‘A ginormous shark!’ announced Harper.
‘The collie saw it too,’ Kat informed him. ‘She barked herself hoarse.’
He glared at them. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘No joke,’ said Kat. ‘I also saw an orange flare, like a sailor’s distress signal. Seconds after that, the cliff shook as if a bomb had gone off underground.’
Sergeant Singh tugged at the shadow on his chin. ‘Interesting. That fits with what we found yesterday – evidence that two explosions were triggered remotely.’
Harper said excitedly, ‘That would explain the vibrations we felt at . . .’ She clammed up. She’d almost admitted to being in the house.
‘What kind of madman would want to endanger lives or destroy Bluebell Bay’s historic cliffs?’ demanded Edith.
‘You’d be surprised.’ Sergeant Singh jotted down notes. ‘Vandals, teenage arsonists, rabbit hunters, fossil collectors or even a shop or hotel owner hoping to get rich fast. A lot of folk have made a lot of money over the past week.’
‘I don’t understand why any of that matters when you have a dead body on your hands,’ said Kat. ‘What if Johnny Roswell’s death wasn’t an accident? What if someone was out to get him?’
Sergeant Singh put away his notebook. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s not a body; it’s a skeleton. And what sort of killer do you have in mind? A fellow ammonite collector? They’re ten a penny around here, you know – both ammonites and collectors. Or were you thinking that a rival nature writer, jealous of Johnny’s articles on “How to Build a Hedgehog Superhighway” or “Top Tips for Making Compost”, pushed him under a falling boulder?’
The library phone rang. Edith reached for it, but not before sending a reproachful glance the policeman’s way.
He said more kindly, ‘Kat, I haven’t forgotten how helpful you were on that other business earlier this year. And, Harper, I realize you’re somewhat traumatized after finding the skull yesterday. Let me give you both some advice. Don’t go looking for mysteries where none exist. As Mrs Swann said on the news this morning, accidents happen, even in beautiful places, and to nice people.’
‘It’s from a movie,’ said Harper.
‘Eh?’
‘That line – it’s from one of Alicia’s movies: Apple Pie and Lies.’
Edith came over with the phone. ‘Sergeant Singh, it’s for you.’
‘Apologies, Edith – my battery died and I told the station I’d be here.’ He moved away to the window. ‘Yes, Constable Tibs – can’t it wait? I see. NO! You’re sure? I’m leaving now. Be there ASAP.’
He hung up, looking dazed. ‘Seems I was gravely mistaken. There’s more to Johnny Roswell’s death than meets the eye. Harry Holt just walked into the police station and confessed to murder.’
It was peculiarly unsatisfactory, solving a mystery in the space of a few hours.
‘You look like the cats who didn’t get the cream,’ teased Nettie, setting a tray of Tuscan bean soup and warm sourdough bread on the table shared by the oviraptor at Paradise House. Breakfast seemed a long time ago and the girls were hungry again. ‘Bottomless pits,’ Nettie often called them. Sipping soup beneath the dinosaur’s ribcage, Kat half expected it to roar into life and make a meal of her as she ate her own.
‘Why so gloomy, Harper?’ the housekeeper persisted. ‘It’s the school holidays, the sun’s shining and the beach is open again if you fancy a swim. Or are you’re still jittery after that actress’s dog found the skull among the fossils? Can’t say I blame you. It’s a bad business. No wonder your dad’s banned you from visiting the old hall for a while.
‘Still, I’m sure you’ll be as relieved as I am to hear there’s been an arrest. Margo at the deli told me that a local man turned himself in this morning. Sergeant Singh must be pleased to have wrapped up the case so quickly. An unsolved murder would certainly have taken the shine off Bluebell Bay’s wholesome image.’
If she was expecting them to react with shock and awe, she was disappointed. They murmured politely, then went on eating their soup. As the door swung shut behind her, Harper pushed away her bowl.
‘Nettie’s right, you know. We should be happy – the sun’s out, the case is closed, and we were one step ahead of the police, yet again. So why do I feel as flat as a soda with no fizz?’
Kat was equally downcast. ‘Last night, when I thought we had a new mystery on our hands, it was so thrilling. I could see leads going off in every direction. Now it’s over. This must be how Sherlock Holmes felt when weeks went by at 221b Baker Street without a single visitor asking him to trace their missing ruby necklace or solve a locked-room murder mystery. How can we call ourselves detectives if nobody ever needs our help?’
Harper picked pumpkin seeds off her roll and fed them to the parrot perched on her shoulder. ‘Funny, when Edith was trying to convince us that Harry Holt was a saint, I was a hundred per cent certain he was a murderer. But ever since he confessed to being a killer, all I can think is, what if he’s not?’
‘It feels wrong,’ agreed Kat. ‘It’s too easy. I keep going over what he said to Edith when she asked why Johnny hadn’t been around: “They didn’t like what he was doing, so they put a stop to it.” Who are they? What was Johnny doing that they didn’t like? And what if they put a stop to him – permanently?’
Harper lit up like a Christmas tree at the prospect of a new line of enquiry. ‘The first rule of being a detective is question everything. So, let’s do that. Why would Harry confess to a murder he didn’t commit? Doesn’t make sense.’
‘Three reasons,’ said Kat, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘One, he’s afraid of something or someone. Two, he’s an attention seeker and/or mentally ill. Three, he didn’t do it but feels guilty about Johnny’s death, maybe because he encouraged him to go fossil hunting on an unstable cliff.’
‘If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, we have ourselves a case,’ declared Harper. ‘If Harry did cause his friend’s death, let’s find out why he did it and give Sergeant Singh extra evidence. If he’s innocent, let’s save him.’
When Nettie came in to clear away their empty bowls, she found the girls transformed. They were bouncing around the living room, smiling mysteriously. She put it down to the soup, a secret recipe passed down by her Welsh grandmother.
Bailey had returned to his preferred spot on the dinosaur’s head. He was parroting a line from The Big Sleep, a detective film he’d watched at least ten times.
‘I’m getting cuter every minute,’ he cackled, and burped up a pumpkin seed.
‘We need to work out who Harry meant when he said they didn’t like what Johnny was doing,’ suggested Kat. ‘Was he talking about Johnny’s bosses at one of the nature magazines he wrote for, or did he mean rival fossil hunters? Or was it something personal? Maybe Johnny had fallen in with a bad crowd in London. If we can find them, we’ll find the key that unlocks the whole mystery.’
‘Hmm,’ murmured Harper, her fingers flashing across the keyboard of her laptop.
In the real world, Harper often felt inescapably earthbound. Even before her accident, she’d never been athletic. Breaking both legs falling off Charming Outlaw meant that horse riding, the one physical activity for which she did have some talent, was off the menu. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she’d lost her nerve.
All of that was forgotten when she sat down at a computer. She’d been a toddler when her Cuban-American archaeologist mum had passed away, but Carmen’s genius for languages and advanced mathematics lived on in her daughter. Online, Harper felt free. Coding lent her wings. Whenever she embarked on a hacking mission, it amused her to imagine her laptop keyboard as the controls of a fighter jet. She’d mentally don a flying jacket, goggles and scarf (like Amelia Earhart) and salute her wingman (Bailey) before taking off.
Today, she confined herself to a gulp of ginger beer. After all, Google searches were something a toddler could do.
She began with the basics. Who was Johnny Roswell and what di
d he do?
It wasn’t hard. He’d been both a journalist and a missing person. She had scores of results in seconds.
Johnny had begun his career as a blogger and was soon writing for gardening and nature magazines. Though his early articles showed a distinct lack of promise, he’d improved rapidly. Shortly before he disappeared, he’d won a Wildlife Champion award for his story ‘In Defence of Urban Foxes’.
‘What a good person he was,’ said Kat as Harper clicked on one caring article after another: ‘How to Attract Bees to Your Garden!’ ‘Twenty-Five Ways to Ditch Plastic!’ ‘How to Save Orphaned Baby Birds!’
‘Yeah, it’s hard to believe anyone would feel murderous after reading any of these,’ remarked Harper. ‘Kinda the opposite.’
‘How about fossil collecting? Did he ever write about that? Maybe he was murdered for something rare or valuable.’
Harper did find a blog by Johnny on a fossil website, but it gave no hint of any special find. It was about collecting responsibly, without harming birds or plants. Fossils were Johnny’s hobby, but it seemed he loved helping the environment above all else. He was fond of quoting Chief Seattle’s Cree Indian prophecy.
Only when the last tree has died, the last fish has been caught, and the last stream poisoned, will we realize that we cannot eat money.
Kat noticed the time. ‘Sorry, Harper – I have to fly. I promised Alicia I’d take Xena for a walk this afternoon.’
With Kat gone, Harper turned to the missing-person reports. She soon saw why Johnny Roswell’s disappearance had caused so few ripples. A typed note had been found in his apartment, telling friends and family he planned to end it all.
The only person who didn’t believe he’d taken his own life was his sister, Joanne, a marine biologist in Florida. After he vanished, she told the Guardian she was positive her brother’s disappearance was suspicious because his laptop had vanished with him, but that the police refused to believe her.
‘I know Johnny didn’t write that note because he addressed me as Joanne, which he never did in real life. He always called me by my childhood nickname, JoJo, or sometimes JK, a reference to Harry Potter author J. K. Rowling. We were big fans of her books when we were younger.’
Harper continued reading:
‘Johnny was too fired up about changing the world to ever think about ending his life. A week before he went missing, he told me that he was working on a story – an “exposé” – that was going to be huge. He was bubbling over with excitement. He said, “When I’m done, JoJo, everyone will see these monsters for who they really are.” The way he said it sent a shiver through me. I was late for a meeting, so I wished him luck and said goodbye. It was the last time we ever spoke. I’d give anything to be able to go back in time and ask, “Which monsters?” Who did he mean?’
Chilled, Harper shut down the page. An exposé was when a reporter uncovered something embarrassing or damaging. Had Johnny been on the verge of revealing the truth about an environment-destroying company? Could it be the weed-killer manufacturer he’d warned readers against in his piece on organic vegetables?
Nettie wandered in, smiling and chatty. ‘What are you up to, Harper?’
Harper tapped a key and a Latin tutorial boomed into the room. Few things guaranteed peace like a Latin lesson. ‘Amor vincit omnia,’ she intoned. ‘Love conquers all.’
Five seconds later, Nettie remembered something was burning on the stove.
Alone again, Harper dialled the Grand Hotel Majestic’s restaurant. It was the first chance she’d had to attempt to discover who Ollie Merriweather had met for lunch on Wednesday. She’d come up with what she thought was an excellent story about how her boss, Oliver Merriweather, needed to write a thank-you card to the business associate he’d dined with but couldn’t remember his last name. Was it on the reservation?
The receptionist was friendly but unhelpful. Regrettably, she was unable to give out any details unless Mr Merriweather contacted the reservations team himself.
Professor Lamb was due home at any moment. With no time to lose, Harper returned to her laptop, put on her imaginary aviator outfit, saluted Bailey and used a few simple coding tricks to slip like a wraith through the firewall of the Grand Hotel Majestic.
Harper had been taught how to hack and stay safe by a former student of Professor Lamb’s. She was an apprentice with only a fraction of Jasper’s skills, but she was catching up fast. Getting past the Majestic’s flimsy security system was child’s play for her. Soon she was whizzing around the hotel’s internal reservation system as nimbly as any staff member.
The lunch had been booked in Ollie’s name, leaving her none the wiser about his companion. She did find the bill, which came to a staggering £199.76 for two people and included lobster and champagne. Harper doubted that Oliver Merriweather’s student loan would have covered it. She’d need to investigate him further.
It was eye-opening, getting an insight into life behind the scenes at the Majestic. No wonder Viktor Karlsson was stressed. Naughty guests stole bathrobes, broke lamps and coffee machines, spilt red wine on cream carpets, and then denied it. Naughty staff quit without warning, bickered incessantly, stole fillet steaks, and were forever destroying guests’ expensive belongings.
Out of curiosity, Harper looked up the Swanns’ booking. As she and Kat had suspected, Viktor had given them another couple’s room. It didn’t prove that the actors had lied about having a reservation, though. If their travel agent had messed up, it might have been a genuine error.
Clicking on the Ocean View Suite brought up a chain of emails between Viktor and the Swanns, most of which were complaints about Xena. The Pomeranian had peed on a rug, chewed a cushion, kept fellow guests awake yapping until the small hours and attacked the chambermaids. He was having to pay them triple-time wages to clean the Swann’s room.
To each imploring message, Alicia sent an identical reply.
Sorry, lovely Viktor! Thanks for your understanding. Happy to pay for any damage! XX
Her last email must have been sent to the hotel in error. It appeared to be an unfinished draft, meant for someone who wasn’t the manager of the Majestic.
Darling,
You’re panicking about nothing. What is KW going to do? She’s just a . . .
Harper’s breath caught in her throat. She had the feeling that she was looking at something important. Sinister even. Millions of people had the same initials as Kat Wolfe. There was a ninety-nine point nine per cent probability that Alicia was talking about someone else. But what if she wasn’t?
She’s just a . . . what? Just a girl? Just a pet-minder? And who was Alicia writing to? Ethan? Her agent? A friend? A secret admirer?
Harper had been a fan of Alicia’s for years and was delirious with joy that her idol had chosen Bluebell Bay for her vacation. But the email put a whole new slant on things. If it did happen to be about Kat, then the couple had a secret. Perhaps Alicia was ill-treating her dog and was concerned that Kat would find out.
Harper shut her laptop. She’d need to do some poking around online to see what she could uncover about the Swanns. If they’d ever had so much as an unpaid parking ticket, Harper would dig it out.
She’d do anything on earth to protect her best friend. Anything at all.
As the daughter of a struggling vet, Kat was unaccustomed to VIP treatment, and after the manager of the Majestic hailed her arrival with the fawning reverence he generally reserved for film stars and billionaires, she decided she didn’t care for it.
‘Kat Wolfe, it is our pleasure to welcome you once more to the Grand Hotel Majestic! Are you here to collect Mrs Swann’s unique Pomeranian? I’ll dial her suite. While you wait, allow me to order you a drink on the house. I can recommend our famed salted caramel milkshake. When you’re ready, Belinda, our customer services manager, will escort you to the Ocean View Suite.’
But when the lift halted on the third floor and Kat stepped into the hallway, Belinda remembered she had an impo
rtant appointment elsewhere.
‘You can’t go wrong,’ she told Kat, stabbing repeatedly at the lobby button. ‘The Ocean View Suite is the last door on the right.’ Still speaking, she was sucked away into the bowels of the building.
Kat was on her own.
The corridor was bathed in a vanilla glow. As she summoned the courage to march to the end, the door nearest her crashed open. A man with fleshy features and hairy arms nearly bowled her over. He didn’t apologize.
‘I think you dropped something,’ said Kat, noticing a gold glint on the carpet behind him.
His lip curled. ‘Is not mine. Give it to me. I take to reception.’
Kat got to it before he did. ‘Thanks, but it might belong to my client. I’ll check with her first.’
She picked up what looked like a credit card and walked on slowly, pausing to study it after the lift had taken the rude man away. It was a black metal card embossed with a gold dragon, its tail twisted into an infinity symbol. She flipped it over, but there were no identifying numbers, names or signatures on it.
Conscious that she was already late, she tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans and continued to the Ocean View Suite. Inside, Alicia was scolding someone.
‘It’s no good looking at me with those angel eyes. Mommy’s mad at you. What am I going to say to Daddy? Those are his favourite crocodile-hide boots from Italy.’
Kat rang the bell. Alicia greeted her with a theatrical eye-roll. ‘Hey there, Kat Wolfe. Good thing you’re here to whisk my warrior princess away. She feels smothered by the endless rules and regs in this stuffy hotel. She’s been acting up.’
She smiled as Xena leaped into Kat’s arms and nearly licked her to death. ‘Look what those needle teeth did to Ethan’s best boots.’
Privately, Kat thought Xena had done Ethan a gigantic favour. The boots were hideous. She’d put the Pom down and was sympathizing about the chewed leather out of politeness when she noticed Alicia’s leopard-print tote bag on the table. When she’d first seen it, she’d assumed it was fake fur. But something about the silky, subtle sheen of it made her wonder if it was real. Surely no one with one ounce of decency would consider buying a bag made from an actual leopard? She must be mistaken.
Kat Wolfe Takes the Case Page 8