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.’
28
Rolt was standing with a group of cops, some in uniform, others in hooded white overalls. Firemen were removing their kit. A group of noisy onlookers was being kept well away behind a tape. Some carried placards: Fuck off home and blow up your own people.
Rolt broke away and came towards Tom. ‘Care to have a look?’
Tom shook his head, disgusted by the carnage. ‘Expect the cops don’t want too many tramping around their crime scene.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve seen the effects of more bombs than any of them.’
‘It’s confirmed, then?’
He nodded, then shivered. ‘It’s only when you see it that the true horror hits you, doesn’t it?’
Rolt looked grey and drawn. Whatever anger he was feeling, he was doing his best to keep it at bay. ‘They’ve taken away some remains. They said they’re hopeful of getting an ID.’
Inside, the building was a mass of rubble, everything dripping wet from the fire hoses. Three floors had collapsed in on themselves. They stepped aside as two men in hard hats with lamps attached came through with a body-bag on a stretcher.
‘How many casualties?’
‘Five dead. Fourteen critical, three unaccounted for. A few hours later, the canteen would have been full and the toll would have been triple that.’
Tom stood on a plastic sheet that covered the foyer floor. ‘How many explosions?’
‘Just the one, far as we know. The fractured gas pipes did the rest.’
‘Any ideas on how the guy got so far into the building?’
‘One witness claims they heard shots before the blast. The police think he may have shot his way in.’
‘Any weapon recovered?’ Tom surveyed the wreckage with a wearily practised eye. The bomber would have to have been a giant to carry the weight of bang to make a hole that big. This wasn’t some random attack.
‘Sorry I dragged you up here.’
‘Not a problem. And since I’m here, I could look in on that guy Blakey I told you about.’
‘Let me come with you. I’m only getting in the way here.’
29
Blakey lay flat on his back, surrounded by a spaghetti of drips and drains. He was staring straight upwards, his eyes glazed. He turned his head as they approached and a smile spread over his face. ‘They said you’d called.’
His voice was small and slurred. He tried to lift his head, gave up. Tom stood right over him so he didn’t need to move.
‘You’re my first visitor.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘She’s gone to my sister’s in Leamington. They smashed her windows. She’ll come when she’s got her nerve back. I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere.’ He closed his eyes again.
Tom took his hand. It felt limp and lifeless. ‘How are you doing?’
‘How does it look?’
Tom wished he hadn’t asked. He introduced Rolt.
Before they had got past the pleasantries a nurse and two orderlies appeared.
‘Hello, Cliff. We’re taking you down to pre-op. Going to have another look at that spine of yours.’
‘Whatever.’
The nurse gave Blakey a wan smile and turned to Tom. ‘Sorry to break up the party, guys.’
Rolt reached forward and gripped Blakey’s shoulder.
‘We’ll get your mum and sister out to see you. That’s a promise. Then we’ll see what else we can do for them and you.’
30
In the car back to London, Tom rode in the rear with Rolt, who spent a long time poring over his laptop, the screen a mass of figures. As he scrolled through them, he sighed frequently but said nothing. Jackman pulled onto the M40, put the Bentley in the fast lane and let the needle wind its way up past a hundred.