grabbed hold of his arm and turned him around. “Don’t you walk away from me, Matt. Don’t you fucking dare.”
The old man fished in his coat pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes and a pen. He removed the cardboard insert and wrote down a number, then handed it to Steven.
“I can’t help you, Steven. I’m not sure if anyone can, but this guy might. He’s a yank called Carl Schneider. I met him about fifteen years ago, in Germany. If anyone can help, he can. Assuming he’s still alive.”
Steven took the card and looked at the number.
“Well, that’s something I suppose,” he said, but Matt had already started walking away from the crime scene.
He turned his head and said, “God help you, Steven. God help you.” Then, without so much of a backwards glance, he headed off towards the path and his waiting car.
Chapter 6
24th April 1986. Newcastle Airport. 10:00.
The rain fell in sheets. It drummed against the metal roof of the police car and obscured the view from the windscreen, despite the best efforts of the wipers.
Constable Phillips turned to Steven. “Do you want me to come with you, Sarge?”
“No, take the car and park it up, then go get yourself a coffee or something. I have a feeling this might take a while.”
Steven paused, willing the rain to let up. When the weather responded by raining even harder, he sighed and stepped from the car into a puddle. He cursed, pulled his hat down, and ran to the building. By the time he pushed open the glass doors, the rest of him was as wet as his feet.
He walked to the customs area, leaving wet footprints on the tiled floor in his wake. As he pushed open the door, he was met by a uniformed customs officer.
“Sergeant Wilkinson? I’m PO Michaels. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you, Officer Michaels. You said on the telephone that there was a problem with Mr Schneider?”
Officer Michaels raised his eyebrow. “In a manner of speaking. Perhaps it’s better if you see for yourself.”
Steven followed him to a small room at the end of the corridor. The customs official unlocked the door and both men entered, then Officer Michaels locked it behind them. On the table were two large aluminium cases. Steven undid the clasps on one of them and opened the lid.
The case contained a heavy-calibre hunting rifle with a military grade starlight scope. Rows of ammunition nestled in the foam rubber interior. Steven removed one of the bullets and examined it under the fluorescent light. The round was about an inch and a half long with a silvered head. The end of the bullet had a deep cross carved into it.
Officer Michaels picked up the rifle. “What we have here is a Ruger .44, semi-automatic hunting rifle. The bullets are modified magnum rounds. The actual bullet appears to be made out of a silver/lead alloy. The cross on the end is especially nasty. When the round hits its target, it fragments. In essence, it will be like a small grenade going off inside whatever you shoot it at.”
“Well, I knew Mr Schneider was going to be bringing his own weapons. I applied for the visitor’s firearms permit on his behalf. Apart from the modified ammunition, I’m not sure exactly what the problem is here?”
“Take a look in the other case.”
Steven popped the lid on the second case and stood for a moment in silence. “Jesus.”
“Now you see why we called you.”
The second case contained 9mm handguns, a number of knives, and what appeared to be a submachine gun, along with more of the cross-hatched silver ammunition.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“I’m afraid so. An Ingram Mac-10. It gets worse. Look underneath.”
Steven was almost afraid to look. He removed the weapons and ammunition, then pulled back the protective foam. Six hand grenades were nestled beneath.
Steven massaged his temples and turned to the customs officer.
“Look, Officer Michaels, I understand that the automatic weapon and the grenades clearly
The old man fished in his coat pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes and a pen. He removed the cardboard insert and wrote down a number, then handed it to Steven.
“I can’t help you, Steven. I’m not sure if anyone can, but this guy might. He’s a yank called Carl Schneider. I met him about fifteen years ago, in Germany. If anyone can help, he can. Assuming he’s still alive.”
Steven took the card and looked at the number.
“Well, that’s something I suppose,” he said, but Matt had already started walking away from the crime scene.
He turned his head and said, “God help you, Steven. God help you.” Then, without so much of a backwards glance, he headed off towards the path and his waiting car.
Chapter 6
24th April 1986. Newcastle Airport. 10:00.
The rain fell in sheets. It drummed against the metal roof of the police car and obscured the view from the windscreen, despite the best efforts of the wipers.
Constable Phillips turned to Steven. “Do you want me to come with you, Sarge?”
“No, take the car and park it up, then go get yourself a coffee or something. I have a feeling this might take a while.”
Steven paused, willing the rain to let up. When the weather responded by raining even harder, he sighed and stepped from the car into a puddle. He cursed, pulled his hat down, and ran to the building. By the time he pushed open the glass doors, the rest of him was as wet as his feet.
He walked to the customs area, leaving wet footprints on the tiled floor in his wake. As he pushed open the door, he was met by a uniformed customs officer.
“Sergeant Wilkinson? I’m PO Michaels. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you, Officer Michaels. You said on the telephone that there was a problem with Mr Schneider?”
Officer Michaels raised his eyebrow. “In a manner of speaking. Perhaps it’s better if you see for yourself.”
Steven followed him to a small room at the end of the corridor. The customs official unlocked the door and both men entered, then Officer Michaels locked it behind them. On the table were two large aluminium cases. Steven undid the clasps on one of them and opened the lid.
The case contained a heavy-calibre hunting rifle with a military grade starlight scope. Rows of ammunition nestled in the foam rubber interior. Steven removed one of the bullets and examined it under the fluorescent light. The round was about an inch and a half long with a silvered head. The end of the bullet had a deep cross carved into it.
Officer Michaels picked up the rifle. “What we have here is a Ruger .44, semi-automatic hunting rifle. The bullets are modified magnum rounds. The actual bullet appears to be made out of a silver/lead alloy. The cross on the end is especially nasty. When the round hits its target, it fragments. In essence, it will be like a small grenade going off inside whatever you shoot it at.”
“Well, I knew Mr Schneider was going to be bringing his own weapons. I applied for the visitor’s firearms permit on his behalf. Apart from the modified ammunition, I’m not sure exactly what the problem is here?”
“Take a look in the other case.”
Steven popped the lid on the second case and stood for a moment in silence. “Jesus.”
“Now you see why we called you.”
The second case contained 9mm handguns, a number of knives, and what appeared to be a submachine gun, along with more of the cross-hatched silver ammunition.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“I’m afraid so. An Ingram Mac-10. It gets worse. Look underneath.”
Steven was almost afraid to look. He removed the weapons and ammunition, then pulled back the protective foam. Six hand grenades were nestled beneath.
Steven massaged his temples and turned to the customs officer.
“Look, Officer Michaels, I understand that the automatic weapon and the grenades clearly
Similar Books
