Fortress

27

They walked on past a golf course and a football field. From behind a row of poplars, Tom thought he heard shots.

‘Yeah, we’ve got a range too.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘The range warden’s a bit funny about visitors.’

His wariness made Tom all the more curious. ‘I’d hate to miss it.’

‘Let me make a call.’

Philips moved away while he dabbed a number onto his iPhone and spoke.

There were single shots and a short burst of machine-gun fire.

Philips pocketed the phone. ‘He said give him five minutes to clear the range.’

He gave Tom an anxious glance.

‘Something wrong?’

Philips put his head on one side. ‘Blokes here, they’ve been through a lot.’

‘Yes, I got that.’

Philips nodded towards the range. ‘The warden, how can I put this? Doesn’t like to be upstaged, if you get my drift. Used to be a sniper.’

Tom smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

They walked down a path beside a high fence. Philips punched a code into a keypad and an electric gate glided open.

Tom nodded approvingly. ‘Extra layer of security — very wise.’

They mounted a short flight of steps and entered the club house. The interior consisted of a long, windowless pine-panelled room, lit by a row of low shaded lights. On the right was a gallery of photographs and certificates. The left-hand wall was one long weapons rack.

‘Wow, this is some collection.’ As well as numerous HK and Colt assault rifles, he also spied an Israeli Defence Force Tavor Bullpup semiautomatic carbine, a massive 50-calibre Barrett M107 sniper rifle, and several versions of AK.

A door opened at the other end of the room.

‘Here comes our warden.’

A man wearing a flat wool cap and green gilet moved slowly towards them.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mick. This is Tom Buckingham, sent by the boss.’

‘Tom Buckingham: Mick Vestey.’

Tom grinned and gave his hand a firm shake. Vestey’s face remained impassive.

‘Quite a set-up you’ve got here.’ Tom gestured at the racks. ‘Enough to see you through a decent-sized war.’ A lot of the weapons would be illegal unless held under a section-seven licence. But in the privacy of this vast facility, maybe a blind eye was being turned.

Seeing no response from Vestey, Philips chipped in: ‘It’s one of our most popular amenities. The fact is that men in the field get very used to weapon handling. Once they’re out, they get withdrawal. And then there’s some who just need to get some rounds down the range to relax. We’re pretty liberal with the ammo.’

For Tom, guns were simply tools of the trade, but he had known plenty of others for whom weapons meant far more — and in some cases too much. This was a gun-nut’s paradise. ‘Can we see the range?’

Vestey shrugged. ‘Six-hundred-metre gallery, electric and twenty-five-metre indoor. We got it all.’

Tom kept up his kid-in-a-toyshop look, more eager than wary. ‘Any chance of a cabby?’

Vestey gestured at the weapons. ‘Take your pick.’

Tom pondered for a second, then pointed at the HK MP5.

Vestey frowned. ‘You sure?’

‘Never tried one. Could be my only chance.’

Vestey bent forward and lifted it out of the rack. ‘Suit yourself. We’ll pick up the rounds through here.’

Tom followed, listening to Vestey, who sounded as if he had flicked a switch. ‘The lanes are flood-lit and air-conditioned, with individual shooting benches and a target pulley system. Shoot all year round in perfect conditions. No mud, no rain, no distractions, so you can set up the perfect zero.’

They paused while he disappeared into the ammo store. ‘Very proud of his domain he is,’ whispered Philips.

Vestey reappeared with a thirty-round mag for the MP5.

‘Twenty-five metres?’

Vestey nodded. ‘Go all the way, if you like.’

He handed Tom a pair of ear defenders and protective eye glasses.

The range was eerily deserted, with no sound but the aircon humming from the ceiling vents.

‘What happened to everyone else?’

‘We clear them out on the hour. You can have too much of a good thing.’

Vestey marched them past the indoor range. Tom glanced through a door at the stalls. The American-made silhouetted figure targets appeared to be wearing shemags. ‘Bit politically incorrect?’

Vestey snorted. ‘Just a little touch of nostalgia for the lads. We use to go big on OBL targets but now he’s history there’s less demand.’

Philips looked uneasy so Tom let the remark go.

‘Standing or prone. Take your pick.’

‘I’ll stand, thanks.’

Vestey loaded the weapon and made it ready before handing it to Tom, his forefinger pointing at the safety catch for him to see. ‘There’s a round in the chamber and the safety catch is on.’

It felt warm as if it had been recently used.

Tom took up his position, raised the weapon and looked down the sights. He thumbed down the safety, let his aim drift slightly wide and fired.

The first round missed the target altogether.

‘Shit.’

‘Take your time,’ said Vestey, with a hint of weariness.

Tom aimed again, slightly closer this time. The bullet hit about three inches left of centre target. Again, he aimed slightly wide. This time it went four inches left of centre. His next three shots did no better.

Tom passed the weapon back to him. ‘Go on, then. Show me how it’s done.’

Philips gave Tom another of his anxious looks. But Vestey just shrugged. ‘Okay.’

He held the gun like a pro, like it was part of him, brought it up, aimed and fired. The first was an inch off, the second another inch.

‘Good skills,’ murmured Philips, as if a compliment was required to fill the silence.

Vestey remained in his position, fired five more times. None of them came as close.

‘Okay, give me one more chance.’ Vestey handed the weapon back to Tom. This time he got centre mass.

‘That’s better.’ The next one hit right home as well. He lowered the weapon and offered it back to Vestey. ‘Want to match me?’

Vestey’s eyes didn’t meet his. ‘Time I was getting back. Got another group in a minute.’ He turned and headed back the way they had come.

Outside, Philips lit a cigarette. ‘Sorry he wasn’t more forthcoming.’

‘I hope I didn’t wind him up.’

‘You’ve got to remember, for the people here, a lot of water’s flowed under the bridge. We have to accommodate all sorts.’

Tom spied Jackman coming towards them.

‘Sorry to butt in, gents, but the boss asks if we could swing by Redditch. That’s if you can spare the time.’

‘Is he at the hostel?’

‘He’s meeting the police there in an hour.’