think that would stop her, do you?”
“Probably right,” he admitted. Then, raising his voice: “One last thing, Whiteread—young Gav was looking up your skirt!”
As Rebus turned to leave, he shrugged at Siobhan, as if to acknowledge that the shot had been cheap.
Cheap, but worthwhile.
“I mean it, Bobby, what the hell’s the matter with you?” Rebus was walking down one of the school’s long corridors towards what looked very much like a floor-to-ceiling safe, the old kind with a wheel and some tumblers. It stood open, as did an interior steel gate. Hogan was staring inside.
“God almighty, man, those bastards have no place here.”
“John,” Hogan said quietly, “I don’t think you’ve met the principal . . .” He gestured into the vault, where a middle-aged man was standing, surrounded by enough guns to start a revolution. “Dr. Fogg,” Hogan said, by way of introduction.
Fogg stepped over the threshold. He was a short, stocky man with the look of a onetime boxer: one ear seemed puffy, and his nose covered half his face. A nick of scar tissue cut through one of his bushy eyebrows. “Eric Fogg,” he said, shaking Rebus’s hand.
“Sorry about my language back there, sir. I’m DI John Rebus.”
“Working in a school, you hear worse,” Fogg stated, making it sound like something he’d said a hundred times before.
Siobhan had caught up and was about to introduce herself when she saw the contents of the vault.
“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed.
“My thoughts exactly,” Rebus agreed.
“As I was explaining to DI Hogan,” Fogg began, “most independent schools have something like this on the premises.”
“CCF, is that right, Dr. Fogg?” Hogan added.
Fogg nodded. “The Combined Cadet Force—army, navy and air force cadets. They parade each Friday afternoon.” He paused. “I think a big incentive is that they can eschew school uniforms that day.”
“For something slightly more paramilitary?” Rebus guessed.
“Automatic, semi-automatic and other weapons,” Hogan recited.
“Probably deters the odd housebreaker.”
“Actually,” Fogg said, “I was just telling DI Hogan that if the school’s alarm system is activated, the responding police units are instructed to make for the armory first. It dates back to when the IRA and suchlike were looking for guns.”
“You’re not saying the ammo’s kept here, too?” Siobhan asked.
Fogg shook his head. “There’s no live ammo on the premises.”
“But the guns are real enough? They’re not deactivated?”
“Oh, they’re real enough.” He looked at the contents of the vault with something approaching distaste.
“You’re not a fan?” Rebus guessed.
“I think the practice is . . . slightly in danger of outliving its useful application.”
“There speaks a diplomat,” Rebus said, forcing a smile from the principal.
“Herdman didn’t get his gun from here?” Siobhan was asking.
Hogan shook his head. “That’s another thing I’m hoping the army investigators might help us with.” He looked at Rebus. “Always supposing you can’t.”
“Give us a break, Bobby. We’ve hardly been here five minutes.”
“Do you do any teaching, sir?” Siobhan asked Fogg, hoping to defuse any argument her two senior officers might be thinking of starting.
Fogg shook his head. “I used to: RME—religious and moral education.”
“Instilling a sense of morality in teenagers? That must’ve been tough.”
“I’ve yet to meet a teenager who started a war.” The voice rang slightly false: another prepared answer to an oft-put point.
“Only because we don’t tend to give them the firepower,” Rebus commented, staring again at the array of arms.
Fogg was relocking the iron gate.
“So nothing’s missing?” Rebus asked.
Hogan shook his head. “But both victims were in the CCF.”
Rebus looked at Fogg, who nodded confirmation. “Anthony was a very keen member . . . Derek a little less so.”
Anthony
“Probably right,” he admitted. Then, raising his voice: “One last thing, Whiteread—young Gav was looking up your skirt!”
As Rebus turned to leave, he shrugged at Siobhan, as if to acknowledge that the shot had been cheap.
Cheap, but worthwhile.
“I mean it, Bobby, what the hell’s the matter with you?” Rebus was walking down one of the school’s long corridors towards what looked very much like a floor-to-ceiling safe, the old kind with a wheel and some tumblers. It stood open, as did an interior steel gate. Hogan was staring inside.
“God almighty, man, those bastards have no place here.”
“John,” Hogan said quietly, “I don’t think you’ve met the principal . . .” He gestured into the vault, where a middle-aged man was standing, surrounded by enough guns to start a revolution. “Dr. Fogg,” Hogan said, by way of introduction.
Fogg stepped over the threshold. He was a short, stocky man with the look of a onetime boxer: one ear seemed puffy, and his nose covered half his face. A nick of scar tissue cut through one of his bushy eyebrows. “Eric Fogg,” he said, shaking Rebus’s hand.
“Sorry about my language back there, sir. I’m DI John Rebus.”
“Working in a school, you hear worse,” Fogg stated, making it sound like something he’d said a hundred times before.
Siobhan had caught up and was about to introduce herself when she saw the contents of the vault.
“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed.
“My thoughts exactly,” Rebus agreed.
“As I was explaining to DI Hogan,” Fogg began, “most independent schools have something like this on the premises.”
“CCF, is that right, Dr. Fogg?” Hogan added.
Fogg nodded. “The Combined Cadet Force—army, navy and air force cadets. They parade each Friday afternoon.” He paused. “I think a big incentive is that they can eschew school uniforms that day.”
“For something slightly more paramilitary?” Rebus guessed.
“Automatic, semi-automatic and other weapons,” Hogan recited.
“Probably deters the odd housebreaker.”
“Actually,” Fogg said, “I was just telling DI Hogan that if the school’s alarm system is activated, the responding police units are instructed to make for the armory first. It dates back to when the IRA and suchlike were looking for guns.”
“You’re not saying the ammo’s kept here, too?” Siobhan asked.
Fogg shook his head. “There’s no live ammo on the premises.”
“But the guns are real enough? They’re not deactivated?”
“Oh, they’re real enough.” He looked at the contents of the vault with something approaching distaste.
“You’re not a fan?” Rebus guessed.
“I think the practice is . . . slightly in danger of outliving its useful application.”
“There speaks a diplomat,” Rebus said, forcing a smile from the principal.
“Herdman didn’t get his gun from here?” Siobhan was asking.
Hogan shook his head. “That’s another thing I’m hoping the army investigators might help us with.” He looked at Rebus. “Always supposing you can’t.”
“Give us a break, Bobby. We’ve hardly been here five minutes.”
“Do you do any teaching, sir?” Siobhan asked Fogg, hoping to defuse any argument her two senior officers might be thinking of starting.
Fogg shook his head. “I used to: RME—religious and moral education.”
“Instilling a sense of morality in teenagers? That must’ve been tough.”
“I’ve yet to meet a teenager who started a war.” The voice rang slightly false: another prepared answer to an oft-put point.
“Only because we don’t tend to give them the firepower,” Rebus commented, staring again at the array of arms.
Fogg was relocking the iron gate.
“So nothing’s missing?” Rebus asked.
Hogan shook his head. “But both victims were in the CCF.”
Rebus looked at Fogg, who nodded confirmation. “Anthony was a very keen member . . . Derek a little less so.”
Anthony
Similar Books
