Kat Wolfe Investigates

by Lauren St. John

  Kat dragged her gaze away. She pressed play on a video headlined ‘TRILBY HAT CLUE IN OXFORD STREET PHANTOM MYSTERY’.

  A cocky reporter recapped on the story so far. He revealed the latest twist with the ghoulish enthusiasm of a conjuror showing off an assistant he’s sawn in half.

  ‘The clue that might hold the key to the identity of the so-called Oxford Street Phantom was discovered this morning in the lost-property box at John Lewis.’

  He thrust the microphone at the store spokeswoman. ‘Why did it take twenty-four hours for your management to report the hat to the police?’

  ‘The trilby was handed in to a junior assistant shortly after the man collapsed outside our store,’ she explained. ‘With all the drama, nobody understood its significance. We stand ready to assist detectives in any way we can. Our thoughts and prayers are with the unknown victim of this concerning event.’

  The reporter faced the camera with a sombre stare. ‘If any member of the public has information that could lead to the arrest of what detectives now believe was an audacious abduction, or if you recognize this hat, contact this number . . .’

  A blue-grey trilby flashed up on the screen.

  Kat and Edith gripped hands.

  ‘That could be Eric Newbolt’s trilby!’ gasped Edith. ‘I mean, it’s not, but it could be. It’s the same blue-grey tweed. A Dorset milliner makes them.’

  ‘That looks like Ramon Corazón’s hat!’ cried Kat. ‘It’s the exact same shape and size!’

  ‘It can’t be Ramon’s,’ said Edith. ‘He’s in Paraguay. You told me that yourself. Aren’t you pet-sitting his parrot?’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely not Mr Newbolt’s hat,’ Kat told her. ‘I saw him going into the newsagent while I was out walking Toby.’

  Edith gave her a curious glance. ‘It’s interesting that you made the leap from the Phantom to Ramon. Do you have any reason to believe that he’s not in South America?’

  Kat jumped to her feet and grabbed her rucksack. ‘Sorry, Edith, I have to fly. There’s something I need to do.’

  Edith was taken by surprise. ‘What’s going on? Is Ramon in some kind of trouble? You can tell me – I won’t breathe a word.’

  Kat could hardly take in what Edith was saying. The dark possibilities were crowding her mind again. All she could think about was getting to Paradise House to talk to Harper.

  ‘I have a hunch. It’s probably nothing. Have a good day.’

  She was halfway across town on her bike before she remembered she’d forgotten Ramon’s laptop. Now she wouldn’t be able to get it until Monday. She debated whether to go back for it, but what she had to tell Harper was too important. Edith would take care of it, she was sure.

  Kat put it out of her mind and pedalled faster.

  18

  Bullseye

  The parcel lay on the only corner of the dining table not occupied by the model dinosaur.

  ‘It’s Private and Confidential,’ said Kat.

  ‘It’s evidence,’ insisted Harper.

  ‘We don’t know that. I was sure the trilby on the news was Ramon’s because it was frayed on the brim, as if a mouse had nibbled it, but now I’m having doubts. Maybe we should wait a few days before we open the package. There are a hundred reasons why Ramon might not have called. He could have had his phone stolen.’

  ‘Then he’d have borrowed another one or emailed,’ Harper told her. ‘What if you’re right and Ramon is the Oxford Street Phantom? We know from our timeline that it’s possible. The last person to see him alive—’

  ‘That we know of,’ interjected Kat.

  ‘. . . was Margo. She told Sergeant Singh that Ramon popped into the deli just as she was closing on Wednesday night and bought some OJ—’

  ‘OJ?’

  ‘Orange juice, and his favourite protein bars for the train journey. After that, this is what we have.’ Harper took out her notepad.

  Wed: 11.26 p.m. – Ramon gets threatening phone call.

  Just after midnight on Weds – CCTV shows person on deck at AH.

  Thurs: 9.39 a.m. – Man collapses on Oxford St, London.

  Thurs: 10.45 a.m. approx – Kat finds unlocked door and suitcase at AH.

  ‘We should call Sergeant Singh,’ said Kat.

  ‘And say what? That you saw a hat that looks like ten thousand other hats on the news and now you’re certain that Mr Corazón has been kidnapped on Oxford Street by fake paramedics?’

  Kat slumped in her chair. ‘Do you have a better plan?’

  ‘We open the package. If there’s something illegal in it, we’ll take it to the police.’

  ‘What sort of illegal?’ Kat asked warily.

  ‘Anthrax?’ suggested Harper.

  Kat was even less keen on looking inside the parcel then. She had no desire to be infected by deadly bacteria, and anyway it seemed wrong to open Ramon’s private post. Yet what choice did they have? They needed answers.

  Harper took some scissors out of a nearby drawer and sliced open the parcel with the precision of a surgeon. She pushed it towards Kat. ‘You look first.’

  ‘No, you look first!’

  ‘You’re the one Ramon trusted with his house and his parrot. I think it should be you.’

  Still thinking about the anthrax, Kat used the tongs from the ice bucket to withdraw the contents of the parcel. There were only two items: an old black-and-white photograph and a copy of an official document.

  A pink Post-it note was stuck to the photo. Two words were scrawled across it:

  REMEMBER THIS?

  Both girls spoke at once.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Is it a threat, or a question from a friend?’

  ‘Who do you think wrote it?’

  ‘Do you suppose it’s from the man who left the threatening message?’

  When they ran out of steam, they studied the yellowing photo. It showed six athletic young men, beers in hand, laughing on a boat. A couple had fishing rods. All had close-shaven military haircuts, and two wore US Army baseball caps.

  Though they were turned towards the photographer, some leaned across others or wore sunglasses or had their caps pulled down low. Only three faces were clearly visible and another was partially visible. That one belonged to a youthful Ramon.

  In the picture, he wore a white T-shirt. Someone – possibly the author of the pink Post-it note – had taken a red Sharpie and drawn a bullseye on the photo.

  Over Ramon’s heart.

  ‘That’s creepy,’ said Kat.

  Harper picked up the blue document. ‘So is this. It’s a US death certificate for someone called Vaughan Carter. Issued in Austin, Texas, three years ago. Cause of death: cardiac arrest. I wonder if he’s one of the men in the photo, though they don’t really look like the heart-attack kind.’

  She pulled her laptop towards her with her right hand. The left was still bandaged. ‘I’ll do a quick search. See what comes up on him.’

  A minute later, she had it. There were a few brief messages of condolence in the classified section of an Austin paper, dated 5th March, ten days after the date on the death certificate. The first was from Vaughan’s family:

  Taken from us far too soon. Our hearts are broken. We’ll miss and love you always, Annie, Jack and Justin xxx

  The second was from a rowing club. And the third was anonymous:

  All 4 One, One 4 All. RIP, brother.

  Something about it reminded Kat of Ramon’s comment to the blogger: Some ties go deeper than blood.

  She turned over the photo. ‘There’s a date on the back – 1985 – and a name: Evan Ross. Do you think that means he was the photographer? Maybe he sent Ramon the parcel to remind him of the good old days.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Harper, ‘although they can’t have been that good if he’s the one who drew a target on Ramon’s heart. Also, you said the courier was a local guy. If Evan or his buddies mailed the photo from the US, they’d likely have used FedEx, DHL or UPS. Can you make
out anything else?’

  ‘There’s a faded stamp: Crisp Photographic . . . San . . . onio, TX.’

  ‘San Antonio, Texas,’ finished Harper, typing as she spoke.

  A San Antonio newspaper article dated 25th February, two years ago, filled the screen. A man with a determined chin grinned from the inset photo.

  LOCAL HERO HONOURED

  AFTER SUDDEN DEATH

  The Texas Tigers yesterday paid tribute to their Little League soccer coach when they unveiled the Evan Ross Player of the Year trophy.

  The Tigers are still in mourning after losing Coach Ross to a suspected stroke last month. Ross, 54, who received a Medal of Honor for heroism in combat in Afghanistan in the mid-eighties, had struggled after his best friend and fellow Green Beret, Tony Baranello, suffered a cardiac arrest six weeks ago.

  ‘When Tony passed, it ripped the life out of Evan,’ said his widow, Nancy. ‘They’d already been through so much with losing Tony’s twin, Mario, in Afghanistan in ’86. Evan never talked about it, but what happened over there, what went wrong, haunted him.

  ‘Coaching Little League soccer and hiking our country’s great trails with Tony was Evan’s salvation. He’d be proud to have a trophy with his name on it.’

  Kat picked up the photo of the men in the boat. ‘These two are almost identical, so they must be Tony and Mario. And the guy with the square chin is Coach Evan Ross. I wonder what went wrong on the mission in Afghanistan.’

  ‘I wonder what went wrong afterwards,’ responded Harper. ‘Maybe that’s the link between everyone in the picture: they were in the army together. Maybe even in Afghanistan. We know that Ramon was in the military, and this tall guy with broad shoulders in the US Army baseball cap could be Vaughan Carter. He looks like a rower.’

  ‘It’s weird that Vaughan, Evan and Tony had cardiac arrests and strokes in their early fifties,’ said Kat. ‘They look so fit in this picture. Maybe Mario being killed and whatever happened in Afghanistan put too much strain on their bodies as they got older.’

  Harper peered at the photo. ‘Probably did, but they’d still have been healthier than a lot of people. Vaughan was in a rowing club, and Evan and Tony hiked the great trails.’

  ‘Evan also coached football,’ added Kat.

  ‘We call it soccer,’ Harper said with a smile. ‘American football is football.’ She tapped the photo with a pen. ‘It’s the math here that bothers me.’

  ‘You mean the maths?’

  ‘You say tomarto, I say tomayto,’ quipped Harper, and they giggled.

  Harper sobered. ‘Say we’re right, and this photo shows Ramon and his friends when they were young and in the army. And say Ramon does turn out to be the Oxford Street Phantom, who supposedly also had a heart attack.’

  Kat saw where she was going. ‘That means that five out of six friends – Ramon, Mario, Tony, Evan and Vaughan – are either dead or missing. How spooky is that!’

  ‘Don’t forget the person behind the camera,’ Harper reminded her. ‘There were seven on the boat. It’s odd that Evan’s name is written on the back of the picture if he didn’t take it, but I suppose that back in those days digital photography didn’t exist. It’s possible that the photographer had the photo shop make copies for each of his mates.’

  ‘They look so happy,’ said Kat. ‘Ramon must have been in pieces if he lost four friends. Maybe he moved to Bluebell Bay to start a new life.’

  Harper frowned. ‘Judging by the target over his heart, his old life followed him here. I wonder if someone had a grudge against him.’

  She put the photo on the coffee table. ‘I’ll make a hires scan of this and send it to Jasper. He might be able to use face-mapping software to identify the men we’re not sure about, or track down the boat’s owner. It would also help if we could find out how and why Mario was killed in Afghanistan.’

  Her phone pinged. ‘How’s that for timing? Jasper just emailed.’

  Kat looked up. ‘Can we trust him?’

  ‘I’d trust him with my life. The FBI has Jasper on speed dial. That’s what a genius he is. Mostly he ignores them, but if it’s a mission he believes in he’ll lend a hand. Let’s see what he’s got.’

  Hey, Ace,

  Had to get funky with the pixels on this beauty. Fun project. First off, Ramon’s guest at Avalon Heights was human! Wearing British Army camo and carrying a garden trowel or a weapon with a triangular blade.

  Tread carefully on this one, Ace. Don’t run before you can walk – especially now you’re injured!

  May the Force Be with You!

  J

  ‘British Army camo?’ said Kat.

  Not for the first time, she had the sense that they were blindly poking at a hornet’s nest.

  ‘Even if it does turn out to be Ramon on the deck, star-gazing, surely he’d be in one of his old US Army outfits, not British camouflage?’ said Harper.

  ‘What if it’s not him?’ asked Kat. ‘What if the intruder is a British soldier? He could even be the soldier who left the threatening message. When Ramon didn’t pick up the phone, he might have decided to threaten him face to face.’

  Harper opened the attachment sent by Jasper. ‘Let’s take a look at the new, improved CCTV images.’

  Her mentor was highly skilled, but there was not a lot he could do about the fact that the man was standing with his back to the security camera.

  To Kat, who’d been hoping for miracles, it was deeply disappointing.

  The living-room door opened, and in came Nettie. Before they could hide the photo, she’d picked it up. ‘Who are these people? Why does that man have a target on his chest?’

  ‘It’s a long, sad story, and Kat finds it difficult to talk about,’ Harper said in a mournful tone.

  Nettie handed the photo back at once. ‘Sorry, Kat, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’

  Kat was embarrassed too. She stuffed the documents into her rucksack. ‘It’s fine, Nettie. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Can I make it up to you by offering you some carrot cake?’

  ‘Thanks, Nettie, but I promised my mum and Tina I’d meet them for a walk to Durdle Door.’

  ‘How lovely. It’s one of the Jurassic Coast’s most beautiful places.’

  As the door shut behind her, Harper let out a breath. ‘Phew! That was close. Kat, what are we going to do if a soldier or officer from the army base is involved?’

  ‘If it involves the military, we’re out of our depth,’ said Kat. ‘We should phone Sergeant Singh.’

  This time, Harper didn’t try to stop her.

  19

  No Mystery

  ‘Sergeant Singh, it’s Kat Wolfe. Please don’t hang up.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Wolfe,’ he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Sergeant Singh, this is going to sound fantastical, but you have to believe us. Me and Harper Lamb – she’s on speakerphone, by the way – are ninety-nine point nine per cent certain we know the identity of the Oxford Street Phantom.’

  Sergeant Singh groaned into the receiver. ‘Miss Wolfe, what did I tell you about wasting police time?’

  ‘I would never dream of wasting police time,’ Kat said indignantly.

  ‘Is that so? You may have forgotten how, only yesterday, you dragged me up the cliff path on a wild suitcase chase, but I can assure you that it’s etched on my mind for all eternity. My favourite part was when you tried to persuade me that a killer had gone berserk with tomato sauce.’

  ‘That was an honest mistake,’ said Kat, annoyed. ‘This is life and death. It’s a matter of national security.’

  He laughed. ‘Does it involve Marmite?’

  ‘Sergeant Singh, if you won’t take me seriously, I’m going to dial 999 and find a proper detective who will.’

  The chuckling stopped, but there was a smile in his voice. ‘My humble apologies. Go ahead and spill the beans. My pen is at the ready. I can’t wait to call Scotland Yard and inform them of the identity of
the Oxford Street Phantom. Let me guess: it’s Ramon Corazón.’

  ‘I – How did you know? Have you heard something?’

  ‘Indeed I have. I’ve heard enough about secret cover-up crews and psychos leaving messages about chopped liver to last me a lifetime. In your mystery-novel universe, Kat Wolfe, it’s only a small step from there to having Ramon be whisked away by kidnappers on Oxford Street.’

  ‘Whether you like it or not, the timeline works,’ Kat said stubbornly. ‘If Ramon caught the 6.20 a.m. train from Wool to London Waterloo on Thursday, it’s possible for him to have been on Oxford Street at 9.39 a.m., which is when the man they’re calling the Phantom collapsed outside John Lewis department store.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’ asked Sergeant Singh.

  ‘Positive. We checked, and there were no delays that day.’

  ‘Just because the 6.20 a.m. train from Wool reached London Waterloo on time doesn’t mean Ramon was on it. In fact, I can guarantee he wasn’t.’

  ‘How?’ Harper said disbelievingly.

  ‘Because, Miss Lamb, at around 11 a.m. on Thursday, when your friend was feeding the parrot at Avalon Heights, Eric Newbolt passed Ramon on the field behind the church. So, you see, even if Ramon had wings, it’s impossible for him to have been in London at 9.39 a.m. and back in Bluebell Bay, some three and a half hours distant, by 11 a.m.’

  That single sentence brought all of Wolfe & Lamb’s grand theories crashing down. They were crushed.

  Harper recovered first. ‘That was the morning the sea fog swallowed Bluebell Bay. My dad said it’s one of the thickest in the history of the town. Could Mr Newbolt have mistaken Ramon for somebody else?’

  ‘It’s a fair question. The fog was a proper pea-souper. When Ramon stepped from the mist, Mr Newbolt admitted he got quite a fright. He made a quip about mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday mist. But he knows Ramon too well for it to be a case of mistaken identity. From a distance, they look similar – same height, same trilby, black hair with a hint of silver. People often comment on it. I don’t think either of them considers it a compliment.’