‘That’s the spirit,’ I say, and pat her leg.
We park the car, obstructing a footpath, but there’s no other option unless we use the rifle club’s car park, which is not a good idea as we want to remain hidden.
I open the boot of my car to retrieve my backpack, Barbour and wellies. ‘I’ve got my gloves, balaclava and binoculars in the bag.’
‘I don’t have anything,’ says Cait. ‘Not even gloves.’
‘Well, just keep hidden,’ I suggest.
We trudge down the lane, climb through a hedge and skirt the clubroom to reach the outdoor ranges. I find a tree with a low branch and start to climb. Cait follows but makes a terrible racket.
Sitting in the tree, we stare out over the undulating countryside. Fields of brown earth and grass as far as the eye can see. I put the binoculars to my eye and scan the rifle and pistol ranges.
I spot Hollis sitting in his wheelchair with a .22 pistol. He’s wearing a green padded gilet, flat cap and ear defenders. He’s firing rapidly at a target some fifty metres from his chair. I look through the binoculars at the target. Impressively, he’s hit the bullseye repeatedly. I hand the binoculars to Cait.
She puts them to her eye. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘The man shooting with the flat cap.’
‘They’ve all got flat caps.’
‘Right... well, the one in the wheelchair.’
‘He’s disabled?’ says Cait.
‘It’s a disguise,’ I say.
Cait shakes her head. ‘That’s despicable. I really want to hurt him now.’
‘You go, Flame – get it all out.’
Once we’ve ascertained Hollis’s presence and Cait’s expressed more of her murderous rage, we climb down and head to the car park where I point to Hollis’s smart BMW.
‘That’s his,’ I say. I don’t tell her that I planted a surprise in the boot last night which I hope will keep her engaged and excited.
‘What should we do?’ she asks.
‘We need to prove he did it, so I think you should search for evidence.’
‘Me?’ she says, suddenly showing caution.
‘If you want to keep out of prison,’ I say.
Cait steels herself, looks left and right, then creeps across the car park towards Hollis’s car.
I look up at the two CCTV cameras overlooking the rifle club car park and the back entrance to the club house, which are recording Cait as she opens the car boot, which he’s left unlocked. She starts to search inside, and I await the moment.
‘Ah! Lalla! You won’t believe what’s in here.’
Cait pulls out her phone and takes a dozen photos of the contents of Hollis’s boot, before running back.
‘What did you find?’ I say.
‘Rope, petrol, bin liners, gloves,’ she reports, panting with excitement. ‘Hidden in the spare wheel. The whole lot! We’ve got him, Lalla.’
‘You got him, Cait,’ I say.
‘What now? Call the police?’
