Banks picked up Annie at the Edgeworth house, where nothing new had come to light, and drove to the Upper Swainsdale District Rifle and Pistol Club, which was three miles up the road, then another half mile along a gravel drive.
The clubhouse was an old stone structure, much like a rambling country pub, and inside, beyond the small deserted reception area with its racks of brochures about shooting safely, was a bar. There were several wooden tables with blue-and-white checked tablecloths, only three of them occupied. The diners turned to see who had come in, then, not recognising Banks and Annie, went back to their conversations and their meals. The walls were bare, rough stone, and there were a couple of glass-fronted cabinets along one side filled with trophies and photographs of men holding guns. There were, however, no real guns anywhere in sight, for which Banks was grateful. A young man in a white jacket stood drying glasses behind the bar. Banks was surprised to find a fully stocked bar at a shooting club, but he realised there was no law against it.
‘Can I help you?’ said the young man, whose name badge identified him as Roger. ‘Are you members? I haven’t seen you here before. The bar’s for members only.’
Banks and Annie flashed their warrant cards.
‘Oh. I suppose it’s about Martin, isn’t it?’
‘Boss around?’ Banks asked.
‘Mr McLaren isn’t in today.’ Roger gestured towards the grey weather outside. ‘Not much point being open on a day like this, but some of the regulars like to come in for a bite and a natter, so we usually open for lunch.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ll be closing up for the day in half an hour.’
‘Maybe we can have a quick chat with you?’ Banks suggested, sitting on one of the high bar stools. Annie sat next to him.
‘I can’t tell you much,’ Roger said. ‘It’s George and Margie over there you want.’ He pointed to a man and woman sitting at one of the tables nearer to the door. ‘George and Margie Sykes. They were close to Martin.’
Banks glanced over. The man had an almost full pint in front of him, enough to last him a while yet. Banks guessed that his wife’s drink, with a piece of lime floating in it, was a gin and tonic. ‘We’ll talk to them in a minute,’ he said. ‘How long had Martin Edgeworth been a member here?’
‘Dunno,’ said Roger. ‘Since well before my time. Ten years, say. Mr McLaren will be able to tell you.’
‘You can’t show us the membership records yourself?’
Roger shook his head. ‘Mr McLaren always keeps the club office locked when he’s not here, and I don’t have a key.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘We’ll deal with him later. Any trouble recently?’
‘Trouble?’
‘Yes. You know, disagreements, arguments, scenes, fights, shootouts, that sort of thing.’
‘Good lord, no. Never. Mr McLaren wouldn’t stand for anything of that sort. You’d be out on your arse.’
‘When did you last see Mr Edgeworth?’ Annie asked.
‘Last week. Early on. Tuesday, I think.’
‘Anything unusual about his behaviour? Was he upset, depressed, angry, anything like that?’
‘No. Just normal.’
‘And that was?’
‘Cheerful, polite, generous with his tips.’
‘Did you ever hear him mention the Tindall — Kemp wedding?’ Banks cut in.
‘No, never. Why would he?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. Did he ever mention Benjamin or Charles Kemp, or Laura Tindall?’
‘No.’
‘Were any of them members? Have they ever been here?’
‘Not that I know of. And if they’d been in the last four years, I’d remember.’
Banks thanked him and slid off his stool. He turned to Annie. ‘Let’s go talk to George and Margie.’
They reached the table and introduced themselves. George and Margie made room while Banks pulled up a couple more chairs. ‘Thought you were damned reporters at first,’ said George apologetically. ‘Was just about to give you a piece of my mind.’ He had a shiny head, striped by a few dark hairs, and a handlebar moustache the likes of which Banks hadn’t seen outside of an old TV programme about the RAF. Margie had a moustache, too, but it was far less well developed. She also had bottle-blond hair starched into place like Margaret Thatcher’s.
‘Been around already, have they?’ Banks asked.
‘First thing,’ said George. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the usual rot about should there be shooting clubs at all. What on earth can we get out of it? Isn’t it dangerous? Very aggressive some of them are.’
‘Well,’ said Banks. ‘They’re men and women of great moral character.’
George guffawed. ‘ “Great moral character”. I like that. What can we do for you?’
Banks sat back and let Annie do some of the talking. ‘I understand, according to Roger over there, that you were good friends of Martin Edgeworth?’
‘Known him for years,’ said George. ‘Haven’t we, Margie?’
‘Years,’ said Margie. ‘George and I are absolutely devastated about what’s happened. Just devastated.’ There was the hint of a slur in her voice, and Banks guessed it wasn’t her first G&T.
‘I take it all this has been a great surprise, then?’ Annie went on.
‘You can say that again, love. Completely.’
‘So neither of you would have considered Martin Edgeworth to be capable of something like this?’
‘Never in a million years,’ said Margie. ‘He was a true gentleman, was Martin.’
‘A true gentleman,’ her husband echoed. ‘Martin Edgeworth was one of the gentlest souls you could ever hope to meet. Wouldn’t harm a fly. Mind you...’
‘What?’ Annie asked.
‘He didn’t like to lose. Did he, Margie?’
‘No, he didn’t like that at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, competitions and the like. Got all huffy if he lost.’
‘Why all the interest in guns and shooting?’ Annie asked.
‘Why?’ said George, a suspicious gleam in his eye. ‘You’re not one of these anti-firearms lot, are you?’
‘Not at all,’ said Annie. ‘Just wondering what the appeal is.’
‘It’s a hobby, that’s all. Gets you out of the house. And I suppose it’s a sport, too. At least it’s competitive. In the Olympics, you know. We have regular competitions. Won a few trophies, as you can see. As far as I’m concerned, shooting’s no more about hurting anyone, or anything, than darts or cricket. You’ve got to be careful around guns, no doubt about that, but if you follow a few simple rules, you’re safe as houses. Martin just enjoyed the sport, getting out and meeting people. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Do you remember when he split up with his wife?’ Annie asked.
George’s expression darkened. ‘Connie, that little minx. Oh, yes. We remember, all right.’
‘He was upset about that, right?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Did he ever express any desire for revenge, to hurt her or the man she ran off with?’
‘Not to me he didn’t. Besides, that was over two years ago, and he didn’t go anywhere near Connie again.’
‘Was he angry about the idea of marriage?’ Annie asked. ‘Seeing as it had gone so wrong for him.’
‘He never said as much. And as far as I can tell, he didn’t know those people at the wedding from Adam, either, if that’s what you’re hinting at.’
‘Why did he shoot them, then?’ Banks asked.
George glanced back and forth from Annie to Banks and gripped his wife’s hand. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said in a quiet, trembling voice. ‘He was my friend. I don’t understand any of what’s happened. To tell you the truth, I’m not even convinced that he did it.’