spoke there was something serious in his voice. “She never has been, Charlie.”
I closed my eyes, felt the pull of a smile across my lips. “Good,” I said. “That’s all right, then.”
Seventeen
Major Gilby walked out of the Manor house about twenty minutes after I’d finished talking to Sean, and strode briskly along the path towards the ranges. He wore a heavy greatcoat that flapped around his legs as he walked.
It was bitter out, just on the point of freezing. The ground was crystalline with a heavy frost that reflected the moon like a cut diamond.
As for me, for once I didn’t feel the cold.
I waited until he’d moved past my position, then slipped out into the darkness and followed. I clung to the edge of the trees, not only watching his progress, but also keeping an eye out behind me, just in case the Major’s mystery shadow had chosen tonight to make a reappearance. If he had, he was better at hiding than I was at spotting him.
It didn’t take me long to realise that I’d picked a bad night to trail Gilby. His footsteps along the path showed as flattened prints on the concrete, plainly visible through the frost. Where I’d walked along the edge of the grass I left telltales that were clearer still. Crossing the open ground that lay between us was going to be impossible without leaving tracks a blind man wouldn’t need a Labrador to be able to follow. Was it worth that risk?
I’d promised Sean I wouldn’t take risks, but I’d also promised him results just by being here. It was a wrench to know which to keep, but for the moment I settled for a watching brief, got as close as I dared and stayed in cover. It was a good job I didn’t break out of it.
Gilby checked behind him twice, coming to a standstill and revolving slowly, listening as well as watching for any sign of movement, of something out of place. I kept motionless and tried to think like a tree.
Eventually, seeming satisfied, he covered the last few metres to the indoor range, took a key out of his pocket, and let himself in. I watched the door swing shut and in the stillness of the night I heard the lock click behind him.
I felt my shoulders drop a little. I had my Swiss Army knife in my pocket, as always, but I couldn’t pick a lock to save my life. Even if I
I realised too, that if I made my way back to the Manor now, Gilby was likely to spot my footprints across the grass when he came back. I checked my watch. It was edging towards ten. I thought regretfully of my lost beauty sleep and decided to wait him out.
The Major was only inside the range for a quarter of an hour, which was more than enough time for me to have lost most of the sensation in my toes. I watched the lights in the Manor start to blink out as people called it a night.
When he reappeared, locking the door behind him, Gilby walked quickly straight back along the path, not bothering to check who might be following. He reached one of the sets of French windows on the ground floor and let himself in.
I wondered briefly if they went round locking all the exterior doors at night. In which case I was going to have fun getting back in myself. Perhaps it would be a good idea not to find out. I started forwards, but a movement over to my left stopped me in my tracks.
I wasn’t the only watcher in the woods, it seemed.
Another figure emerged into the moonlight about thirty metres away and made for the range doorway that the Major had just come out of. I was suddenly thankful that I hadn’t been whistling to myself to pass the time.
Apart from the fact that the figure was clearly a man, I was too far away to recognise who it might be. He was bulked up in heavy clothing, a wool hat pulled down low around his face. Now why didn’t I think of that? My own ears were pulsing with the cold.
Whoever he was, the man also had a key to the range. Did that mean he was one of the instructors, or a light-fingered pupil?
This time, though, as the man entered, the range door didn’t fully close behind him. I hesitated for a moment, briefly remembered my other promise to Sean, that I wouldn’t confront anyone else, then hurried across the frigid grass before my nerve failed me. It was a stupid manoeuvre, I knew, but too good an opportunity to miss.
I couldn’t remember for the life of me if the door squeaked. I pushed it open very carefully with my fingertips, like that was going to make a difference. It swung silently aside and I slipped through the gap, making sure it didn’t latch behind me.
There were no windows in the indoor range. There wasn’t any need for them and the lack of glass enabled the interior to be almost completely soundproofed.
I discovered when I got inside that the lights in the cramped vestibule had been switched on, too. After the clean silver blue of the moon outside, the ceiling tubes threw out a dull harsh glare the colour of stagnant pond water onto the blockwork walls.
The range area itself, off to my right, was still in darkness. I bypassed that and crept through to the room next to the armoury, where we’d been shown how to strip and clean the SIGs. It was very dark in there. I had to pause long enough just inside the doorway for my eyes to adapt.
I moved cautiously across the floor, trying to recall the exact layout of the room. There was a large table in the centre, its dirty plywood top ingrained with burnt powder and gun oil. Even though it was so dark, I crouched below the level and crabbed my way across the room. Where was he?
Beyond me was the armoury section. Normally this area was blocked off by a steel door, held shut with a selection of locks and padlocks that would have had Harry Houdini muttering nervously about not realising that was the time.
But not any more.
The locks were disengaged and the padlocks hung open to one side. I slunk through the open doorway, trying to blend into the paintwork on the jamb. Across in the corner was the weapons’ store, a secure caged area. The lights in the cage were on, bleeding out across the floor, but because the sides were stacked high with gun cases, it was difficult to tell if my mystery man was inside.
With a dry mouth and damp palms I edged forwards until I was right up against the bars. I peered in through a tiny slot between two cases. Something moved across the other side of the gap, close enough to make me jump and recoil. With a silent curse I glued my eye back to the gap.
I could just make out part of a work bench against the far wall. It had a vice bolted down to the corner with wall-mounted plastic boxes for nuts and screws above it. On the bench itself was a small wooden crate.
As I watched, the man moved in front of the bench and began levering the lid off the crate. It was cold enough in there for him to still be wearing his hat, his breath clouding against the light. Because of the position of the bench, his back was towards me. I still couldn’t make out the details of his face.
When the lid of the crate was off he dumped it to one side and disappeared from view. I tensed, in case he was about to walk out of the cage. The walls of the armoury were bare. There was nothing big enough to hide a rat under.
Even if I did find a place of concealment, what the hell did I do if he walked out of the range and locked the door behind him? It wasn’t the kind of place where there was likely to be a convenient fire exit.
Fortunately, the next moment I heard him dragging something across the floor inside the cage. I couldn’t see what it was, but if his grunt of effort was anything to go by, it was heavy.
When the man reappeared in my field of vision he was carrying three packages, wrapped in oiled cloth. He carefully placed two straight into the crate, hesitated for a moment, then started to unwrap the other. I had a frustrating few seconds unable to see much more than his back and arms as he worked, then he shifted his position slightly, and it all became chillingly clear.
The contents of the package was a compact submachine gun. The man slid out the wire stock and tried the weapon for size into his shoulder, ducking his head to squint through the open sights.
Beyond firing a few during my time in the army, I was no particular expert on submachine guns, but I had no
