‘Okay. Senior Sergeant Acorn will do his magic,’ Cardilini said.

Acorn, wearing soft gloves, entered the armoury and flicked on the lights followed by his torch. He then unlocked a steel rod that passed through the trigger guard of the first half dozen rifles. Withdrawing the first rifle from its rack, he opened the breech, placed the butt on the floor and shone his torch into the breech while looking down the barrel. Cardilini walked to Robson and offered him a cigarette.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Do you have a son? Cardilini asked.

‘Yes. I’ve a sixteen-year-old,’ Robson replied.

‘My boy’s eighteen. Does yours attend St Nicholas?’ Cardilini asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you get a discount?’

‘No. I pay full fees due to the exorbitant salary they’re paying me,’ Robson said dryly.

‘Tough.’

After a pause, Robson said, ‘I don’t think my boy’s impressed with me. How about yours?’

‘I know my boy isn’t impressed with me. For good reason though. But I’m working on it.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘Well. Just started. I’ll let you know how I go,’ Cardilini said and offered his packet again. Robson took a cigarette with a shrug.

‘Filthy habit,’ Robson said.

‘Tell me about it.’

They both inhaled and exhaled in satisfaction.

‘What do you hope to find?’ Robson asked, indicating the open doorway.

‘Now? Honestly? Nothing.’

‘Is it just because, “we think we’re better than the rest”?’

‘What’s that?’

‘That’s what you said isn’t it?’ Robson asked and exhaled.

Cardilini laughed and wandered back to the armoury doorway.

He stood and pondered how Robson would know he said that. He tried to remember when he had said it and to whom. He must have been overheard. Then he remembered he’d said it to Salt after Miss Reynolds had left the room. But how would Robson know? Had he said it loudly? It occurred to him he hadn’t. Maybe Salt told someone? It’s a small city, particularly if a St Nicholas boy heard it. Maybe there were more than two of them in the police force. Good chance.

Forty minutes later Acorn switched off his torch and stood in the doorway looking at Cardilini.

‘Can I speak freely?’ Acorn asked.

‘Salt, stay by the doorway. We’ll wander over there,’ Cardilini said and walked some 30 yards away before turning to Acorn, ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Apart from the fact that all rifles, bar one, had been cleaned a few weeks ago. Dust gathers in the barrels. Not sediment from the shell, but dust. Even though I’d give the armoury a nine out of ten, as it’s quite airtight, dust still gets in. Also after time the oil used to clean the barrel has a tinge, some say a sheen, it’s more of a tinge for me. But fresh oil is quite discernible.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘Yes. All bar one.’ Acorn took out a piece of paper and read, ‘one, one, three, one, seven, two,’ looking expectantly at Cardilini.

‘What?’

‘The serial number of the very recently cleaned rifle. Now, I would say it’s very unusual, in a cadet situation, for one rifle to be cleaned separate from the rest. Uncalled for, even. If at inspection the cadet was required to re-clean his rifle, it would be done on the spot. All rifles are locked together: no exceptions. Captain Edmund, by his records, you can tell a lot about a man by his records, by his note taking,’ Acorn, raised an eyebrow here, not wasted on Cardilini, ‘was a meticulous man. If you were such a man, you’d have at your fingertips, or close by, the records, so that you’d know whom rifle one, one, three, one, seven, two belonged to, the date the rifle arrived at school, and when it was last fired.’