The Kill (17 page)

‘Crips shouldn’t be allowed to shoot.’

‘Oh God,’ I murmured, knowing there was nothing I could say to prevent him from going on.

‘They’re all depressed and angry. Why the fuck would you want to arm them?’

‘That is a massive generalisation. There are lots of physically challenged people who have come to terms with their situation or never had a problem with it in the first place. They have just as much right to learn to shoot as you do.’

‘They’re physically incapacitated. There’s no point in teaching them to shoot. They’d be fuck all use in a war. Unless you stacked up their wheelchairs and used them as a barricade.’

‘I want to stay in the car,’ I said in a small voice.

‘Come on.’ He hopped out and stretched. It was, presumably, why he’d left plenty of space between himself and the car next to him.

I got out and frowned at him across the roof of the car. ‘I really don’t want to go in there with you.’

‘Imagine what I’ll get up to if I don’t have your restraining influence on me.’

I shut my car door. ‘And you’ve convinced me.’

We had phoned ahead to make an appointment to speak with the club’s manager. He was waiting in the hall when we walked through the doors, his hands clasped in front of his crotch as if he was facing a penalty kick. He was wearing a blazer and a striped tie that probably marked him out as a member of some regiment or club or other, though I couldn’t begin to guess which one. He was in his mid-fifties, with sparse reddish hair and a scattering of broken veins across his cheeks and nose.

‘Andrew Hardy. You’re very welcome to White Valley Shooting Club, although of course we would prefer you to be here in happier circumstances.’ He had a heavy way of speaking, pausing often as if he was considering the implications of what he was saying all the time.

Derwent nodded, impatient. ‘Not much call for us to turn up when the circumstances are happy.’

‘No, I imagine not. Would you like to have a look around the facilities? We’ve made considerable investment in the club in the last two years and I think it really compares very favourably to any others in the greater London area.’ He brightened as he talked about the club, more comfortable once he was launched on his usual spiel to visitors. ‘We’re fully wheelchair-accessible now, with the ramp. You may have noticed it – I saw you parked very close to it.’

I sensed that Derwent was about to snap and hurried to get in first. ‘We’d love to see the facilities but we need you to tell us about your current membership first.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the possibility that the killer we are looking for is a member.’

Hardy looked appalled, as if he hadn’t even considered that, or thought about what we would want to know from him. ‘You’d need to come into the office.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said.

There was a moment where I thought Hardy was going to refuse to cooperate. Then his shoulders sagged and he led us to an empty reception desk, where there was a clipboard with a sign-in sheet.

‘Both of you need to sign this. Everyone who enters the club building has to sign in.’

We did as we were told, then followed Hardy through a door marked ‘
PRIVATE
’. His office was a glorified cubbyhole with an elderly computer squatting on the desk and two upright chairs squeezed in for visitors. We inserted ourselves and Hardy shut the door, looking up and down the corridor first for eavesdroppers.

‘I doubt I’ll be able to help you.’ He sat down and pinched the creases on the front of his trousers, running his fingers along them over and over again. ‘Our membership is exclusive. We really don’t have the kind of people here who would do the things you’re implying.’

‘We’re not implying anything,’ Derwent said. ‘We have a dead police officer killed by someone who has experience and skill in shooting. We are starting by drawing up a list of people who possess those skills and the equipment to carry out such a shooting. What kind of guns do you shoot here?’

‘Rifles mainly – .22 target rifles and sporting rifles. We also have some members who shoot muzzle-loading pistols and air weapons of various sorts. Some clubs do clay-pigeon shooting and crossbow shooting and so forth but we don’t.’ The curl of his lip showed me what he thought of that sort of diversification.

‘I thought pistols were banned,’ I said, and got a weary look.

‘Muzzle-loading pistols are perfectly legal. They’re an old design but gun manufacturers are still making them. They’re also called black powder pistols because you pour gunpowder into the barrel and push a lead ball in afterwards. Think of duelling pistols.’

‘That’s not what we’re looking for,’ Derwent said to me.

Hardy brightened. ‘What kind of gun are you looking for?’

‘A high-powered rifle capable of being fitted with a telescopic sight,’ Derwent said. ‘A sniper rifle.’

‘Those are illegal.’

‘Yes, we know that. That’s why it isn’t registered and we’re chasing around the gun clubs trying to trace likely owners.’

‘You’re in the wrong shop here.’ Hardy looked at the door, as if he was hoping to encourage us to leave.

‘Is there a screening process for members? Do you even try to weed out the nutters?’ Derwent asked.

‘Of course. We’re very particular about the people who use these facilities. Shooting is an Olympic sport, you know, and some of our members took part in the London games. It’s all thoroughly respectable.’

‘Thoroughly,’ I agreed. ‘How many members do you have?’

‘Just over two hundred. We have about fifty junior members as well. Obviously not all of the members would use the club regularly, but we have a close-knit group who come consistently. I get many requests to join the club every year but at the moment membership is closed. We simply can’t accommodate everyone who wants to come and shoot here. Not that most of them would be able to join anyway.’

‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘Is it expensive to join?’

‘Not really. A couple of hundred pounds. It’s just that you need a personal reference from another member to join. That’s how our vetting system works. We vouch for each other.’

Derwent was nodding. ‘It’s the same with the police.’

‘Really?’ Hardy asked.

‘No.’ He moved on before Hardy’s face had time to register disappointment. ‘How come it’s so cheap?’

‘We don’t have big expenses. We own the club building. The refurbishment was carried out from donations and fundraising, not from membership fees, and any maintenance work is similarly funded as and when it’s necessary to do so. I’m the only employee, and I’m part-time. The instructors are all volunteers. There’s a cleaner once a week for the club but otherwise it’s all down to the members.’

‘Starting with them, are there any who concern you?’ Derwent asked.

‘
Concern
me? I don’t think—’

‘Any who might own illegal weapons. Anyone who might be a little bit too much in love with shooting to be sensible.’

Hardy leaned back in his chair and laughed awkwardly. ‘No, no. No one who would ever dream of killing someone.’

Derwent pounced. ‘But there is someone who fits that description.’

There was a long pause. ‘One person comes to mind. But he truly is harmless.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Rex Gibney.’ He swivelled on his chair and pulled open a drawer of the filing cabinet behind him, flicking through folders until he found the right one. He peered into it, holding it up so we couldn’t see what he was reading. ‘He’s been a member here for … thirty-two years, I see. Very dedicated. He worked as the club secretary at one time, although that was before I joined.’

‘Is he an older gentleman?’

‘He retired a couple of years ago. He ran his own business. I think he leased equipment to the building industry.’

‘Successful?’ Derwent asked.

‘I would say so, yes. I don’t think paying the membership subscription has ever been an issue for him. Beautiful house the other side of Guildford. He hosts a Christmas party every year for the club’s members.’

‘I’m going to need the address,’ I said.

Hardy detached a piece of paper from the front of the file and handed it to me. I noted the address and phone number. No mobile, no email address. The house was called Callancote and was located on Tigg’s Lane, which sounded small and rural to me. There was no street number, but I guessed the place would be hard to miss from what Hardy had said about it. I handed the page back to Hardy who spent a great deal of time reinserting it into the file.

‘Rex Gibney may be old in years but he’s young at heart. A true enthusiast. Not a great shot any more but he loves to encourage the young members. I know he’s sponsored a few of the most talented youngsters to help them with getting better equipment. He covers their travel expenses and competition entry fees. He never looks for anything in return.’

‘Has he ever been CRB checked?’ Derwent was permanently suspicious of anyone who volunteered to spend time with young people when they didn’t have to.

‘CRB? Oh – to see if he has a criminal record? No, no. Our instructors are all checked out, but Rex doesn’t have any dealings with the young people on his own. He puts his hand in his pocket if we tell him he can help someone, but he doesn’t see them much. In the club sometimes. He comes to watch them practise. He’s a true enthusiast.’

‘He sounds like a useful person to have around,’ I said.

‘He is. Very.’ Hardy tapped his fingers on the file. ‘In any other circumstances I wouldn’t mention him to you. But I have my concerns about how closely he adheres to the law on firearms. In fact, I would go so far as to say that everyone at the club knows he owns a couple of guns that are not registered. I’ve never seen one, you understand, but I am aware that others have.’

‘Including these youngsters he encourages?’ Derwent asked.

‘Possibly.’ Hardy shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine him doing anything wrong deliberately. I think he’s just like a child. A little bit spoilt. He can’t understand why he isn’t allowed to own the guns he loves. He subscribes to magazines from America and of course they have so many really extraordinary weapons available to buy so easily.’

‘And he can afford to pay a premium to have them smuggled in,’ I said.

‘I don’t know how he acquired them and I don’t want to know.’

‘What does he have?’ Derwent asked.

‘I have heard,’ Hardy said carefully, ‘that he has a Dragunov SVD Tigr and a ZVI Falcon. But I haven’t seen them, as I said, and I have never asked him about them.’

‘Because you’d have a responsibility to report him.’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’d be very likely to leave your club and go somewhere else.’

‘Possibly.’

‘And you’d be responsible for killing the golden goose.’

‘I don’t understand the reference,’ Hardy said stiffly.

‘Did he make a contribution to developing the facilities here?’ I asked. ‘A donation?’

‘Yes. But he made the donation privately. No one knew, except for the club’s financial committee and me. That’s typical of the man, you see. He doesn’t look for praise or thanks. He simply wants to use his wealth in good and useful ways.’

‘I can think of more useful ways to spend a fortune.’

Hardy glared at me, the broken veins on his cheeks disappearing into an angry flush. ‘Of course, if you’re not interested in shooting you might not see it as important. But shooting is worth £1.6 billion to the UK economy. It’s not a minority interest at all.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just not my thing.’

‘What about you?’ He turned to Derwent. ‘Do you want to try your hand at some shooting?’

‘I could have a go,’ Derwent said, sounding uncharacteristically tentative. I looked sideways at him and got a flicker of the eyelids that told me to say nothing.

Hardy stood up, good humour restored. He ushered us out, locking the door to his tiny office after himself as if to demonstrate his commitment to security. It would have meant more to me if I hadn’t noticed it was unlocked when we got there.

In the hallway, Hardy stopped. ‘This is the ammunition store.’

It was a blank door to the left of the entrance; I hadn’t even noticed it when we came in. There was an alarm keypad beside it, though, and Hardy keyed in the code, pressing very slightly too hard on the numbers. He opened the door and went in, choosing a box of .22 ammunition and making a note in the logbook by the door. Derwent leaned in, scanning the shelves, looking for the type of ammunition our killer had used. He straightened back up and gave the slightest shake of his head. Nothing there.

Or nothing there
now
.

‘Does every member have access to this ammunition?’ I asked.

‘Only if they know the code for the door, and of course that’s only passed on to our most highly trained members and those who work as instructors so it’s completely secure.’

‘Four, three, nine, nine,’ I recited.

Derwent grinned at me. Hardy looked pained. ‘You looked over my shoulder.’

‘Sorry. It doesn’t seem all that secure, though.’

‘It’s police-checked and approved. All of our security arrangements are monitored by the police. It’s a Home Office regulation.’

And there wasn’t an alarm system in the world that could account for human error. I let it go, because there was no point in telling him that he had rendered his security arrangements worthless.

Hardy guided us through an empty club room, with chairs and tables stacked up against one wall. A small bar set into the wall was dark, with steel shutters padlocked in front of it. The room smelt of stale beer.

‘This is where we have our socials. We have two or three a year. Great fun. And the bar is open on Saturdays and Mondays. All run by the members.’

‘I’m still not joining,’ I whispered to Derwent.

‘This is the armoury.’ It was another blank door, but this time it opened as we approached it and a man came out, carrying a rifle and an armful of equipment.

‘Stuart, just the person I needed. Can you take this gentleman to the firing range and let him have a go at shooting?’

Stuart shook his head. ‘Not unless he’s got a firearms certificate, Andrew. You know that.’