At about 4pm on a warm Thursday in June, three men in a soft-top black BMW used a rock to smash the patio doors at my home. They made their way through the house looking for jewellery, cash and any other valuables, conducting what the police call a "messy search". At our home and three others in this area, they moved quickly to the main bedroom, turning out drawers and rooting through cupboards. The place was trashed.
On their way through, they found the gun cabinets. Using various power tools, they forced entry. They then clattered downstairs carrying the 10-bore I'd bought at auction from the late and great ST writer John Humphreys. They also had the Miroku Sporter my wife gave me when we got engaged. They left behind the fore-ends, not worried about presumably how they'd look on a driven day. They also carried out the sight and main body of my Tikka .223 but not the bolt. Jewellery seems to have been shoved into my daughter's swimming bag. They took a pocket watch but ditched it within 500 yards and a kind neighbour returned it the next morning.
Police on the scene
The first policeman to arrive was an ex-Met Irishman. He'd heard the shout on his radio and, being a keen Shot himself, had made haste to the scene. He was great at expressing similar, unprintable, sentiments to my own. There followed two detectives and a scenes of crime forensic officer.
Having once been 'thrashed' in commando training for being in a section that left a dummy light antitank weapon somewhere remote on Dartmoor, it's been inculcated into me that losing one's armament is akin to treason and arson in His Majesty's shipyards - which according the last pub quiz I took part in are still punishable by death. So, it was only a minor relief to discover that the villains hadn't managed to take complete weapons and nor did they find ammunition.
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