‘Let’s see how we get in.’
A notice on the gatepost informed them:
‘And a hundred thousand welcomes,’ Diamond said. He pressed the entryphone button and put his head close to the mesh. Nothing happened and the gates stayed shut.
‘Maybe you should say something into it,’ Ingeborg suggested.
‘Like: open up, it’s the Old Bill?’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of: special call for Mr. Royston Nuttall with something to his advantage.’
‘You try, then. You’ve obviously got the patter and you’ll look better on the video.’
She tried and those assets made no difference.
Diamond inspected the perimeter wall. It was brick-built, all of eight feet high and topped with what looked like a triple electric cable strung along its length. He ruled out climbing. ‘The gates look as if they might open with a little persuasion.’ He gripped the left side and pushed. The base was anchored to a grooved arc in the ground, but there was some movement higher up. ‘I could squeeze through, at a pinch.’
From nowhere obvious, a black Dobermann flung itself at the gate, all teeth and snarling. Diamond withdrew his fingers just in time. ‘Not such a great idea.’
Ingeborg produced her mobile. ‘Shall we try phoning the house?’
‘I have a feeling they’re ex-directory, but no harm in trying.’
No joy.
‘If it wasn’t for the dog, we could get in,’ he said.
‘I know how to deal with the dog,’ Ingeborg said.
‘Shoot it?’
She told him her plan.
‘I’m willing to try,’ he said.
They got in the car and drove back to the shops at Widcombe Parade. In the traditional sweetshop they asked for aniseed balls and a strong tin to put them in. ‘It acts like catnip except it’s dogs who go for it,’ Ingeborg told him. ‘He’ll be far more interested in these than your fingers.’
Beside the river, the sergeant was looking at his watch. The search was taking longer than he’d estimated. He’d sent for reinforcements and now had two men underwater and they’d moved a short distance downstream. Closer to the pub, but not close enough for his liking. He’d call a halt soon.
He didn’t have long to wait. One head surfaced and then another.
They didn’t appear to have brought anything up. The searching of river bottoms can be unrewarding. Mud and reeds make it difficult.
‘No joy?’ he shouted, with joy of his own in mind.
‘It’s okay, we hit the jackpot this time,’ one of the constables said, ‘but we’re going to need lifting gear.’
‘For Christ’s sake — what is it?’
‘A bloody great motorbike.’
Diamond and Ingeborg returned up the hill and tried the conventional entryphone once again and still got no response. Ingeborg opened the tin and tipped out one of the aniseed balls just out of the Dobermann’s reach at the far end of the gate. The dog was there at once, muzzle through the bars, sniffing strongly. Ingeborg put down two more, taking care not to handle them. One rolled close enough for the dog to twist its head sideways and scoop up. The sweet was crunched in those powerful jaws. ‘That should improve his breath.’
‘Will it improve his behaviour?’ Diamond said.
‘Why not give it a go and see?’
Tentatively, he put his shoulder to the gate. The dog paid no attention, fully absorbed with the challenge of reaching the remaining aniseed balls. Diamond increased the pressure, forced a space and squeezed through. On the other side, with the Dobermann for company, he said, ‘Hurry up. I don’t fancy standing here for long.’
Ingeborg eased herself through and they walked at a quick rate up the tiled drive towards the house, leaving the dog to work on its tantalising problem.
‘It all seems strangely quiet,’ Ingeborg said. ‘The lawns are well mown. They must have staff.’
‘Part-time, I’d say. It’s low-maintenance, grass and trees. Not a single flowerbed.’
As they approached the front, Diamond pointed to more cameras. ‘Before we declare ourselves, let’s see what else there is.’ He’d spotted some outbuildings to the right of the main house. An open-sided barn contained two motor-mowers, a four-by-four, a red Porsche and a powerful-looking motorbike. Behind it were a woodshed and a couple of locked buildings that probably contained tools.
‘Would that be the bike that ran you down?’ Ingeborg asked.
‘It was all too sudden. I wouldn’t know.’
‘Might be worth getting a print of the tyres.’
‘What with?’
‘Later, then. Fancy a swim?’ Ingeborg said, moving on. Shimmering in the sunlight, tiled blue, green and gold, and enclosed by Romanesque columns, the pool looked more California than Claverton Down. It was at least thirty metres by twenty and deep enough to have a springboard. At the far end was a whirlpool and a building that probably housed a sauna.
‘An hour on one of those recliners with a beer would do me the most good,’ he said. ‘What’s over there — a games room?’ Behind the house and some distance away he had seen a long, low wooden building with shingle roofing. ‘No, it’s a firing range. Let’s go over.’
A private range fitted in with the ethos of Fight for Britain. And this one was on a military scale. The target lines on gently rising ground were set at what must have been four hundred metres and backed with sandbags. A higher set of butts was at about six hundred metres.
The covered stand where the shooting was done had a gate on a latch and a safety notice. Diamond and Ingeborg let themselves in. It was wide enough to take up to ten guns. The flooring was coconut matting on Astroturf over what felt like a concrete base. Clearly it was well maintained. They weren’t stepping on used cartridge casings. Diamond paced the length of it, weighing the significance of the find. You didn’t expect a military-style range in private grounds. As far as he was aware, it was legal provided that the weapons were licensed, but he doubted if anyone except the owner and his private army knew the scale of this place. The remote location meant no neighbour was likely to be disturbed by the gunfire.
‘Guv, have you seen these?’
Ingeborg had been rummaging at the back of the stand. She picked up a large cardboard target with the usual black circles on a white background — usual, except that this one was mounted on a lifesize silhouette of a police officer with helmet.
His blood ran cold for a moment. ‘Nasty.’
He knew you could buy targets of hate figures like Bin Laden. This was a variation he hadn’t seen. And he doubted if it could be prosecuted.
Turning away, he stared into the distance, imagining the sight of up to ten of the target figures spread across the landscape at six hundred metres. If it wasn’t so sinister in the light of the recent killings, the sight of all those helmets might seem comical. He could imagine Soldier Nuttall’s recruits thinking it funny.
Silent now, he moved forward a short way. Beyond the matting the Astroturf extended for about thirty metres before the real grass took over. When he stepped on it there was a difference in sound, a drumming effect. He brought his foot down more heavily. ‘Must be hollow underneath. Give me a hand,’ he said to Ingeborg.
They found the edge and rolled the Astroturf back like a carpet to reveal some board panels. ‘Let’s have one of these up.’
The panel was about two metres square and took some lifting, but Diamond was insistent and they prised it up and hefted it aside. Below was a deep cavity.
‘Storage space?’ Ingeborg said.
‘I wonder how deep it is.’ He squatted, perched himself on the edge and dangled his legs. ‘I can see a wall ladder here. I’m going down.’
‘Careful,’ Ingeborg said. ‘You could get injured again.’
He turned, got a foot on one of the rungs, and started to descend. ‘A torch would be useful.’
