His smile widened. I hadn't even haggled much.
'And do you sell Maglites? I need the smallest one.'
Something else had caught my eye. Lynn might have sent me a message to come to him, but I wanted it to be on my terms.
Norfolk Country Pursuits also did a fine line in night-vision aids: weapon sights, monoculars, binoculars.
'My wife's mad about foxes and badgers. She'd love one of these for watching the buggers dig up my garden. Which one's the best, without breaking the bank?'
'Don't like the scopes and monoculars myself, if I'm honest with you. Too much strain on the closed eye, and you end up with no night vision in the other. Big fan of the binos version though. Nothing could be easier. They give you depth perception too. When you view a scene through binoculars, each eye is viewing things from a slightly different angle.
'These ones look good. She'll like the yellow trim.'
The old guy looked like he was going to hyperventilate with joy. I'd just parted company with the best part of another eight hundred quid for the National Geographic Explorers.
'There's a lovely range of ladies' waxed jackets in my sale, if you—'
I pulled out my wallet and handed him my card. 'I think that's enough spoiling for one day.'
He sighed as he handed me the bag. 'Now – new legislation, sir. I'm obliged to remind you that it is an offence for any person, regardless of age, to be in possession of an air weapon in a public place without a reasonable excuse. A reasonable excuse might be carrying a gun to and from a target shooting club or to and from land on which you have permission to shoot. It would also include taking a gun to and from a gunsmith for repair or service or taking a new gun home from the dealer. So please, do keep the pistol in its packaging until you get home.'
I turned to go and he sighed. 'There's a lot of crazy people out there who would use them to actually hurt people.'
34
I hit the main artery out of town towards the bypass. I remembered the place from a job I'd done up here about five years ago. Except that wasteland and shit terraced houses had been replaced by big DIY and frozen-food stores and car outlets.
I followed the road towards the coast. The idea was to hit the sea and head east. According to the map it was about thirty miles to the mushroom farm. I wouldn't really need it: once I hit the coast road I wasn't going to miss it. I drove slowly. I didn't want to get there too early and have to hang around.
The grass either side of the road suddenly became very neatly manicured. Even the molehills had been flattened. Signs started to let me in on the secret. Sandringham was just up the road. I was sure I'd know when I got there: the air would smell of polish and fresh paint.
I carried on to Hunstanton, where the road met the sea. It was very much like any other UK coastal town, up on high ground, a bit of a cliff and a hill going down to the beach. Victorian buildings proudly lined the esplanade, but the glory days were gone. Now they all looked a bit tired.
There was the obligatory Tesco on the outskirts, and the green area on the high ground was covered with hundreds of white and cream boxes with satellite dishes on the roof so holidaymakers could come all this way and do exactly the same thing as they did at home.
I checked the rear-view regularly, mentally registering every vehicle behind me.
Bright lights flashed hopefully outside a couple of amusement arcades. I cruised about, following the one-way system around the town, looking for a steamy-windowed cafe that had what I needed.
I found one down by the Sea Life Sanctuary. The attraction was closed, but the car park was open. As I locked up the Merc and headed across the road, the sea looked as dull and cloudy as the sky.
The cappuccino I ordered came in a cup the size of a soup bowl. I grabbed a packet of ready-salted and a cheese and pickle sandwich, and logged on. As I lifted the bread and tipped in the crisps, my eyes never left the Merc, nor the two or three cars that had come into the car park after me.
I hit Google Earth and carried out a recce of the target. The days of having to do walk- or fly-pasts to get some imagery with a Hasselblad camera were long gone.
I kept checking the Merc.
The only other diners were two or three young lads in Guns N' Roses hoodies, hunched over burger and Cokes. All our tables had plastic tomato-shaped red and brown sauce squeezers, the kind that had been around in every Greasy Joe's since I was a kid. By the look of these particular ones, they had been. Dried sauce clung to the spouts. My two halves of cheese and pickle got a burst of something vinegary as the target came up on the screen.
I wanted to make it as difficult as possible for anyone that might be waiting for me. I gave my eyes a good rub to wake them up and stared at the screen.
The farm stood on a triangle of land bordered by three B roads. The site probably covered three acres. The farmhouse itself was set back from the road at the base of the triangle and there were two large outbuildings – probably the packing houses and cold stores – along either side, accessible from both roads. A further three buildings, which I took to be the growing sheds, stood in the middle of the plot. I zoomed in. It looked like mushroom rustling wasn't big business around these parts. I couldn't see any fences or floodlights.
I zoomed out to check the surrounding area and couldn't see any other buildings for at least a kilometre. Most were on the coast and around the road coming into the target area. That meant there'd be no ambient light, which suited me perfectly.
I squashed my sandwiches down a bit and got stuck in as I checked the Merc again. Crisp fragments
