Иэн Рэнкин - Bleeding Hearts

He had a Remington 700, pre-fitted with a Redfield telescopic sight. The US Marines use this military version of the ‘Varmint’ as sniper rifles. I’d used one before, and had nothing against it. More interesting though was a Sterling Sniper Rifle. Most people I’d met thought only cars were made in Dagenham, but that’s where the Sterling was crafted. It was user-friendly, down to the cheek-rest and the grooved receiver. You could fit it with any mounting-plate you wanted, to accommodate any telescope or night-sight. I admit, it was tempting.

There were others, too. Max didn’t have them, but he knew where he could get them: an L39A1, the ugly Mauser SP66, a Fusil Modele 1 Type A. I decided I wanted British; call me sentimental. And finally Max handed over the gun we’d both known I’d opt for: a Model PM.

The manufacturers, Accuracy International, call it the PM. I don’t know what the letters stand for, maybe Post-Mortem. But the British Army know it as Sniper Rifle L96A1. A mouthful, you’ll agree, which is why Max and I stick to calling it the PM. There are several versions, and Max was offering the Super Magnum (hence the .338 Lapua Magnum ammo). The gun itself is not what you’d call a beauty, and as I unwrapped it in my hotel room it looked even less lovely, since I’d covered its camouflage with some camouflage of my own.

The PM is olive green in colour, fine if you are hiding in the trees, but not so inconspicuous when surrounded by the grey concrete of a city street. So in Max’s workshop I’d wound some grey adhesive tape around it, wearing my gloves all the time so as not to leave prints on the tape. As a result, the PM now looked like the ballistic equivalent of the Invisible Man, all bandaged except for the bits I needed left open to access. It was a neat job of binding; the wrapping around the stainless-steel barrel alone had taken a couple of hours.

The PM is a long rifle, its barrel nearly four inches longer than the Remington. It’s also heavy, to say that it’s mostly plastic, albeit high-impact plastic: double the weight of the Remington, and over four pounds heavier than the Sterling. I didn’t mind though, it wasn’t as if I’d be carrying it through the jungle. I made it even longer by fitting a flash hider of my own construction. (Max smiled with half of his face as he watched me. Like me, he is an admirer of beauty and craft, and the best you could say of my finished product was that it worked.)

All the guns Max had offered me were bolt-action, all were 7.62mm, and all had barrels with four grooves and a right-hand twist. They differed in styles and muzzle velocity, in length and weight, but they shared one common characteristic. They were all lethal.

In the end, I decided I didn’t require the integral bipod: the angle I’d be shooting from, it would hinder rather than help. So I took that off, minimally reducing the weight. Although the PM accepts a 10-round box, I knew I’d have two bullets at most, preferably only one. With bolt-action rifles, you sometimes didn’t have time for a second shot. While you were working the bolt, your quarry was scuttling to safety.

I picked the gun up at last, and stood in my bedroom staring into the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. The curtains were closed, so I was able to do this. I’d already fitted the telescopic sight. Ah, Max had made things so difficult. He could give me a Redfield, a Parker-Hale, the Zeiss Diavari ZA... even the old No. 32 sniping telescope. But the PM wasn’t geared up for these, so instead of fussing and having to make my own special sight-mounting plate, I opted for a Schmidt and Bender 6x42 telescopic sight, all the time telling myself I was maybe, for once, going to too much trouble.

I was ready to pick off a flea from a cat’s whisker at 600 yards, when all I had to do was hit a human target, out in the open, at something like a tenth of that. What was I doing buying all this lavish craft and expertise when something bashed together in China would achieve the same objective? Max had an answer.

‘You like quality, you like style.’

True, Max, true. If my targets were suddenly to depart this world, I wanted them to have the best send-off I could give them. I checked my watch, then double-checked with the clock-radio.

She had just over two hours to live.

Everything was waiting for Eleanor Ricks.

She’d woken that morning after a drugged sleep, knowing yet another day was waiting out there, ready to bite her. Breakfast and her husband Freddy were waiting in the kitchen, as was Mrs Elfman. When Eleanor and Freddy were both working, Mrs Elfman came in and got breakfast ready, then cleaned everything away and tidied the rooms. When they weren’t working, she did the cleaning but no cooking. Freddy insisted that one or other of them had to be capable of preparing cereal or sausage and eggs and a pot of coffee, so long as their minds weren’t on work. Funny, usually Eleanor ended up cooking if Mrs Elfman wasn’t around, even if she’d to go to work while Freddy was ‘resting’. Today, however, was a work day for both of them.

Freddy Ricks was an actor, of consequence (albeit in TV sitcoms) in the early ’80s but now squeezing a living from ‘character’ parts and not many of them. He’d tried some stage acting but didn’t like it, and had wasted a good deal of their joint savings by spending fruitless time in Hollywood, trying to call up favours from producers and directors who’d moved on from British TV. Today, he was starring in a commercial for breakfast cereal. It would be head and shoulders only, and he’d be wearing a yellow oilskin sou‘wester and a puzzled expression. He had two lines to say, but they’d dub another actor’s voice on later. Freddy couldn’t understand why his own voice wasn’t good enough for them. It had, as he pointed out, been quite good enough for the 12 million viewers who’d tuned in to Stand By Your Man every week of its runs in 1983-4.

He sat at the table munching cornflakes and reading his preferred tabloid. He looked furious, but then these days he always looked furious. The radio sat on the draining board, volume turned down low because Freddy didn’t like it. But Mrs Elfman liked it, and she angled her head towards the transistor, trying to catch the words, while at the same time washing last night’s dishes.

‘Morning, Mrs E.’

‘Morning, Mrs Ricks, how did you sleep?’

‘Like a log, thanks.’

‘All right for some,’ Freddy muttered from behind his cereal spoon. Eleanor ignored him, and so did Mrs Elfman. Eleanor poured herself a mug of black coffee.

‘Want some breakfast, Mrs Ricks?’

‘No thanks.’

‘It’s the most important meal of the day.’

‘I’m still full from last night.’ This was a lie, but what else could she say: if I eat a single morsel I’m liable to be throwing up all morning? Mrs Elfman would think she was joking.

‘Is Archie up?’

‘Who knows?’ growled Freddy.

Archie was their son, seventeen years old and the ‘computer player’ in a pop group. Eleanor had never heard of anyone ‘playing’ the computer as a musical instrument, until Archie had shown her. Now his band were making their second record, their first having been a success in local clubs. She went to the bottom of the stairs and called him. There was no answer.

‘He’s like bloody Dracula,’ complained Freddy. ‘Never seen in daylight hours.’ Mrs Elfman threw him a nasty look, and Eleanor went through to her study.

Eleanor Ricks was a freelance investigative journalist who had somehow managed to make a name for herself without recourse to the usual ‘investigations’ of pop stars, media celebrities, and royalty. But then one day she’d found that magazines wanted to send round journalists to profile her, and she’d started to rethink her career. So now, after years of newspaper and magazine articles, she was finally going into television — just, it seemed, as Freddy was moving out of it. Poor Freddy: she gave him a moment’s thought, then started work.