Shooting Elvis (31 page)

I spent the afternoon going through the list of names that our geographic scan had thrown up. We’d widened the search from half a mile radius to a mile. That’s a lot of people. Every male on the electoral roll aged between eighteen and fifty-five was fed into the police national computer and a file created for everyone with a criminal record. Then they were sorted according to the nature of their offences, with violence gaining extra brownie points, and the number of offences. The only
people we’d interviewed in the course of the investigation who were discovered in the trawl were Terry Hyson and Donovan Bender, who’d robbed a bank while armed with a carrot. Statistically, it was one of them, but according to statistics the universe is uninhabited. According to statistics, your chances of winning the lottery are the same whether you buy a ticket or not. I typed link words into the computer, like
child abuse, decapitation,
racial
, and it produced the relevant files, but there was nothing enlightening there. Then I started working my way through them looking for a series of crimes that might be considered a learning curve. The offences had occurred indoors, which meant that our man might have started his criminal career as a burglar. He knew about electrics and roof joists, but not much about anatomy. He was strong. He drove a white van. He knew about mobile phones. He knew about forensic science. He knew an awful lot about forensic science. He knew that it was possible to find DNA on a cigarette butt.

I rang High Adventure, where Sonia worked, but they told me that she’d slipped out for a few minutes. There was a hesitant tap on the glass of my door and I saw a female silhouette standing there, shorter and less slim than Sonia.

‘Come in,’ I said, and the door opened. It was one of the civilian secretaries that I’d noticed a few times but never spoken to.

‘Mr Priest?’ she enquired.

‘That’s me,’ I confirmed with a grin. I thought about adding that everybody called me Charlie, but decided it sounded a bit cheesy, so I didn’t. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘A message for you. He said your phone was permanently engaged.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’ve only been on it for about ten seconds.’ She handed me a sheet of A4 with three lines of typing on it. They read:

Mr Priest

See you at 5. Bring a gun, please.

PC Lord, Firearms Instructor

‘Right, thank you,’ I said, and she left, giving her bottom an exaggerated wiggle as she walked away. I could have invited her to have a coffee and a biscuit before descending back to the depths of the pool, but her perfume was a bit strong and besides, I’m not in the market. I read the note again, threw it in the bin and dialled Gilbert.

‘It’s Charlie,’ I said when he answered. ‘I told you that I was applying for my firearms authorisation.’

‘You did. You must be mad,’ he told me.

‘It’s only for the sake of morale,’ I replied. ‘I’ve little intention of ever carrying a gun in anger. I’m going to the range for some practice. Can you authorise a Glock 17 for me, please?’

‘From here?’ he said. ‘I thought they had their own guns.’

‘So did I, but I’ve received a message telling me to take one. All theirs must be out on a job, or something.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll make it out and ring Arthur. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.’

The troops were filtering back and the office grew noisy with their chatter. Nobody had any revelations to make. A couple of ounces of cannabis had been found, plus some stolen property, but nothing relating to the Executioner had come to light. They’d been investigating the names on the list in a process we call Trace, Interview, Eliminate, or TIE. I suppose it’s politically incorrect, but I prefer to call it TIN, for Trace, Interview and Nail the bugger.

It was Dave who saved the day. ‘It’s me, Chas,’ he said when I answered the phone. ‘We’ve got him! We’ve got him!’

‘Calm down, sunshine,’ I said, hardly able to contain myself. ‘Tell me all about it.’

‘I’m down in the incident room. The telephone people – they messed up, to start with. Somebody made a call from the mobile, but they didn’t manage to scan it for location. Something went wrong. They’re blaming the computer.’

‘Oh God, that’s all we need. Go on.’

‘But they got the number it rang.’

‘You mean we know the number that somebody
tried to contact on the Executioner’s mobile?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Great. Fantastic. Have you identified them, yet?’

‘’Course I have. It’s a dentist in Heckley. I’m going there now to see who’s rung them today. This could be what we’re looking for. I’ll wait for you.’

‘A dentist?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Damn,’ I said. ‘I’ve arranged to be at the shooting range at five.’

‘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.