Land Rites (Detective Ford), Andy Maslen [best way to read ebooks .txt] 📗

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