But I thought it would be helpful to have a
hard copy.’
She tucked it into her bag. ‘Thanks. Tell me,’ she said, ‘what sort of ammunition do your members use on the ranges? The ones who shoot rifles.’
Jim leaned back and clasped his hands over his belly. ‘All the modern calibres from .22 up to .450. The only calibre we prohibit is .50 BMG. The bloody things are like artillery shells. Far too destructive for leisure shooting. Did you know, the army use them against vehicles? Buildings, even!’
‘Is there a favourite calibre?’ Jools persisted.
Ford noticed approvingly the way Jools didn’t let Jim sidetrack her.
Jim smiled. ‘Every calibre has its fans. It’s mainly youth members who shoot .22.’
Jools made a note.
‘Do you have a club shop?’ Ford asked.
‘Of course! We stock all those calibres, plus a few more besides. Then there’s shotgun cartridges—’
‘Records of sales?’
Jim frowned at having been cut off. Clearly he enjoyed talking gun stuff, but Ford didn’t have time.
‘Absolutely. Member’s name plus date and amount of ammunition purchased.’
‘We might come back to you and ask for your last six months’ receipts,’ Ford said.
‘No problem. As I said, we’re happy to help the police. You said two murders. Were they the ones in the paper?’
‘That’s right.’
Jim nodded. ‘Terrible business. But I can assure you, it wouldn’t have been one of our members.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Jools asked.
‘They come here to shoot for fun. It’s their hobby. A passion for some of them. But they’re not murderers. They’re all responsible members of society!’
Ford forbore from telling Jim that at least half the people he’d ever arrested for murder fitted that description.
‘Do they ever shoot with expanding bullets?’ he asked instead.
‘Oh, yes,’ Jim said, warming to his theme as he faced increasingly technical questions. ‘A lot of our members use tipped rounds. They’re more accurate, you see, on account of—’
‘Do they bring their guns with them or store them here?’ Jools asked quickly.
‘Most bring them in their cars. Cased, of course. We do have a few guns available for hire for day guests and the like. But that’s a tiny fraction,’ he said. ‘I’d say ninety-nine point nine per cent of people shooting here bring their own guns with them.’
Ford pointed at the wooden plaques he’d inspected earlier. ‘I see you have a few real sharpshooters.’
Jim twisted in his seat to follow the line of Ford’s finger. He grinned. ‘It’s worse than tennis clubs. You know, the same chaps every year coming up to collect their cup at the end of the day. People don’t mind. I think it just spurs them on to get better.’
‘I saw that there’s a P. Martival who does pretty well. Is that a man or a woman?’ Ford asked.
‘Oh, that’s definitely a man. Phil Martival. Bloody nice chap. Especially given his background.’
‘Background?’ Ford asked, envisioning some likely lad who’d nevertheless managed to insinuate himself into this genteel club of shooting enthusiasts.
‘Him being a lord and all.’
From the corner of his eye, Ford caught Jools stiffening. ‘A lord?’ he echoed.
‘That’s right. The Right Honourable Viscount Baverstock’s his proper title, but he insists we all call him Phil. Just as well, because I doubt we’d have room for all that lot, now would we!’
Ford laughed along. ‘You’re gonna need a bigger plaque,’ he said in an American accent.
‘What? Oh, yes. Bigger plaque.’ Jim chuckled. ‘No, seriously, Phil’s a lovely chap. Brings his kids along from time to time. They’re not bad shots, either of them. Especially Lucy. She’s won a few competitions in her time, as well.’
‘Does Lady Baverstock ever come?’
Jim chuckled again. ‘Once. Very accurate, she was. Hit the trees every single time. Nice lady, though. Made fun of herself for being such a bad shot.’
‘You said you know what all your members shoot. Does that include Phil?’ Jools asked.
‘Well, now, that’s another intelligent question.’ Jim winked at her. ‘Anyone would think you do this for a living.’
Jools regarded him with a stony look.
‘Yes, er, well. He mostly brings along his Springfield .30-06. But for club competitions he uses a lovely old Parker-Hale in .308.’
Ford nodded. Said nothing. Joe Hibberd had lied.
The visits to the other four clubs followed a similar pattern. By the end of the day, they’d secured promises of emailed membership lists from each of the secretaries, who’d been just as eager to help as Jim at the New Forest Shooting Centre.
‘Joe Hibberd lied about Lord Baverstock owning a .308,’ Ford said as Jools drove up to the tail end of a long queue of traffic waiting to get into Salisbury from the A36. ‘He’s also the only person we’ve talked to with a motive to kill Tommy. He told me he looks after the family’s guns. That translates as “has access to”, and it now includes a weapon in the calibre used to shoot Owen Long.’
Ford allowed himself to visualise Hibberd’s arrest for murder. If only he could get to that point quicker. Tommy’s wake was probably in full swing, and he had no idea how he was going to prevent JJ from launching his own, very different, murder investigation. As for his threats to ruin Ford’s career, let him try.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Ford arrived back at Bourne Hill, Mick came looking for him. He wore a wrinkle-free charcoal-grey suit and a navy tie in what Ford took to be silk. Cufflinks of some semi-precious purple gemstone sparkled at his wrists, and his shoes gleamed with polish. Ford caught a whiff of freshly applied aftershave.
‘Looking sharp, Mick,’ Ford said. ‘Glad to see you took my words to heart.’
‘Yeah, right. The wake’s at The White Lion. It started at lunchtime. I thought I’d go and pay my respects. Want to join me?’
Ford consulted his watch. ‘I can for a little while. Then I need to get home to see Sam.’
‘OK. I just thought it’d be easier if there were two of us. We can show them we’re taking it seriously.’
Ford doubted that was how JJ would see things. ‘Fair point. Although if JJ and Rye have been boozing since lunch they’ll be – what shall we say – volatile?’
Mick nodded. ‘Talkative, too. People tell you more when they’re pissed.’
Before leaving for the pub, Ford stopped by Olly’s desk. ‘Does Hibberd have a record?’
‘No, guv. Sorry.’
‘Not to worry. Thanks, Olly.’
Ford could hear the racket from The White Lion from halfway down Pennyfarthing Street. Mick reached for the highly polished brass door handle and looked at Ford.
‘Ready?’
Ford nodded, steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation with JJ. To their left, a couple of young blokes smoking looked them over.
‘You filth?’ one asked with a sneer.
Mick turned round, slowly. ‘What did you say?’
The speaker shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
Mick took a couple of steps closer until he was toe to toe with the guy. His mate sidled off, leaving him offering Mick a placatory smile.
‘No. I definitely heard you say something,’ Mick said in a dangerous, low tone.
‘It’s nothing. A joke, yeah? I didn’t mean nothing by it. Sorry.’
Mick leaned forward, squaring his shoulders and crowding the young guy against the wall. ‘Do you want to know who the real filth are? It’s the perverts who rape old ladies and kids. The lowlifes who mug people to buy drugs. And shitheads like you’ – he poked a finger into the guy’s chest – ‘who’ve got all the balls in the world until they need some help. And then who do you call? Your mate over there? Someone in your crew? No. You call us, don’t you. So watch your fucking lip or I might just give it a new shape.’
Mick’s violent reaction startled
Ford. But he knew the source. Mick’s marriage was crumbling before his eyes, and he was facing a very different future to the one he’d imagined.
Ford touched him on the elbow. ‘Let’s go in.’
He led the way, hoping that the stress of the divorce wasn’t going to push Mick over the line. A line he constantly flirted with, like a kid balancing on a tall brick wall. Or had he jumped down already – on the wrong side? He’d complained about the cost of his ‘leech’ of a lawyer. Was he getting help paying her fees?
Ford didn’t have time to start investigating. And strictly speaking, if he did have genuine suspicions, he ought to report them to the Independent Office for Police Conduct.
He left it. No way was he involving that lot. Not yet, anyway.
Inside, fifty or sixty people, from small children to men and women in their eighties or beyond, thronged the low-ceilinged space. Ford recognised faces from the inquest hearing.
The guests chatted, laughed, wept, shouted. Johnny Cash sang about pain and loss from speakers screwed to the blackened beams at each end of the bar. The bar staff, four of them, moved around one another in a choreographed dance born of many shifts working together in a confined space.
The outfits on display tended towards the celebratory rather than the solemn. The men mostly wore suits, in a range of patterns and exotic colours that would have had Salisbury’s funeral directors sighing into their top hats. Ford saw a gold waistcoat talking to a bottle-green window-pane-checked suit, arms waving animatedly in the limited space between them.
Ford thought Tommy would have enjoyed the acres of exposed female flesh, as displayed by plunging necklines, swooping backs and slit skirts.
The smell of alcohol dominated. He imagined liquor-strength vapour being sweated out of pores to mingle with the combined aromas of dozens of different perfumes and aftershaves.
Mick nudged him and jerked his head towards a door to the left of the bar. ‘JJ and Rye are through there. I’m going to go and pay my respects.’
