Bones and Silence

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Rangemaster at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club was properly macho, his shag of curly black hair echoed in designer stubble along the jaw and in designer thatch at the open neck of his lumberjack’s shirt. Below, he tapered to narrow hips and a pair of faded jeans so unambiguously tight, it was clear he was carrying no concealed weapons. He affected a mid-Atlantic baritone which occasionally let him down, or rather up, into a Geordie squeak. His name was Mitchell but he invited them to join everyone in calling him Mitch.

‘Tell me, Mr Mitchell,’ said Pascoe, ‘is Rangemaster a usual title for someone in your position?’

‘Don’t know that it is,’ he answered. ‘Sounds good though, don’t it?’

‘Do it? Perhaps you could give us a job description?’

His fears that he might have got hold of some fantasizing handyman were allayed as Mitchell gave him an outline of the club’s set-up and his role in it. He was in fact the resident steward, coach and adviser on all matters pertaining to arms, qualified by a five-year stint in the Army (nudges and winks towards the SAS) followed by a one-year poly management course. He had a half share in the club, the other half belonging to a local businessman who was a shooting enthusiast. By the time he’d finished talking, it was clear that perhaps eighty per cent of his self-presentation was a sales ploy, which left twenty per cent as self-image.

But image and accent vanished together when told of Gail Swain’s death.

‘Oh no. Man, that’s really terrible,’ he said, sitting down. ‘She were a real canny lass. Gail dead! I canna believe it.’

‘It’s true, I’m afraid,’ said Pascoe.

‘How’d it happen? What was it? An accident?’

‘It seems possible,’ he said carefully. ‘What I’m here about is her guns. She kept them here, I believe.’

‘Oh yes. All the time. Well, nearly. There might have been an odd time when she took one home, if she’d been away at a competition, say. But why’re you interested … it wasn’t a shooting accident, was it?’

‘I’m afraid a gun was involved,’ said Pascoe. ‘What weapons did she own?’

‘She had a Beretta .25, a Hammerli match target pistol, a Colt Python and a Harrington and Richardson Sidekick,’ he replied without hesitation.

‘Quite an armoury. And where would these be kept?’

For answer Mitchell took them through into another room and pointed at a metal door.

‘You won’t find anything like that outside a bank,’ he said proudly. ‘No one gets in here, I tell you.’

He unlocked the door to reveal a range of padlocked gun cabinets.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Pascoe, who privately saw no reason why gun enthusiasts shouldn’t try out both their accuracy and their fantasies with spring-loaded weapons that fired ping-pong balls. ‘And how do the members get hold of their weapons?’

‘They tell me what they want and I fetch them out,’ said Mitchell.

‘How often did Mrs Swain use the club?’

‘She used to be a real regular but not so much lately.’

‘And Mr Swain?’

‘He wasn’t a member, but he sometimes came to functions with his wife. He knew a lot of people, of course. The Swains are an old local family.’

‘That matters?’

‘We’re very democratic, but the old country families who’ve been used to guns from early on are our founder members, so to speak. I’d say it mattered to Gail, being a Swain.’

‘Did she have any special friends?’

‘Not in the club. She was a bit of a loner, really. I know she liked to do the right things for someone in her position, sit on committees, that sort of thing, but maybe she didn’t feel certain enough how things worked to risk getting too close to anyone. It can’t be easy being a rich Yank round here.’

There was no trace of irony in his voice.

‘But her husband didn’t feel it incumbent on him to join?’

‘Oh no. He’s one on his own too. But there have been Swains in the club, I mean real Swains. His brother Tom … but you’ll know about him.’

Pascoe nodded with the air of a man who knows everything. Seymour, he noted approvingly, had vanished. His amiable smile beneath a shock of unruly red hair was a delicate picklock of confidences, especially female. If there was tittle to be tattled, Seymour was your man.

He said, ‘And which of Mrs Swain’s weapons are still here?’

Mitchell said, ‘None. She took them all away last time I saw her.’

‘And you let her?’ said Pascoe. ‘You didn’t express surprise? You said yourself the only time she ever took a weapon home was when she was shooting away in a competition. How often would that be?’

‘Didn’t apply any longer in Gail’s case,’ said Mitchell. ‘She hadn’t done any competition shooting in nearly two years. But obviously she wanted them this time because she was going home. Her mother’s ill.’

‘She must have made other visits to the States. Long visits. Last year, for instance,’ said Pascoe, recollecting Swain’s statement. ‘Didn’t her father die?’

‘Yes. She was away for a couple of months.’

‘And did she take any of her guns then?’

‘No. Perhaps this time she wanted to do some shooting over there. Not much opportunity at a funeral, is there? OK, she could easily get replacements in the States. It’s like buying bars of chocolate over there. But you get into a special relationship with your own pieces. And of course the Hammerli was specially tailored to her hand.’

Pascoe had a feeling that Mitchell could have told him more, but whether it would have been pertinent, whether indeed it would have been factual or merely idle gossip, he couldn’t guess. At the moment a too aggressive interrogation would merely serve to feed that gossip.

‘One more question,’ said Pascoe. ‘If Mrs Swain wanted to carry one of her weapons around with her – because she felt in need of personal protection, say – which would she be most likely to have chosen?’

‘The Beretta probably, or the Sidekick,’ Mitchell answered promptly.

‘Why?’

‘Well, she wouldn’t choose the Python, not unless she was planning to blow somebody away. It’s big and it’s heavy and it takes the .357 Magnum cartridge which is a danger to people in the next room if you happen to miss. The Hammerli on the other hand is a specialized weapon, OK for punching holes in a target but not much else. It takes one .22 rimfire cartridge at a time and it’s got a hair trigger, not the kind of thing you carry in your pocket. Why do you ask?’

‘The curiosity of an idle mind,’ smiled Pascoe.

He took a last look at the array of dully gleaming guns in their padlocked cabinets.

‘See anything you fancy?’ inquired Mitchell. ‘We’ve always room for law officers at the MYGC.’

‘I was just wondering how many rifles make a good ploughshare,’ said Pascoe. And went in search of Seymour.

He found the redhead in conclave with a wizened woman of indeterminate years. The wide amiable smile had vanished but not before it had been all too effective if Pascoe read truly the desperate grimace which greeted his appearance.

With difficulty breaking free from a grip like the mummy’s hand, Seymour stood up, took a brief farewell, and followed his chief out to the car park.

‘Bernadette would not like it,’ said Pascoe judiciously.

‘Bernadette wouldn’t believe it,’ said Seymour. ‘I’m not sure I do.’

‘What did she say to you?’

‘I said, why was the place so empty. I expected to hear people banging away all over the shop. And she said they didn’t open till evenings on a Tuesday, but as for banging away, we could soon alter that if I liked …’

‘Seymour, you’ll die of an over-active double entendre one of these days,’ sighed Pascoe. ‘But I’m not interested in your foreplay. I meant, what did she say that might interest us?’

‘Her name’s Mrs Martin. Babs to her friends. She’s in charge of the kitchen,’ said Seymour. ‘There’s a hatch from the kitchen into the members’ lounge. I doubt if there’s much said in there that she doesn’t hear.’

They got into Pascoe’s car. He started the engine and pointed it back towards the centre of town.

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