‘Sorry to disturb you, Mick. This is Tom Buckingham, sent by the boss.’

‘Tom Buckingham: Mick Vestey.’

Tom grinned and gave his hand a firm shake. Vestey’s face remained impassive.

‘Quite a set-up you’ve got here.’ Tom gestured at the racks. ‘Enough to see you through a decent-sized war.’ A lot of the weapons would be illegal unless held under a section-seven licence. But in the privacy of this vast facility, maybe a blind eye was being turned.

Seeing no response from Vestey, Philips chipped in: ‘It’s one of our most popular amenities. The fact is that men in the field get very used to weapon handling. Once they’re out, they get withdrawal. And then there’s some who just need to get some rounds down the range to relax. We’re pretty liberal with the ammo.’

For Tom, guns were simply tools of the trade, but he had known plenty of others for whom weapons meant far more – and in some cases too much. This was a gun-nut’s paradise. ‘Can we see the range?’

Vestey shrugged. ‘Six-hundred-metre gallery, electric and twenty-five-metre indoor. We got it all.’

Tom kept up his kid-in-a-toyshop look, more eager than wary. ‘Any chance of a cabby?’

Vestey gestured at the weapons. ‘Take your pick.’

Tom pondered for a second, then pointed at the HK MP5.

Vestey frowned. ‘You sure?’

‘Never tried one. Could be my only chance.’

Vestey bent forward and lifted it out of the rack. ‘Suit yourself. We’ll pick up the rounds through here.’

Tom followed, listening to Vestey, who sounded as if he had flicked a switch. ‘The lanes are flood-lit and air-conditioned, with individual shooting benches and a target pulley system. Shoot all year round in perfect conditions. No mud, no rain, no distractions, so you can set up the perfect zero.’

They paused while he disappeared into the ammo store.

‘Very proud of his domain he is,’ whispered Philips.

Vestey reappeared with a thirty-round mag for the MP5.

‘Twenty-five metres?’

Vestey nodded. ‘Go all the way, if you like.’

He handed Tom a pair of ear defenders and protective eye glasses.

The range was eerily deserted, with no sound but the aircon humming from the ceiling vents.

‘What happened to everyone else?’

‘We clear them out on the hour. You can have too much of a good thing.’

Vestey marched them past the indoor range. Tom glanced through a door at the stalls. The American-made silhouetted figure targets appeared to be wearing shemags. ‘Bit politically incorrect?’

Vestey snorted. ‘Just a little touch of nostalgia for the lads. We used to go big on OBL targets but now he’s history there’s less demand.’

Philips looked uneasy so Tom let the remark go.

‘Standing or prone. Take your pick.’

‘I’ll stand, thanks.’