Troy stared.
‘Go on,’ said Churchill.
Still Troy stared.
‘Go on. Pick it up.’
Troy hefted the gun in his left hand. Sawn off at the barrels and stock, it had become less a shotgun than an outsize handgun. He felt the weight, thought the alterations did nothing for its balance and less for its looks. ‘I hope this didn’t start life as one of your hand-mades,’ he said.
‘Far from it. I helped myself to it after a trial a few years back. The court wanted it destroyed, naturally, but I pleaded its . . . educational value.’
Churchill smiled at Troy over this last phrase. Down the tunnel Hitler and Goring watched with fixed gazes. Tempting him.
‘My education, I suppose?’ Troy said.
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘You know,’ Troy went on, ‘it’s appalling a policeman should ever have his hands on such a weapon.’ He tucked the stubby stock into one hip and fired. The first shot cut Adolf in two, the second set fat Hermann spinning. Straw and sawdust everywhere.
Churchill sighed. ‘What have I told you, Frederick?’
Troy recited: ‘Every shot counts. Speed isn’t everything.’
‘And?’
‘And a wounded man can still kill you.’
‘Quite,’ said Churchill. ‘If old Goring had been anything more than a cut-out from Picture Post and a sack full of straw you’d be dead now. Shall we do it again with a little more accuracy and a little less haste?’
‘Again.’ It seemed to be Churchill’s motto, and it seemed to Troy that he was no further on than the day Churchill had walked back into his life three weeks ago.