Chapter 56 Stalking
Hollis has been away for Christmas visiting his mum and dad in Melbourne.
He called me several times and I just ignored his calls, as I have enough to deal with.
He did ask me to join him shooting today, which is why Cait and I are now at Blackheath Rifle Club, in the middle of nowhere, which is located on the outskirts of Surrey.
The lane is so narrow that the car brushes hawthorn twigs as we creep between two overgrown hedgerows, good for wildlife but not for a large SUV. I don’t mind a little bit of nature if it’s clipped or caged, but to be perfectly honest, it’s just a relief to get away from the house.
‘Are you sure he’s here?’ says Cait, brimming with eagerness. I’m doing my best to keep her investigative enthusiasm under control. She now blogs quite openly about her experience of domestic abuse, which is a sign of progress, and has garnered a large online following.
‘This is where he comes to practise shooting,’ I explain. ‘It’s what assassins do.’
‘I’m ready for him,’ declares Cait, and opens her large, ill-fitting anorak (donated by Sophie who’s a giant in comparison to Cait) to display a John Lewis carving knife still in its plastic sheath stuck into her belt.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Protection,’ she says. ‘And don’t worry, I bought it for cash. No trace. If he goes for one of us, I’ll shank him.’
‘It’s not an easy thing to do,’ I say. ‘Especially if you hit cartilage or bone. The knife can get stuck and it’s quite messy.’
‘He’s ruined my life, Lalla,’ she says. ‘I think I’ll manage.’
‘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?’
‘No, we can’t. They’ll arrest you and send you back to Bronzefield.’
‘What for? I’ve found the killer.’
‘Breaching your bail conditions. You’re not allowed to investigate your own crime, or break into cars. They’ll say you planted it.’
‘Shit, you’re right. Then what do we do?’ says Cait.
‘We need more. At least we know it’s him now, but we need something that ties him directly to the murder.’
‘The murder weapon?’
‘Yes, or something that connects him to Owen. We should see if we can search Hollis’s apartment.’
‘Seriously?’ she says.
‘Yes, and if we get this right, you’ll not only clear your name, you’ll be known as the woman who caught a contract killer.’
For the first time since her release, Cait smiles.