the only one,' he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Rangemaster at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club was properly macho, his shag of curly black hair echoed in designer stubble along the jaw and in designer thatch at the open neck of his lumberjack's shirt. Below, he tapered to narrow hips and a pair of faded jeans so unambiguously tight, it was clear he was carrying no concealed weapons. He affected a mid-Atlantic baritone which occasionally let him down, or rather up, into a Geordie squeak. His name was Mitchell but he invited them to join everyone in calling him Mitch.
'Tell me, Mr Mitchell,' said Pascoe, 'is Rangemaster a usual title for someone in your position?'
'Don't know that it is,' he answered. 'Sounds good though, don't it?'
'Do it? Perhaps you could give us a job description?'
His fears that he might have got hold of some fantasizing handyman were allayed as Mitchell gave him an outline of the club's set-up and his role in it. He was in fact the resident steward, coach and adviser on all matters pertaining to arms, qualified by a five-year stint in the Army (nudges and winks towards the SAS) followed by a one-year polymanagement course. He had a half share in the club, the other half belonging to a local businessman who was a shooting enthusiast. By the time he'd finished talking, it was clear that perhaps eighty per cent of his self-presentation was a sales ploy, which left twenty per cent as self-image.
But image and accent vanished together when told of Gail Swain's death.
'Oh no. Man, that's really terrible,' he said, sitting down. 'She were a real canny lass. Gail dead! I canna believe it.'
'It's true, I'm afraid,' said Pascoe.
'How'd it happen? What was it? An accident?'
'It seems possible,’ he said carefully. 'What I'm here about is her guns. She kept them here, I believe.'
'Oh yes. All the time. Well, nearly. There might have been an odd time when she took one home, if she'd been away at a competition, say. But why're you interested ... it wasn't a shooting accident, was it?'
'I'm afraid a gun was involved,' said Pascoe. 'What weapons did she own?'
'She had a Beretta .25, a Hammerli match target pistol, a Colt Python and a Harrington and Richardson Sidekick,' he replied without hesitation.
'Quite an armoury. And where would these be kept?'
For answer Mitchell took them through into another room and pointed at a metal door.
'You won't find anything like that outside a bank,’ he said proudly. 'No one gets in here, I tell you.'
He unlocked the door to reveal a range of padlocked gun cabinets.
'I'm glad to hear it,' said Pascoe, who privately saw no reason why gun enthusiasts shouldn't try out both their accuracy and their fantasies with spring-loaded weapons that fired ping-pong balls. 'And how do the members get hold of their weapons?'
'They tell me what they want and I fetch them out,' said Mitchell.
'How often did Mrs Swain use the club?'
'She used to be a real regular but not so much lately.'
'And Mr Swain?'
'He wasn't a member, but he sometimes came to functions with his wife. He knew a lot of people, of course. The Swains are an old local family.'
'That matters?'
'We're very democratic, but the old country families who've been used to guns from early on are our founder members, so to speak. I'd say it mattered to Gail, being a Swain.'
'Did she have any special friends?'
'Not in the club. She was a bit of a loner, really. I know she liked to do the right things for someone in her position, sit on committees, that sort of thing, but maybe she didn't feel certain enough how things worked to risk getting too close to anyone. It can't be easy being a rich Yank round here.'
There was no trace of irony in his voice.
'But her husband didn't feel it incumbent on him to join?'
'Oh no. He's one on his own too. But there have been Swains in the club, I mean real Swains. His brother Tom . . . but you'll know about him.'
Pascoe nodded with the air of a man who knows everything. Seymour, he
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Rangemaster at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club was properly macho, his shag of curly black hair echoed in designer stubble along the jaw and in designer thatch at the open neck of his lumberjack's shirt. Below, he tapered to narrow hips and a pair of faded jeans so unambiguously tight, it was clear he was carrying no concealed weapons. He affected a mid-Atlantic baritone which occasionally let him down, or rather up, into a Geordie squeak. His name was Mitchell but he invited them to join everyone in calling him Mitch.
'Tell me, Mr Mitchell,' said Pascoe, 'is Rangemaster a usual title for someone in your position?'
'Don't know that it is,' he answered. 'Sounds good though, don't it?'
'Do it? Perhaps you could give us a job description?'
His fears that he might have got hold of some fantasizing handyman were allayed as Mitchell gave him an outline of the club's set-up and his role in it. He was in fact the resident steward, coach and adviser on all matters pertaining to arms, qualified by a five-year stint in the Army (nudges and winks towards the SAS) followed by a one-year polymanagement course. He had a half share in the club, the other half belonging to a local businessman who was a shooting enthusiast. By the time he'd finished talking, it was clear that perhaps eighty per cent of his self-presentation was a sales ploy, which left twenty per cent as self-image.
But image and accent vanished together when told of Gail Swain's death.
'Oh no. Man, that's really terrible,' he said, sitting down. 'She were a real canny lass. Gail dead! I canna believe it.'
'It's true, I'm afraid,' said Pascoe.
'How'd it happen? What was it? An accident?'
'It seems possible,’ he said carefully. 'What I'm here about is her guns. She kept them here, I believe.'
'Oh yes. All the time. Well, nearly. There might have been an odd time when she took one home, if she'd been away at a competition, say. But why're you interested ... it wasn't a shooting accident, was it?'
'I'm afraid a gun was involved,' said Pascoe. 'What weapons did she own?'
'She had a Beretta .25, a Hammerli match target pistol, a Colt Python and a Harrington and Richardson Sidekick,' he replied without hesitation.
'Quite an armoury. And where would these be kept?'
For answer Mitchell took them through into another room and pointed at a metal door.
'You won't find anything like that outside a bank,’ he said proudly. 'No one gets in here, I tell you.'
He unlocked the door to reveal a range of padlocked gun cabinets.
'I'm glad to hear it,' said Pascoe, who privately saw no reason why gun enthusiasts shouldn't try out both their accuracy and their fantasies with spring-loaded weapons that fired ping-pong balls. 'And how do the members get hold of their weapons?'
'They tell me what they want and I fetch them out,' said Mitchell.
'How often did Mrs Swain use the club?'
'She used to be a real regular but not so much lately.'
'And Mr Swain?'
'He wasn't a member, but he sometimes came to functions with his wife. He knew a lot of people, of course. The Swains are an old local family.'
'That matters?'
'We're very democratic, but the old country families who've been used to guns from early on are our founder members, so to speak. I'd say it mattered to Gail, being a Swain.'
'Did she have any special friends?'
'Not in the club. She was a bit of a loner, really. I know she liked to do the right things for someone in her position, sit on committees, that sort of thing, but maybe she didn't feel certain enough how things worked to risk getting too close to anyone. It can't be easy being a rich Yank round here.'
There was no trace of irony in his voice.
'But her husband didn't feel it incumbent on him to join?'
'Oh no. He's one on his own too. But there have been Swains in the club, I mean real Swains. His brother Tom . . . but you'll know about him.'
Pascoe nodded with the air of a man who knows everything. Seymour, he
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