Being brought up on a farm in the Essex countryside, Charles had learned to shoot at an early age. For a farmer, a shotgun is as much an essential tool as a paintbrush is to a decorator, or a spirit level to a builder. As a youngster, Charles had shot vermin and game with a shotgun and later he progressed to culling deer with a rifle. He had a good eye and a steady hand, essential skills that were later honed to a fine art in the Army; where he would go on to win several competitive medals at Regimental competitions.
Although Eric Stone disliked blood sports, he thoroughly enjoyed target shooting. He loved the cerebral test of calculating the effect that wind, humidity and gravity had on the path of a bullet, combined with the physical challenge of controlling your breathing and heart rate, as you must if you are going to hit something the size of a tomato from 300 yards. His first experience of shooting came about after a girlfriend had invited him to join her at a corporate getaway at some swanky hotel in the Huntingdon countryside. As a part of the package, the guests had free access to activities like horse riding, quad biking, and golf. There was also a climbing wall, a swimming pool, and a skeet shooting range. Stone had soon tired of chlorinated water, plastic rocks, and racing around in muddy circles, and decided to have a pop at skeet shooting, while his lady-friend was enduring something called a hot mud facial.
After a safety lecture and some basic directions about how to hold, aim, and fire a shotgun, the instructor explained the principle of deflection shooting — the process of aiming ahead of the target so that the shotgun pellets can intersect with the fast-flying clay. When he was ready, Stone shouted ‘Pull!’ for the first time, and to his surprise, hit both of the clay targets with his first two shots. Suspecting a large dose of beginners luck, Stone tried again, and he was delighted to see his second attempt produced the same result.
Initially the instructor suspected that Stone was some sharp shooter, planted by friends as a practical joke, but he soon came to accept that Eric simply had a good eye and a natural feel for deflection shooting. To the barely concealed displeasure of his girlfriend, Stone spent most of the remaining time that weekend at the shooting range, stopping only when his right shoulder, unused to the recoil of the shotgun, became too bruised and painful to continue. By that time, he was hooked and committed to joining a local gun club at the earliest opportunity.
Inevitably, the girlfriend proved to be a fad, but his love of target shooting turned into a serious hobby, and Eric soon bought a shotgun and a .22 target rifle; both were kept in a gun safe at his home. On his birthday in July of the previous year, Charles had presented Eric with a very special gift. It was a Barnett Ghost 410 crossbow — identical to the one that Charles owned. The jet black Ghost 410 was a rare and expensive weapon that was manufactured in America using strong but ultra-light materials, more commonly associated with race cars and jet fighters. Sleek, stealthy, and beautifully balanced, it weighed just a few pounds, and yet it could fire a projectile with incredible speed and accuracy. The crossbow was even fitted with a telescopic laser sight that could project the classic sniper red dot onto the intended target.
Eric was delighted with the crossbow, a gift that helped to deepen his friendship with Charles. Over the years the two men spent many happy hours together in friendly competition at the shooting range with guns and their crossbows, or in the bar talking about politics or women, or both, and visiting classic car shows. Through such shared interests and beliefs, based on duty, fairness, and equality, they had eventually become as close as brothers. With a deep sigh, Eric shook his head at the tragic waste of life and the loss of a true friend.
“Come on Stone; pull yourself together,” he said sadly, wiping his eyes.
He splashed his face with cold water at the kitchen sink and wondered what, if anything, he should do next. Although Charles was his closest friend, that relationship held no status in the eyes of the law. Eric was not a relative, and although the news report said that Charles had no immediate family, he presumed that there would be some arrangements in place to deal with the funeral and other matters. Nevertheless, as a friend, he felt that he had a duty to offer his help to whoever was appointed as executor of Charles’s estate. He knew several police officers through his karate club, so after some consideration, he decided that the best course of action was to go in person to the Braintree town police station and ask for some information and advice. Pleased to be doing something positive in his grief, Stone washed and dried the breakfast dishes, brushed his teeth, got dressed and was stepping through the front door just twenty minutes later.
He almost collided with a young and very pretty mailwoman as he turned, and after a mumbled apology and a shy smile, he accepted the proffered handful of utility bills and junk mail, which he took with him to his car. With the engine running, he sat for a moment and watched as the mailwoman continued her round. At that moment, Stone was suddenly aware of just how insular grief was. His world had become dark and depressing, he had just discovered that his closest friend was dead, a tragedy by his own hand to avoid a painful and undignified end; and yet just the other side of the door the sun was still shining, the girls were pretty, and there were still bills to pay. With a shake of his head, Eric snapped out of his reverie.
Realizing that he was still clutching the post, he gave a sad and somewhat ironic laugh and dropped it onto the passenger seat. He was about to put the car into gear when a pale blue envelope caught his eye. The neat careful handwriting was distinctively that of one man — Charles Rathbone. As he picked up the envelope with his left hand, his right hand automatically reached for the key to switch off the engine.
Alan Merry stepped off the train at Reading station and as was his habit, walked directly to the nearest bar. He liked the ‘Three Guineas’; it was an Irish themed bar that had recently been refurbished. It had a great menu, comfortable seating, plenty of space and, most important for Alan, it served a decent pint of Guinness. This early in the afternoon, the bar was quiet, apart from a few businessmen passing some time whilst waiting for their train. Alan had just travelled from London and, as usual, was planning to enjoy a pint and a sandwich before taking a leisurely walk to Reading Borough Council. As part of his responsibility as a Councilor, Alan sat on the Planning Applications Committee every Wednesday afternoon. He found it to be mind-numbingly boring work that was best approached with a slight beer buzz and a full stomach.
He took a stool at the bar and ordered a toasted cheese sandwich with a side order of French fries and a pint of Guinness. Because it was an Irish bar, the barmaid poured the drink correctly — half-filling the glass and leaving it to settle, while she busied herself behind the bar. In a few minutes, she would return to top off his glass. Alan secretly enjoyed the anticipation of waiting for his pint of the ‘black stuff’, so he made use of the time by reading through his notes for the forthcoming planning meeting.
There were the usual residential applications for porches, conservatories, and garages, along with two applications for loft extensions — all fairly routine and acceptable stuff. He noticed that there was an application for a change of use that he thought could cause some discussion amongst the Councilors. A local farmer wanted to convert some stables into bed and breakfast accommodations, presumably to try to cash in on the growing numbers of tourists visiting the area. The previous year the same farmer had an application to open a go-kart track turned down, because of the potential for noise pollution upsetting the residents of a nearby housing development. However, Alan suspected that this application stood a much better chance of getting approval. On the other hand, he was certain that the planning application for change of use at Whitewater farm was going to fail.