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

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