Kat Wolfe Investigates Page 8

  She patted her laptop. ‘While you’re at Avalon Heights, I’ll be searching for other leads online. If Señor Corazón is a well-known artist, he’ll have a website. Or the galleries that show his work might have some info. A biography would help us fill in the blanks. There could be old articles or blog posts about him too.’

  Kat put on her jacket. She needed to get home for dinner. ‘I’ll report back tomorrow. Same time, same place?’

  Harper’s dimples deepened. ‘Same time, same place. Thanks for what you did for Charming Outlaw too . . . Wait up, Kat. Which courier company delivered the package to Avalon Heights?’

  ‘The delivery guy wore a navy blue hat and black jacket. I didn’t see any badge.’

  ‘Pity. I could have hacked into their system to see who sent it.’

  ‘Not hacking again!’ scolded Nettie, coming in to take the tray. ‘You’re playing with matches, Harper Lamb. Any day now, MI5 will be dragging you off in handcuffs. I might call them myself. It would be a treat to have some peace and quiet around here.’

  ‘Yes, but who will help you remove spiders from the bath?’ retorted Harper.

  The banter between the pair did nothing to conceal the deep affection between them. Though originally from Cardiff, Nettie had spent the past three years working for Professor Lamb in Connecticut. She and Harper seemed to have a strong bond.

  Kat liked it. It made her feel at home.

  ‘Thanks for the cake, Nettie. It was delish. Like eating chocolate air.’

  ‘You’re welcome, honey. See you tomorrow.’

  After she’d left the room, Kat said, ‘Nettie’s right, Harper. You should be careful online.’

  ‘The FBI and MI5 don’t bother with small fry like me,’ Harper replied airily. ‘And I’d never touch any government websites – not unless the Pentagon or the UK Houses of Parliament were under siege by a hostile foreign power. Just so you know, I am on the side of the angels.’

  13

  The Oxford Street Phantom

  ‘Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want it,’ snapped Reg Chalmers, Edith’s BMW-driving son. ‘Not unless you have cupcakes, in which case you can leave some free samples. I’ll get back to you if they’re edible. What are you – a Brownie?’

  His nose twitched as if had been assailed by a foul odour. A less kind person than Kat might have suggested that he use less cologne. His outfit was loud too – gangster pinstripes and a big-collared white shirt that reminded Kat of Elvis.

  ‘I’m not a Brownie, and I don’t have cupcakes,’ she began.

  He cut her off. ‘Collecting for charity, are you? Bit early, isn’t it? It’s barely 9 a.m. If you think you can weasel cash out of my ma with some weepy tale about starving orphans or endangered polar bears, you can forget it. I’m wise to those tricks.’

  ‘Reg?’ called a tremulous voice from inside the cottage. ‘Reg, is that the dog-walker?’

  A barrel of gold fur shoved past Reg, nearly knocking Kat off the front step. She hugged Toby, and he showered her with licks and joy.

  Reg grunted. ‘You’re from Paws and Claws? I was expecting someone older. Same still applies. If you’re here to squeeze pocket money out of my ma, you’ll have me to answer to.’

  Kat stood up. ‘There’s no charge. Edith’s doing me a favour. I love dogs and hardly ever get a chance to walk them.’

  His smile advertised his expensive dental work. ‘Why didn’t you just say so? Come on in and bring the hound. Ma’s expecting you.’

  Kat followed the retriever into Kittiwake Cottage. It was postcard-pretty and set at the opposite end of the cove to Avalon Heights, beyond the harbour. Through the bay window, colourful boats bobbed on an inky sea.

  ‘Kat, you came!’ Edith started up from her chair. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d find the time, but Toby sensed you would. He’s been whining and scratching at the door since daybreak.’

  Reg rolled his eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’

  He glanced at his Rolex. ‘Gotta run to the office. Think about what I said, Ma. I’ll take care of the paperwork. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. The whole process will be smooth as silk. You’ll be free as a bird then. No more stressing about bills or keeping on top of the weeds. At Glebe Gardens, life will be one long holiday.’

  He swept past Kat.

  Standing beside Toby, Kat felt rather than heard the retriever growl.

  Reg smirked. ‘Good luck getting that tub of lard to waddle to the end of the street, though I applaud you for trying.’

  He left in a blast of cold air, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Love you, Ma. Have a great day.’

  Edith flinched as the door slammed. ‘He’s a good son, my Reg,’ she said. ‘Always taking care of me.’

  Then why, Kat wondered, do you look so unhappy? She made it her mission to make Edith smile at least once that day.

  It took twenty seconds – about as long as it took Kat to spot the library in the next room.

  ‘Wow! Look at those books! Edith, are they yours? I thought Mum and I had a lot, but you must have thousands.’

  It was like turning on a lamp. Edith shone with pride. ‘Two thousand, four hundred and twelve, last time I checked. In alphabetical order too. That’s what half a lifetime in a school library does for you.’

  ‘You were a librarian?’ Kat looked at her client as if she was a superhero in a cardigan.

  ‘Lived and breathed it,’ smiled Edith. ‘The best part was reading to children, especially those stories that got their pulse – and mine – racing: Emil and the Detectives, Nancy Drew, Stormbreaker, that sort of thing. But sixty-five came around faster than a bullet train, and that was the end of it. Forced retirement. There’s a saying: “Old librarians never retire. They just get re-shelved.” I suppose that’s what I am these days – on the shelf.’

  She stopped, embarrassed. ‘I mustn’t hold you up. I expect you want to get out with Toby.’

  On the one hand, Kat was eager to find Sergeant Singh. On the other, she wanted to delay visiting Avalon Heights for as long as possible. Overnight, there’d been a deafening silence from Ramon Corazón. His phone number remained out of service.

  Harper had texted her at 6 a.m. Any news??????

  Not a word, Kat had messaged back.

  No way!

  Yes way.

  I checked the local papers online. No reports of men falling off cliffs or wandering around with amnesia either. Don’t go to AH without SS.

  OK.

  Promise?!!

  Kat had sent a smiley face for an answer. It gave her a warm feeling to know that Harper had her back. She couldn’t get over how their names fitted: Wolfe & Lamb. It was almost as if everything they’d ever done in their lives – every twist, Predator X and unwanted burglar – had been leading them to the point where they’d team up to solve this mystery.

  If there was a mystery.

  ‘Do you still read those books that get your pulse racing?’ she asked Edith as she took Toby’s lead off the coat rack.

  ‘Would if I could. They made me feel alive, as if I was a spy or adventurer myself. Unfortunately, my eyes are failing, along with my back. These days, I lead a quiet life. Soon it will be even quieter.’

  She turned away quickly, but not before Kat saw a tear splash on the arm of the sofa. Sensing his mistress’s distress, the retriever was at Edith’s side in an instant.

  Kat pretended to be busy untangling his lead. She felt terrible for making Edith cry.

  Or had she? Reg had asked his mother to think about signing some papers that would make her life one long holiday. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. Rather than being happy, Edith had seemed to shrink in her shoes.

  Kat doubted that Reg had meant the Caribbean. And, from what Edith was saying, sitting slumped in front of a TV or staring out of a window was not her idea of being as free as a bird.

  ‘My friend Harper has two broken legs and a sprained wrist, but she refuses to let that stop her from having adventures.’

  Without looking
round, she could tell she had Edith’s attention.

  ‘Was it the adventures that put her in traction in the first place?’

  Kat turned. ‘Oh, no. It was the Pocket Rocket.’

  Edith was aghast. ‘The notorious racehorse?’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault. He only wants to do what’s natural – gallop and be free.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ Edith said drily. ‘How does Harper manage these adventures if she’s trussed up like a mummy in plaster?’

  ‘She’s a sort of online investigator,’ Kat began, before deciding she’d said too much already. ‘If you miss reading, Edith, why don’t you try audiobooks?’

  Edith looked dejected. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t have a CD player, and Reg says a smartphone would be beyond me.’

  Comments rose like bees in Kat’s throat, but she swallowed them down. ‘I have a thought.’

  She fetched her rucksack, took out the Surface Book and sat beside Edith on the sofa. ‘One of my clients lent this to me. Maybe I could find a good novel for you, and you could listen to it while I’m out walking Toby. I’m sure my client won’t mind.’

  Not if he’s strawberry jam at the bottom of the cliff, added a voice in her head. She squashed that thought down too.

  Edith twisted her hands. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, Kat, but I can’t be trusted with a computer. I’d only get in a muddle.’

  ‘Sorting out muddles is what librarians are best at,’ Kat reminded her, hoping it was true.

  She’d expected Ramon to leave her one of his old, out-of-date tablets. In fact, it was slim, shiny and expensive-looking.

  He’d told her the Surface Book was a spare and that he’d deleted every file on it but, as it powered up, an owl icon flapped twice in the top right-hand corner of the screen. When Kat clicked on it, a password box appeared.

  ‘What a beautiful barn owl,’ said Edith. ‘I’ve never understood why some people call them ghost owls or, worse, death owls. Whose computer did you say this was?’

  ‘It belongs to Mr Corazón. Do you know him?’

  ‘A true gentleman,’ Edith said with feeling. ‘Two years ago, I suffered a dreadful fall near the harbour. Ramon was new in town, but he came rushing out of nowhere, carried me home, made me sweet tea and took care of me. Wouldn’t leave, even after Reg arrived. Said he wanted to be sure I didn’t have concussion. Next morning, the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen was left on the doorstep.’

  ‘So he’s a kind man?’ Kat prompted.

  ‘Very. Reserved, but so polite and thoughtful. Popular with everyone. Well, everyone except Maria, my cleaner.’

  Kat had a vivid memory of the wild-haired maid tearing across the lawn of number 5 Summer Street on the day the Wolfes arrived in Bluebell Bay. ‘Doesn’t she like him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it that way. Maria’s from Spain, but she spent her gap year volunteering on a Pantanal swamp turtle project in Paraguay. When she heard there was a fellow animal enthusiast from Paraguay living in Bluebell Bay, she couldn’t wait to chat to him. She was so disappointed when it didn’t happen. He made excuse after excuse for not meeting her for a coffee. Eventually, she gave up. She’s convinced he was avoiding her. I can’t think why. She’s a wonderful person.’

  Not in Tiny’s opinion, Kat wanted to say, but didn’t.

  She turned her attention to the computer. ‘What are you in the mood to listen to, Edith? I can find you a podcast or a radio play.’

  Kat logged on to her own local Wi-Fi service and brought up the BBC’s website. Her fingers froze on the keypad. The arrogant face of the Dark Lord stared back at her from the Live TV news link.

  ‘Lord Hamilton-Crosse is devilishly handsome, but he does remind me of the Mona Lisa,’ Edith said unexpectedly.

  Kat hooted with surprised laughter. It was like hearing the Dark Lord compared to a skipping spring lamb. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Whenever I see him on TV, his eyes seem to follow me around the room in the way of the Mona Lisa, that famous Leonardo da Vinci painting. However, Dirk Hamilton-Crosse is rather more sinister. Let’s hear what he has to say.’

  The interview was wrapping up. Watching her grandfather talk about the unveiling of the latest model of smart tank for the British Army made Kat feel the way Edith did, as if his laser gaze could see her through the screen.

  ‘These digitized armoured fighting vehicles are vital to the future of our military,’ he was saying. ‘By 2020, we’ll need video gamers to operate them, not regular soldiers. When I visited the Royal Tank Regiment last week . . .’ Kat now realized why she and her mum had passed the Dark Lord’s limousine on their way to Bluebell Bay. He’d been at the military base on the outskirts of town on the exact same day. It was a spooky coincidence.

  If one believed in coincidences.

  Mostly, Kat did not.

  A new headline popped up: ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THE OXFORD STREET PHANTOM?’

  ‘Ooh, a real-life mystery,’ Edith said with relish.

  The TV studio cut away to a roving reporter with candyfloss hair. People with bulging shopping bags flowed around her like a river around a log.

  ‘Oxford Street is Britain’s best-loved outdoor mall,’ she gushed into a fluffy microphone. ‘A paradise of designer clothes, perfume, coffee shops and bling.’

  Edith spluttered. ‘Paradise? On my one and only visit, it was hell. Wall-to-wall bad-tempered shoppers and glittery things nobody needs.’

  ‘But today London’s premier tourist destination is buzzing with conspiracy theories. It all started at nine thirty-nine yesterday morning when a man collapsed with a suspected heart attack outside John Lewis department store.’

  Grainy grey CCTV footage showed a confused scene in Oxford Street. It was just about possible to make out a figure crumpling to the pavement. Four people ran to help. An ambulance skidded up minutes later.

  ‘Eyewitnesses say that paramedics were quickly on the scene. They whisked him away in an ambulance. It was only when police, journalists and eyewitnesses tried to discover the identity of the man that the questions started. No London hospital had any record of admitting him. Every enquiry drew a blank. Appeals on social media have drawn a huge response, but no answers.’

  The reporter paused for effect.

  ‘Now, in breaking news, a police spokesman has confirmed that the ambulance number plate was false.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Kat. She and Edith bent over the screen, their heads almost touching.

  ‘Could be a mob boss from the criminal underworld being snatched by a rival Mafia gang,’ suggested Edith.

  ‘Or a celebrity being kidnapped and held to ransom,’ suggested Kat.

  ‘Or a political assassination.’

  Kat grinned. ‘Or a spy.’

  Edith was breathless and glowing. ‘Do you really think so? At rush hour? In broad daylight?’

  The reporter ended by asking anyone with information on the Oxford Street Phantom to call the police as soon as possible.

  Toby put his nose on Kat’s knee and gazed up at her beseechingly. She ruffled his golden fur. ‘Sorry, boy, we got distracted. Let’s get you out and about.’

  After putting on a Radio 4 play about an SAS mission for Edith, Kat and the retriever headed for the door. A letter addressed to Reg lay on the mat. There was a Glebe Gardens logo on it.

  As she set off along the harbour, with Toby ambling amiably at her side, Kat did a search for ‘Glebe Gardens’ on her phone. It was one of those soulless ‘homes’ where families put their ageing loved ones when they grow tired of them or can no longer cope.

  On the surface, it seemed pleasant enough. The gardens were full of well-behaved hydrangeas, and Pilates was on offer. But the residents’ smiles didn’t reach their eyes. Loneliness leaked from them.

  She wondered if Reg’s enthusiasm for Glebe Gardens had anything to do with his hopes of getting a slice of the sale of his mother’s cottage. As one of the prettiest and largest cottages on the
seafront in Bluebell Bay, Edith’s home had to be worth a fortune.

  Kat’s heart clenched painfully. If her kind, gentle client had to move, what would become of the dog she adored and her 2,412 books?

  More importantly, what would become of Edith?

  14

  Body Snatchers

  Kat didn’t have to search far for Sergeant Singh. He found her.

  She was staring through the window of the Fossil Museum when he loomed up behind her. Their reflections merged, and for a second Kat had two heads, one of which wore a police helmet. She let out a guilty squeak.

  ‘May I ask what you’re doing with Edith’s retriever, Ms Wolfe? I must caution you that dog theft is a serious offence.’

  ‘I’m a dog-walker,’ she said indignantly. ‘I have permission. Call Edith if you don’t believe me.’

  He smiled his grave smile. ‘I do. I’ve already checked.’

  ‘Then why . . . ?’

  She stopped, realizing he was teasing her.

  He cleared his throat, as if light-heartedness was a liberty he seldom allowed himself. ‘A little bird told me you were asking for me, Kat Wolfe. You’re concerned about Mr Corazón?’

  Kat wondered which little bird in the deli had told Sergeant Singh she was looking for him when she’d dropped in after leaving Edith’s cottage. There’d been quite a few. Margo Truesdale; a gossipy guinea pig-owner Kat knew from the animal clinic; three soldiers; and Roley George, the man she’d seen with the lieutenant who was planning to propose to his girlfriend. Turned out Roley George was head chef at the army base.

  And then there was the colonel, who’d blown into the deli like an extreme weather event, brooding and heavy-booted. Kat had taken the first opportunity to flee, but not before he, too, knew that she had business with Sergeant Singh.

  ‘Did Margo tell you that Mr Corazón is out of the country on business?’ the policeman asked now.

  Kat explained about pet-sitting Bailey and gave Sergeant Singh the edited lowlights of the previous day: the unlocked door, the forlorn parrot, the half-packed suitcase.

  She didn’t say a word about the ‘Private and Confidential’ package.