Something Hidden (11 page)

Andrew sat next to him, with Rory burying his head in the bush behind and straining at his lead. ‘What do you know about Browning pistols and the army?’ Andrew asked.

‘They’ve been standard issue for years but they’re gradually being phased out and replaced by Glocks. It was supposed to happen quite quickly but most of the lads I know still
get a Browning as their sidearm.’

‘How are you assigned a gun?’

Craig began rubbing his knee, clearly trying not to show how much it hurt with Jenny nearby. ‘Everything’s counted in and out, whether you’re here or abroad.’

‘So none can go missing?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘We found a report that said the army lose around sixty guns a year.’

Craig snorted, sitting up straighter. ‘Sixty? And the rest. Who did they ask?’

‘How many?’

Craig shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that – the numbers aren’t really important. If you get caught bringing a gun home from abroad, or if you’ve somehow got
one out from a base, then you’re in big trouble.’

‘It still happens, though?’

‘Sort of. Say you’re actually out in somewhere like Iraq or Afghanistan, there are guns everywhere. Some of them have been given out by us to bolster the local security forces, other
times you might confiscate one for whatever reason. It’s only you and maybe a mate who knows you’ve got it. Maybe you hand it in when you get back to base, maybe you don’t. I
would, but I know plenty of boys who like to keep mementoes.’

‘How would you get it home?’

Craig turned to face him. ‘Do you really need to know?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘There are ways. Mementoes is probably the wrong word. There’s another thing too. Out in places like Afghanistan, it can be dangerous, even on routine patrols. One minute
you’re driving along, the next, someone’s taking pot shots at you – or a roadside bomb goes off. Say your vehicle takes a hit. You get to safety, perhaps return fire, but one of
your guys has been killed. No one back at camp’s running around asking what happened to his weapon. If it lands by your feet and you pocket it, that’s it. It could be the last thing you
have of the other person’s.’

Jenny shuffled on the bench, most likely thinking the same as Andrew: according to the reports, Luke
had
experienced a roadside bomb. Andrew tugged Rory away from the bush, bending over
and unclipping his collar. Instead of running away to explore, the pug lay on Andrew’s foot and closed his eyes.

‘So it wouldn’t be too hard for a soldier to get a military-issue gun back from wherever they were stationed?’ Andrew asked.

Craig blew a small raspberry through his lips. ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. I couldn’t just contact someone I know in the forces and say, “Get me a gun” –
plus, you’re missing the obvious.’

‘What?’

‘This all affects the black market. Say you did get a gun home, what are you going to do with it? Most army lads don’t go out shooting – they don’t even want to look at a
gun until they have to. Even if they did, it’d be unregistered. If you get caught with it, you’re going to prison.’

‘I don’t get it.’

Craig tapped Andrew on the shoulder with a smile. ‘And you’re the one with the degree. How do you think most of these guns find their way onto the streets? Some of them are smuggled
in on shipping containers from South America or Africa, others sneak across from Northern Ireland via people who can’t accept the Troubles are over. That’s big-time, though. Gangs are
smuggling them in and perhaps selling a few things on.’ He nodded backwards towards the estate from which they’d come. ‘The small-time stuff – the scroats who think
they’re big men, the kids who don’t know what they’re doing – they’re all Brownings. If you wanted a gun, give me forty-eight hours and I could get you one. It’d
definitely be a Browning.’

‘I don’t want a gun.’

Craig ignored him. ‘
Those
guns are the ones that are sold by people like me – if that’s what I was into. Say I’d somehow got a gun home, I don’t want it
sitting in my bedroom waiting to be found. There are always buyers out there, so give me a hundred quid and we’ll forget about it. That gun then gets sold up or down the chain over and over.
Before you know it, some teenager’s waving it around side-on as if he’s on the streets of Detroit.’

Andrew finally thought he got it: ‘So you’re saying that if professional criminal gangs have guns, then they could be any make – but Brownings are what are used by someone
who’s desperate? A kid, or someone with a score to settle . . . ?’

‘Exactly. It’s never a hundred per cent but yes.’

‘How easy is it to buy a gun?’

Craig shrugged. ‘It depends. For you? No chance. What are you going to do – walk into a pub and ask the bloke in the corner? It’s a bit different when you live round here and
you know people.’

‘All the kids around here respect you.’

‘Right – not because I’m army, just because I’ve done a few things locally. They know who I am. If I was to take the right kid aside – or wrong kid, depending how
you look at it – he’d know who to talk to. It’s not easy but it’s not hard either.’ He pointed back towards the estate again. ‘I guarantee there’ll be a
Browning somewhere out there, sitting under some kid’s bed in a shoebox, or under a mattress.’

Andrew thought of his aunt, sitting peacefully in her deathtrap of a home, surrounded by a mountain of tat, not even knowing the danger on her doorstep.

In the moment of silence, Craig glanced between Andrew and Jenny, forcing a smile. ‘Anything else?’

‘Do you know anyone with PTSD?’ Andrew asked.

‘Are you kidding? Everyone who comes home knows somebody.’

‘Where would you go if you were looking for help?’

Craig puffed out a long breath that said more than words. ‘There are a few mental health places but you know what it’s like with funding nowadays, plus you have to admit you’ve
got a problem.’

‘Everything’s confidential, then?’

‘Obviously. If you’re worried about someone, I can ask around.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘Right, who’s up for a trip to the chippy?’

Jenny was, of course, up for a trip to the chippy. Rory didn’t mind either, even if he had to wait outside. After dropping the pug off with his sulking aunt, Andrew and
Jenny headed back towards the city centre.

As if the ice wasn’t bad enough, a horror-movie cloud had descended, clinging to the low buildings and enveloping the entire area in its freezing tendrils. Visibility was appalling, with
long rows of red car lamps bleeding into the mid-afternoon haze. Andrew was driving with the clutch pedal, the accelerator not needed as they crawled towards the office.

Jenny finished sorting through her notes and then dropped the file onto the back seat, before saying what they’d both been thinking. ‘Luke’s gun could have come from anywhere,
then? He might have smuggled it back but it’s just as likely he bought it off a mate. It might have been resold over and over. The fact he’s a soldier doesn’t actually
matter.’

‘Sounds like it.’

‘In all of the reports about the shooting, none of them said it was
his
gun – there was simply an assumption that he’d brought it back from the battlefield. Perhaps a
correct assumption . . .’

‘It’s still guesswork. He could have brought it back, he could have bought it, or it might’ve been given to him. It doesn’t sound like anyone knows for sure. They
wouldn’t have needed to do a deep investigation because it was so obvious he shot them. Easier to say he was a rogue officer that smuggled a gun home. No messy paper trails up the chain of
command.’

Andrew indicated to head onto what he thought might be a cut-through, only to be met by another long row of blinking red taillights. ‘I found Luke’s friend, Joe. He said Luke
didn’t know Kal Evans. There was a vague connection through Joe himself but Luke didn’t do drugs and was a big enough guy to look after himself.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know . . . probably nothing, but it’s a different picture of Luke to what’s been painted.’ Andrew paused, realising what he was saying. ‘It
doesn’t mean he’s innocent.’

Jenny remained quiet but she must have recognised that Andrew was trying to convince himself more than her. For whatever reason, he wanted to believe Fiona’s story, to think that the
killing of a young couple wasn’t so senseless.

Travel through the university district was so slow that it would’ve been quicker – although colder – to walk. After fifteen minutes of barely moving, Andrew pulled onto a side
street and parked.

‘Want to do something stupid?’ he asked.

‘Always.’

‘Just play along.’

Andrew pulled his coat tight and walked around the car, crossing Oxford Road with Jenny next to him. He weaved into and out of the cut-throughs, heading towards the centre before he saw what he
was looking for.

According to the scratched black and gold sign above the door, Sampson’s Jeweller’s had been established thirty years previously. It was situated on a corner, with two windows
showcasing its wares and heavy-looking shutters hanging above. An A-framed metal sign was sitting on the street close to the front door, creaking back and forth, telling passers-by that Sampson
paid for gold by the gram. In the window were banners offering credit, along with others proclaiming the shop to be a ‘diamond specialist’ and ‘Manchester’s finest’.
Quite who had decided that was unclear.

The jewellery in the window was more or less the same as would be found anywhere: rings and necklaces that looked decent but didn’t cost too much. The really expensive stuff would be
inside.

Jenny pressed in next to Andrew, peering along the lines of jewellery. ‘You’re not going to ask me to marry you, are you?’

‘Craig probably would.’

‘He’s not my type.’

Andrew was getting cold feet – in more ways than one – but it was too late. Jenny wrapped her arm around his and dragged him towards the entrance. ‘Come on then.’

He glanced up as the bell above the door jangled its greeting, welcoming them in from the cold. As he closed the door, Jenny continued yanking on Andrew’s arm, pulling him towards the
closest cabinet.

‘Look at these, hon!’

Really?

Andrew rolled his eyes – this had been his idea, after all. He crossed to the display, where Jenny was pointing at the ring with the biggest stud. It was pointy, not as sparkly as Andrew
might have expected, and cost a bloody fortune. If she ever did get engaged, this would definitely be the ring she made the poor sod buy.

A man was working at a bench behind the counter across from the front door. At the sound of the bell and their voices, he turned, wiping his hands on his stripy red and white apron and forcing a
smile.

‘Afternoon . . . is there something I can help you with?’

He unhooked his glasses, letting them dangle to his chest from a chain around his neck. He was almost bald, with the little hair he did have brushed back over his ears. There was no reason to
but Andrew took an instant dislike to him. He looked like a rat.

Jenny was too far ingrained in the role to care, reaching out to take Andrew’s hand. ‘My boyfriend, sorry,
fiancé
, proposed to me last night. It was
so
romantic.
I live on the banks of the canal and he arranged for a barge to sail past. He’d hired this folk band to stand on deck and play me a song that he’d written. I’m called Jenny and
the song was named “Marry me, Jenny” – he’s so clever like that. I came out onto my balcony and he was playing the triangle and mouthing the words. There were balloons,
confetti, these pretty bows, all sorts. There were loads of people watching and they all cheered when I said yes.’

She sighed with happiness at the made-up memory. There was a terrifying glimmer of a moment in which Andrew thought she was going to turn to him and ask him for an encore.

The shop-owner’s eyes flickered towards Andrew with that ‘what-a-prick’ look. Even though it hadn’t happened, Andrew hated himself a little bit.

‘That’s beautiful,’ the man said, cracking into a clearly false smile. ‘Welcome to Sampson’s. I’m Leyton and this is my shop. Feel free to browse and ask
anything you want. If you’re after a diamond, then they’re my speciality. I’ve got contacts in Botswana and they mine things directly. There are no middlemen, so you won’t
find a better price anywhere around here.’

Jenny rested her head on Andrew’s shoulder. ‘I
told
you this was the right place to come.’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘He usually works in London but
he’s on a week off. We’re going to Monaco tomorrow. He was saying we could get something out there but it’s always nice to put a bit back into the local community, isn’t
it?’

Sampson’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as the possibility of a huge sale washed through him. Jenny was perfectly dismissive, sashaying across Andrew and flirting her way towards the
next case.

‘Hon, isn’t this the place that was robbed a couple of years back?’

The shop-owner’s face sunk back to normal as if he thought he’d won the lottery and then realised he was a number out. Andrew caught his eye as Sampson offered a faint smile.
‘We were in the news . . .’ Sampson replied.

Jenny didn’t look up from the case. ‘Wasn’t there an expensive necklace taken? It was going to be worn at a film premiere by that actress: whatshername? I remember reading
about it in one of my magazines.’

Sampson shuffled around until he was next to his workbench, in front of the case Jenny was inspecting. ‘There were a few things taken. It was an incredibly scary time. Luckily,
everything’s back to normal now.’ He glanced over their shoulders, as if expecting more raiders to burst in.

Jenny drummed her fingers gently on the cabinet, again pointing to the most expensive item. ‘What do you think, hon?’

Andrew peered at a ring that looked much like the others. ‘If that’s what you like.’

He
really
hoped she didn’t tell Sampson to box it up. It was the type of thing he figured she’d do for a laugh.