Kat Wolfe Investigates

by Lauren St. John

  ‘No, about the soldiers at the dinner being professional warriors. They have more chance of surviving a Ghost Owl attack than we do.’

  ‘The men in the Owl Service were ex-Green Berets, and even they weren’t safe from the Ghost Owl.’

  A spear of lightning sizzled across the sky.

  Kat’s brain lit up at the same time. ‘What if the traitor was someone so close to the soldiers that he was never, ever suspected? A member of the Owl Service, say.’

  ‘That’s it!’ cried Harper. ‘It has to be. We know that these sleeper agents—’

  ‘Illegals.’

  ‘Yes, Illegals are trained to act as if they’re everyone’s favourite colleague or friend.’

  ‘And,’ said Kat, ‘we also know that the men in the Owl Service had their own code of honour: “All for One. One for All.” That might have made them blind to the idea that one of their friends could be a traitor.’

  ‘It must be Ramon,’ said Harper. ‘He was the last man standing. You met him. Did he seem the type to betray or kill his best mates?’

  Kat had a sudden memory of Ramon’s kind but haunted face. ‘No, he seemed like someone who’d lost his friends. How about Brad? Could he be the traitor?’

  ‘Who’s Brad?’

  ‘The neighbour who owned the boat: Brad Emery. The one who we think took the photo. He might be the last man standing. We haven’t managed to discover whether he’s dead or alive. It’s like he’s invisible.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t have been invisible to Ramon,’ Harper pointed out. ‘If Brad had moved to Bluebell Bay, sooner or later Ramon would have spotted him. Plus, he couldn’t have worked on the base because he wasn’t a soldier.’

  They collapsed into the sofa again, stumped.

  ‘We’re running out of time,’ Kat fretted. ‘It’s terrifying to think that at this very minute the Ghost Owl might be getting ready for the Tank Regiment dinner. He could be putting on an officer’s uniform or getting ready to wait tables.’

  Harper checked the time. ‘Fifty-two minutes until the dinner begins, and we don’t have a clue who we’re looking for. It’s like trying to find a ghost in a fog.’

  ‘Or a Russian bullet on an army base.’

  33

  Amazon Warrior

  ‘Kat, is that you? You won’t believe it, but I’ve cracked the Oxford Street Phantom Mystery. I’ve deduced how they did it.’

  Kat had answered her phone without looking at it, assuming it would be her mum. Now she was regretting it.

  ‘That’s great, Edith. Can we talk about it when I come to walk Toby tomorrow? I’m at Harper’s now, and we’re in the middle of something.’

  ‘It’s an emergency, love. I suspect Harper would like to hear about it too, as would the Minister of Defence. You asked me if I had any information on undetectable poisons in my library. Well, I’ve found something.’

  Kat mouthed, ‘Harper, Edith has turned up something that might help with our Ghost Owl case. I’ll put her on speakerphone.’

  ‘Good evening, Edith,’ Harper said cheerfully, as if she had all the time in the world and wasn’t trying to solve an international murder mystery in fifty-one minutes. ‘What have you discovered?’

  ‘There are an awful lot of lethal chemicals in the world, so I decided to start with the ones used in high-profile assassinations.’

  ‘Excellent thinking,’ said Harper.

  ‘Back in 1978, a Bulgarian writer by the name of Georgi Markov was stabbed with a poison umbrella on London’s Waterloo Bridge. The pathologist found a ricin pellet in his thigh. KGB agents were suspected, but never caught.

  ‘Then in 2006, Alexander Litvinenko, a former Russian agent, had radioactive polonium-210 slipped into his tea here in the UK.’

  ‘Grim,’ said Harper.

  ‘Quite. Of course, those poisons were detected so, for the Oxford Street Phantom, I knew we were looking for something more advanced. That’s when I remembered the heart-attack gun.’

  Kat blanched. ‘The heart-attack gun?’

  ‘Sounds like a conspiracy theory, but it’s as real as steel. The CIA developed it in the mid-seventies and spent years perfecting it. Some claim it’s been used in numerous assassinations.’

  ‘Why’s it called the heart-attack gun?’ Harper wanted to know.

  ‘Because the miniature dart it fires is made from ice and tipped with an undetectable poison – most likely from shellfish. It’s sharp enough to penetrate clothing and skin, and brings on an instant heart attack or stroke. When the ice dart melts, it leaves no trace. Victims simply crumple and breathe their last breath.’

  Kat and Harper exchanged horrified glances. At least three of the Owl Service members had died that way.

  ‘Edith, you’re a better Moneypenny than Miss Moneypenny,’ said the American girl. ‘Thanks. That’s really helpful.’

  ‘Kat, I’d be grateful if you’d pass this information on to your grandfather as a matter of urgency?’ broke in Edith. ‘As Minister of Defence, I’m sure he’d want to know if foreign hit men are targeting innocent civilians on the streets of the capital!’

  Kat tried to find a diplomatic way to say that she wouldn’t ring the Dark Lord if they were the only two survivors of a meteor strike.

  ‘I will if I can, Edith, but it’ll probably be tomorrow. Right now, we have an owl emergency on our hands.’

  Kat switched off her phone before Edith had finished saying goodbye, and tucked her phone into her pocket. She scowled. ‘Why does everyone think I have a hotline to the Minister of Def—’

  Harper cut her off with a scream that could have shattered a mirror. Wordlessly, she pointed. A hideous pirate, his face clawed and puffy, was peering through the rain-streaked window. A bloody bandage was wrapped round his head, and sagging in the rain.

  Kat screamed too, frightening Bailey off her shoulder. He flapped wildly around the room, emitting ear-splitting screeches, before coming to rest on the skull of the model dinosaur. From there, he delivered volley after volley of automatic rifle fire.

  When Kat plucked up the courage to look again, the face had gone. She flew to shut the curtains. On the sofa, Harper was covering her ears. Neither heard Sergeant Singh until he burst into the room.

  ‘Freeze!’ he yelled. ‘Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air.’

  A stunned silence met this command.

  From atop the dinosaur, Bailey gave a subdued cheep.

  Sergeant Singh’s mouth opened and closed several times. His lungs were still pumping from his marathon run through the storm. Kat had never seen anyone more drenched. He was a human rain cloud, leaking on to the rug.

  ‘Is that . . . ? That’s not . . .’ He gestured weakly at Bailey.

  ‘Ramon’s Amazon parrot,’ Kat finished. ‘Sorry, he’s watched too many action films.’

  ‘I’ve never been so happy to see a policeman in my life, Sergeant Singh,’ interrupted Harper, ‘but while you and Kat chat, a real intruder is getting away. He leered through the window like Frankenstein’s monster. He’s scratched to pieces and has a filthy bandage round his head.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him’ said the policeman. ‘Your parrot scared him off. I saw him running for his life. I know who he is, and I’ll arrest him in the morning.’

  Harper eyed the spreading pool of water beneath Sergeant Singh’s trainers. ‘You look as if you’ve been swimming in your clothes, Sergeant Singh. What are you doing out with no coat? Kat, would you mind getting the sergeant some of Dad’s dry things before he catches pneumonia? There’s laundry on the rack beside the Aga. Put the kettle on too.’

  Sergeant Singh dripped after Kat. ‘You’re kind, but there’s no need to bother.’

  In the kitchen, Kat pulled a flannel shirt, socks and jeans from the pile of ironing. ‘Why aren’t you on duty at the Tank Regiment dinner?’

  ‘They didn’t have any use for a village bobby.’

  ‘Well, we did,’ Kat said firmly. ‘You just saved our lives. Anyway,
the dinner won’t be half so much fun without Prince William.’

  He smiled. ‘I can take or leave Prince William, but I am sorry to miss the Minister of Defence, who replaced him. The Dark Lord, as they call him, is not everyone’s cup of tea, but I confess he intrigues me . . . Uh, are you quite well, Miss Wolfe? You’ve gone as white as a—’

  ‘Sergeant Singh!’ yelled Harper from the living room. ‘Kat! Get in here.’

  The policeman tore to her rescue, with Kat in hot pursuit, clutching a rolling pin. Braced for Frankenstein’s monster, they were startled to see Harper on the sofa where they’d left her, bent over Ramon’s computer. The parrot was on her shoulder.

  ‘Tell Kat. Tell Kat,’ Bailey said in a pleased tone. ‘September-Nile-Otto-Quarter. Deuce Testy It.’

  ‘It’s Latin!’ cried Harper. ‘Kat, he’s speaking Latin. ‘Ut Deus mihi testis est: For God is my witness. Septemdecim nihil octoginta quattuor – those are numbers: seventeen, zero, eighty-four.’

  Kat was incredulous. ‘Ramon’s password is in Latin?’

  ‘Uh-huh. He did give you the computer for a reason.’

  ‘I feel as if I’ve blundered into a madhouse,’ said Sergeant Singh. ‘Gun-toting parrots, Frankenstein’s monster, secret codes. Whatever next?’

  ‘That’s what we’re about to find out.’

  Harper entered the code, and the owl icon flapped twice. Up came a list of contents. Number one was a video link. It was surreal watching a former CIA agent describe the making of the heart-attack gun, a double-barrelled revolver.

  ‘What is this?’ demanded Sergeant Singh. ‘And why do you have Ramon’s computer? Am I going to have to arrest you both?’

  But he didn’t stop them. Instead, he perched on the arm of the sofa and watched in growing amazement as Harper navigated from link to link, bringing up a plan of the army base and a guest list for the Tank Regiment dinner.

  ‘Imagine how much time we would have saved if you’d understood Latin that first day at Avalon Heights,’ Harper said to Kat.

  Kat didn’t answer, but Harper didn’t notice because she was engrossed in a story on undetectable poisons. It was a while before she glanced up again. ‘Where’s Kat?’

  Sergeant Singh tore his gaze from the screen. ‘In the bathroom maybe? I hope she’s all right. I’m worried that the face at the window might have traumatized her. When I told her about the Minister of Defence replacing Prince William as the army’s guest of honour, I thought she might faint.’

  Harper gazed at him in panic. ‘Oh, no. Oh, good gosh. You shouldn’t have told her about the minister.’

  The policeman was bewildered. ‘Lord Hamilton-Crosse is a politician, not a royal or rock star. Why should it matter to Kat whether he lives or dies?’

  ‘Because he’s her granddad,’ said Harper, ‘and whether they like each other or not, the same blood runs in their veins.’

  34

  The Pocket Rocket

  Not until Charming Outlaw stepped out of the shelter of the field on to the open moor did Kat feel the full ferocity of the storm. It almost blasted her from the saddle. Beneath her, the little racehorse rocked on his hoofs.

  She worried that he might refuse to go any further. The horses at her London riding school had been experts at digging in their heels. If they were tired or fed up, an earthquake couldn’t have shifted them. Even on their best days, the most energetic of them moved as if they had lead in their legs.

  But the Pocket Rocket didn’t hesitate. He jogged forward as if he were on springs. Though his ears were flat against his head and he snorted at the rain, he felt as light as air, unconstrained by mere gravity.

  Kat was a bundle of nerves. She’d planned to spend a couple of leisurely weeks getting to know Charming Outlaw before attempting to ride him. She hadn’t envisaged test-riding the thoroughbred in a storm.

  As if that wasn’t enough, she was afraid that Sergeant Singh might come sprinting out of the gloom and grab the bridle. For a moment, she almost hoped he would. But Charming Outlaw trotted faster, and the house rapidly receded.

  With every stride, the insanity of what she was attempting became more apparent. She had no plan beyond getting to the army base to warn her grandfather that a Russian assassin was on the loose. She’d tried calling, but his phone had gone straight to voicemail. Whether or not he’d believe her was doubtful, but she knew she had to try.

  If the future King of England sits down to dinner with an assassin who likes to kill people with undetectable poisons, it’s not going to end well, she’d told Harper.

  But killing the Minister of Defence would be almost as great a prize.

  Getting to the base by road would take too long because she’d need to take a roundabout route to avoid being spotted. To have any chance of reaching her grandfather before the dinner began, Kat had no option but to take a short cut across the firing range. On Friday nights, it was closed to the public. If the soldiers were out playing war games in the rain, she’d have no option but to turn back.

  Her other challenge was managing Charming Outlaw. Her best friend had tried it and had two broken legs to show for it. He’d spooked at a rabbit on a cloudless day. Kat was about to ask him to cross a shooting range in a thunderstorm.

  Under different circumstances, she’d have loved riding him. The London horses had needed constant nudging, squeezing and pleading. Charming Outlaw was self-propelling. He was cantering now, tossing his head and snatching at the bit. The razor-wire fence came into view before she was ready for it. Beyond it were the cliffs and oil-black sweep of sea. It crashed and sucked at the rocks far below.

  The warning sign reared up red in the rain: MILITARY FIRING RANGE. KEEP OUT.

  Somehow it made everything more real. No tanks or camouflaged warriors were visible, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The soldiers could be concealed in the undergrowth, readying themselves for an ambush.

  Before tackling them, she had to get past the locked gate. Up close, it was enormous. Kat had only once jumped anything near as high, and that was because a horse had bolted and she’d had no choice. It was an experience she’d hoped never to repeat, especially since she’d fallen off and nearly broken an arm. And yet here she was, sizing up the iron equivalent of the Grand National’s Becher’s Brook.

  On a dry, sunny day, Charming Outlaw could have jumped it with little difficulty. During his short, chequered career, he’d been a National Hunt racehorse. He’d leaped similar heights every day. But how he’d approach a metal gate in a storm, ridden by a girl he barely knew, was anyone’s guess.

  With effort, she steadied him to a walk. She wanted him to take a good look at the gate, but not too good. He might decide it was a suicide mission. So might she.

  Kat guided him past it and nudged him into a trot. She’d loop him round so he had a proper run at it. As the lights of Bluebell Bay came into view, emotion clamped her chest. She thought of her mum, out at the cinema with Tina, with no concept that her daughter was planning a night ride across a firing range.

  She was torn between doing the right thing as her mum would see it (returning to Paradise House while she and Charming Outlaw were still in one piece), and doing what she intuitively knew she had to do – risking her life and that of Harper’s horse to warn a man who’d never shown her one day of affection that he might be in danger.

  As she hesitated, Charming Outlaw swerved away from some unseen terror. The choice was snatched from her. So was any hope of approaching the jump in a collected canter. Charming Outlaw accelerated at warp speed.

  In the driving rain, the silver poles were nearly invisible. Kat wished with every cell in her body that she’d stayed at Paradise House and begged Sergeant Singh to race to the base instead. But it was too late now. She was careering, out of control, towards a gate that grew higher with every step.

  Charming Outlaw took flight sooner than she thought he would. Kat had to fling herself forward to stay on. Mid-leap, the edge of the cliff caught her eye. F
or an instant, she thought they were going over it. Then Charming Outlaw splashed down. Kat was nearly catapulted over his head. With superhuman effort, she managed to pull him up and wriggle back into the saddle.

  As he swished his tail and picked up speed again, she felt a rush of euphoria. So far, luck was on their side.

  He settled into a fast canter. Despite the weather, he seemed to be enjoying his night-time adventure. They made rapid progress across the open moor. Kat’s confidence returned. She mentally told off the British Army for having such lax security. Why wasn’t the place crawling with guards with automatic weapons? Why hadn’t she been picked up on CCTV?

  No sooner had she thought it than a harsh beam swept the ground, bathing them in light. A warning shot cracked. A shrub exploded almost at their feet.

  The Pocket Rocket exploded with it.

  Had Kat not grabbed a fistful of mane, and had her wet breeches not been glued to the saddle, she’d have been flung into the mud. Somehow she stayed on as he bolted. Now she knew how the Pocket Rocket had got his nickname. It was, as Harper said, like being strapped to a comet.

  Riding blind in the dark and rain, Kat had the sensation of being whirled through a galaxy. The wind roared in her ears as the little racehorse blasted up the track through the pines. Kat had to put her faith in Charming Outlaw. One false move, one slip, and it would be over.

  She’d lost all track of time. It could have been five minutes or an hour since she’d sneaked out of Paradise House. Finally she glimpsed lights and heard the faint brass strains of a military band. They were nearing the base.

  Snorting with nerves and exhaustion, Charming Outlaw slowed to a ragged trot. His neck was a bubble bath of sweat.

  Beyond the trees lay a fortress of walls, razor wire and CCTV cameras. As they burst from the relative safety of the wood, Kat felt sick. What had she been thinking? What if Charming Outlaw was gunned down or attacked by guard dogs? They had to turn back.

  But, as she tried to rein him in, three soldiers in black rain gear rushed from the guardhouse, rifles in hand. ‘STOP OR WE’LL SHOOT!’