Kat Wolfe Investigates, Page 2

  Kat’s father had done none of those things. He and her mum had met at university. Rufus had been studying law, but dropped out in his second year to chase big waves across the globe. Surfing had meant more to him than Kat’s mum, his own mum or his unborn child. He was last seen in Portugal, being towed by a jet-ski rider up the face of a twenty-metre wave. That was his idea of a good time.

  To Kat’s mind, going missing because you’d chosen to ride a virtual tsunami was an exceedingly poor excuse for not being around to keep your daughter safe from clumsy burglars.

  On the positive side, her mum was her best friend. When people said they were alike, it made Kat proud, because her mum was kind to the power of ten. She stood up to bullies like Vince and Edwina, was passionate about saving animals and would fight till her last breath against cruelty or injustice.

  ‘Kat, is the screen frozen or are you?’ teased her mum. ‘You’re miles away. What are you thinking about?’

  ‘What a good person you are,’ Kat said truthfully. ‘We’re going to find you the best job in the world. How about this one: Roving Veterinary Surgeon wanted to travel between six practices?’

  ‘Too stressful.’

  ‘Thriving small animal clinic in Edinburgh . . . ?’

  ‘I’d miss the horses and cows.’

  ‘Busy equine practice in Hampshire . . . ?’

  ‘I’d love the horses, but miss the small animals.’

  ‘State-of-the-art twelve-vet practice with latest technology seeks VS with can-do attitude?’

  ‘Too corporate. I’m a vet, not a banker.’

  ‘Oh, wow! Just wow! Mum, you have to take this one.’

  ‘Why? What is it? Stop hogging the screen and show me!’

  ‘Thrilling opportunity in the Outer Hebrides . . . Oh, Mum – imagine being a vet on an island. We’d be like characters out of a book. You’d have puffins and otters for patients, and I could get a Border collie.’

  ‘You might want to get an umbrella too,’ her mother said drily. ‘It rains at least three hundred days of the year. Anyway, it’s too remote.’

  Kat didn’t have the energy to argue. ‘Right, dull jobs in city drought-zones only. Luton practice seeks VS with GSOH.’

  ‘You’d need a sense of humour if you lived in Luton.’

  And so it went on. If the job had potential, then the town or village was too crowded, too isolated, too crime-ridden, too boring, too full of football hooligans or too cold.

  Finally Kat said: ‘Is it just me, or are you being a teensy-weensy bit fussy?’

  Her mum rubbed a hand over her tired eyes. ‘Sorry, hon. I’m wary of leaping from the frying pan into the fire, that’s all. For months I’ve been a terrible mother . . . No, Kat, hear me out. Work has been so nightmarish that I’ve been grouchy and anxious most of the time. That’s not good for you, and it’s definitely not good for my patients. So now I don’t just want a job; I want the right job. I’d like to be part of a practice where I can make a real difference to the lives of animals, and I want us to live in a place where you can thrive and be happy, ideally with a pet of your own.’ She smiled. ‘That’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  To see her mum’s old spark shining through the dust and exhaustion lifted Kat’s spirits like nothing else. ‘Sounds great to me.’

  ‘In that case, let’s keep searching for another five minutes.’ Dr Wolfe pulled the laptop towards her. ‘What’s this link here: ARE YOU READY FOR A CHALLENGE? I know I am. How about you?’

  Kat grinned. ‘Always.’

  Later, when Kat thought about how one click of the mouse had changed their lives forever, she recalled a giddy feeling bubbling up inside her as the advert unfurled on the screen.

  WANTED: CARING, HARD-WORKING VETERINARY

  SURGEON URGENTLY NEEDED TO RUN SMALL

  PRACTICE IN IDYLLIC SEASIDE LOCATION.

  MUST BE WILLING TO TREAT EVERYTHING FROM

  CAPUCHINS TO COCKATOOS. LETTER & CV TO

  MR MK MELLS. C/O MELLS SOLICITORS,

  PO BOX 5089, LONDON W1

  ‘What’s a capuchin?’ asked Kat.

  ‘A species of monkey originating in Central and South America. If they’re in the UK, they’ve either been stolen from the wild for the pet trade or medical research, or they’re in sanctuaries.’

  Dr Wolfe squinted at the screen. ‘The job sounds so perfect there’s bound to be a catch. Ah, here it is: T&Cs APPLY. “Terms and Conditions” usually means you’re expected to sign a ten-year contract to work an eight-day week treating boa constrictors and hungry tigers. Still, it might be worth looking into further.’

  Kat picked up a pen to jot down the details. ‘There’s no email address.’

  ‘I like that,’ said her mum. ‘Snail-mail only. Intriguing. With any luck, it’ll reduce the number of applicants. I’ll write a letter today. Now, I don’t know about you, but after all this excitement I’m starving. Can I interest you in breakfast? We could celebrate my freedom and your tennis-ball-throwing skills with cinnamon buns in Blackheath.’

  3

  The Way of the Mongoose

  The week they spent waiting for a response was pure torture, but it did give Kat time to do some thinking. She’d not forgotten how small and weak she’d felt as she cowered behind the sofa, knowing that at any minute she might be discovered and pounced upon.

  Following the break-in, her mum had asked Kat if she’d mind sleeping in the main bedroom for a while. The landlord had belatedly fixed the kitchen window, and the policemen who’d attended the crime scene had reassured them they were safe. Constable Duff was confident that, after being almost crushed to death, then arrested on his first ever attempt at burglary, the spotty young man would be rethinking his career options.

  ‘I’m sure the constable’s right, Kat,’ said Dr Wolfe, ‘but I’m still mildly traumatized. It would help if I knew you were close by in the night.’

  Kat saw through the lie, but was grateful. She’d been too proud to ask if she could share her mum’s room in case it seemed babyish.

  On the fifth evening, she felt fine and returned to her own bed. But in the early hours the nightmares came for her. She awoke sweating and trembling. If she’d been capable of moving, she’d have run screaming to her mum, but she was too afraid that someone was under the bed or in the wardrobe.

  It didn’t help that the wind was wailing and tugging at the shutters. Then next door’s dog began to bark. Before long, Kat believed that whole armies of burglars were on their way up the stairs.

  Just when she thought she might faint from fright, she remembered a trick her mother had taught her when she was younger and afraid of the dark. She pretended she had a scared kitten to take care of.

  If that was the case, she’d focus on taking deep, slow breaths to bring down her heart rate and that of the kitten. Picturing tranquil, happy scenes usually helped too: sun filtering through the leaves of silent forest glades, lionesses washing their cubs, musical mountain streams. In real life, she’d do that for as long as it took to help the kitten feel safe and secure.

  The curious thing was that being brave for a pretend kitten calmed Kat too. She switched on her bedside lamp and checked under the bed and in the cupboard. They could have done with a tidy, but neither hid a burglar.

  Still, the episode had got her thinking. She needed to find a way to protect herself. But how? Horse riding aside, she’d never been much of an athlete, though she was strong for her age. The ballet teacher had had her eye on Kat for a time, memorably describing her as a ‘fawn with limbs of steel’.

  Kat wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment and had decided not to ask. It didn’t matter. Madame Roux had lost interest as soon as she’d found out that Kat a) had zero interest in ballet, and b) was totally uncoordinated.

  Karate was no good either. Kat had given up on the after-school martial-arts club after only four lessons. Sensei Bob had all but evicted her after she’d asked him to teach her the Crane move used in The Karate
Kid.

  ‘No such thing,’ he’d barked. ‘They made it up for the film. The Jump Front technique is similar, but if you were attacked on the street it would be a last resort. Too slow to set up, and too easy for someone to take you down while you’re mulling it over. Stick to the basics, girl.’

  He’d held up a hand, like a warden directing traffic. ‘Let me see you throw a punch.’

  As her small fist bounced harmlessly off his palm, it became clear to Kat, and to Sensei Bob, that it would be many moons – possibly a decade or never – before she was able to use karate to defend herself against anyone more threatening than a coma patient.

  So the Crane move was not the way forward.

  Kat picked up her phone. It was as basic as her karate strikes, but she was able to search for the ‘Top Ten Best Martial Arts for Self-defence’. She skimmed past kickboxing, aikido, Brazilian ju-jitsu and regular boxing, and went directly to number one: Krav Maga. That was ideal in many ways, but slightly scary. It was not uncommon to rupture organs while training.

  Kat suspected that her mum would frown upon a class that caused rupturing, so she continued to scroll down the search results. Most people stopped at the first page. She was five pages deep when she stumbled on the Way of the Mongoose. The name caught her attention. It was an obscure martial art, highly rated by its devotees. What interested Kat is that those included not just bodyguards and Special Forces soldiers, but also geeky accountants and scrawny teenagers.

  The Way of the Mongoose had been developed by Jun Song, a baker from Shanghai who was a wing chun master. A car accident years before had left his teenage son Jia with a thin, lame leg – but what Jia lacked in strength he made up for in heart. He was the kindest, most lovable boy anyone knew. Jun Song was devoted to him.

  Sadly, bullies attacked Jia and left him fighting for his life. His broken-hearted father vowed to create a self-defence system that would enable even the weakest to fight off attackers many times their size in the way a dwarf mongoose can outwit a deadly king cobra. Jun Song did this by taking blocks and other techniques from wing chun, jiu-jitsu and Krav Maga that use an attacker’s power against them.

  ‘NEVER BE A VICTIM AGAIN!’ promised the Way of the Mongoose website. Kat was sceptical. The karate failure was still fresh in her mind.

  The Wi-Fi signal was poor, and it took forever to get the demonstration video to play. At last it chugged to life. A weedy boy with arms like matchsticks was being faced down by a tattooed hulk: David vs Goliath. The fight was so mismatched that Kat was sure they were actors, paid to promote Jun Song’s ideas.

  The brute lunged at the boy and knocked him to the ground with one blow. It looked as if it was all over, but in a flash the boy hooked his left foot round the man’s ankle, and used his right foot to shove the back of his attacker’s knee. Caught off guard, the man collapsed like a popped balloon. As he crumpled, the boy used him as a launch pad for a forward roll and scampered away.

  ‘Always exit the scene as soon as possible,’ counselled Jun Song in the video. ‘Don’t be a hero. Use the element of surprise to get away fast.’

  Kat watched another short clip, but in truth she was already convinced. Any martial art where being light and quick was an advantage, and where you were advised not to be a hero, was one she could get behind. And there was no mention of the Way of the Mongoose causing cauliflower ear, as some martial arts did.

  Kat turned off her phone and her bedside light. She’d forgotten about the armies of burglars. For the first time since the break-in, she felt peaceful. In another minute, she was asleep.

  4

  A Tiny Condition

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK, Mum?’ said Kat the following Monday. They were on the train, heading for Covent Garden in London’s West End.

  ‘Of course,’ her mother replied distractedly. ‘Why do you keep asking?’

  ‘Because you’ve shredded the front page of the Evening Standard. People are starting to stare. You’ve ripped the foreign secretary to pieces.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dr Wolfe seemed surprised to find herself with a handful of newspaper confetti. ‘Well, it’s no more than they deserve . . . I’m fine, Kat. Better than fine. I still can’t believe that I’ve been shortlisted for my dream job. I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I’ve been told that the other job – the one in Milton Keynes – is mine if I want it, but I can’t stop thinking about those capuchins and cockatoos.’

  ‘And the idyllic bay,’ Kat said dreamily.

  ‘That too. Then I remember the terms and conditions. Even if I do make it through the interview this evening, I might not feel able to agree to those, whatever they may be.’

  As she spoke, there was a horrible screech, and the train braked so hard they were almost flung from their seats. They’d arrived at Charing Cross.

  ‘Samuel Johnson famously said that if you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life.’ Dr Wolfe raised her voice as they struggled between packed commuters staring blankly up at the train-departures board like victims of mass hypnosis. ‘However, I think even his enthusiasm might have been dampened by rush hour in the twenty-first-century capital. The air is so sooty it’s like being down a coal mine.’

  But once they’d dodged the red double-decker buses on the Strand and were threading their way through the back streets, Kat could feel the electric energy of the city humming beneath her feet.

  She leaned into the twilight and tugged her woolly hat over her ears. The wind was knife-sharp. It teased Kat with hints of wood-fired pizza and other delights. She stared enviously through the window of a restaurant, where a waiter was delivering a Thai curry to a couple at a candlelit table.

  The solicitor’s office was on Rose Street. Dr Wolfe and Kat were buzzed into a narrow hallway lined with books. Beyond that was a rabbit warren of rooms made miniature by more books. A receptionist greeted them from behind a cherry-wood desk squeezed between two bookcases.

  Kat hung back as her mum introduced herself. ‘I’m here to see Miles Mells about the veterinary surgeon job.’

  The woman’s smile slipped, and her chest heaved in a silent sigh. ‘Thanks for arriving on time, Dr Wolfe. Wait here, please.’

  After she’d gone, Kat nudged her mum. ‘Imagine what would happen if I threw a tennis ball in here.’

  Dr Wolfe stifled a giggle. ‘Don’t get any ideas. We have to be on our best behaviour.’

  There was a polite clearing of throat. They both jumped. A door had opened in the middle of one of the bookcases. Beyond it was an office crammed with filing cabinets and a desk piled high with files and documents. If there was a man behind them, he wasn’t visible.

  ‘Mr Mells will see you now,’ said the receptionist, waving at the mountain of paperwork.

  With a wish-me-luck glance at Kat, Dr Wolfe went in and perched on a chair. Kat sank into the reception sofa.

  She saw a pair of white eyebrows and the shiny rims of their owner’s glasses rise above the files in the other room. ‘Come in, come in.’

  ‘I’m here, sir,’ said Dr Wolfe, half standing.

  ‘Then who is that young person out there?’

  ‘My daughter, Katarina.’

  ‘But surely this concerns her too?’ A hand waved from behind the files. ‘Do join us, Katarina, and shut the door behind you.’

  Kat went in and sat beside her mum. From this angle, she couldn’t see the glasses, only the eyebrows. They reminded her of capuchin eyebrows, only as snowy as Father Christmas’s beard. Capuchins, she’d decided, when she’d looked the primates up online, had the best eyebrows on earth.

  The eyebrows stood to attention. ‘Miles Mells. Pleasure to meet you both. Thanks for your letter and CV, Dr Wolfe. Most impressive. I think you’ll do admirably. You’re hired. Now, would you like to know a little more about the job?’

  Dr Wolfe was taken aback. She’d anticipated a long, gruelling interview, followed, if all went well, by a second interview at a later date. She hadn’t expected to be handed the job
– a job she knew next to nothing about – in the first minute.

  ‘Uh, u-mm, thank you,’ she stammered. ‘Yes, it would be helpful to know more about the role. Perhaps you could start by telling us where the practice is based?’

  ‘Bluebell Bay in Dorset. You’ll have heard of it, no doubt. In my opinion, it’s the prettiest cove on the Jurassic Coast.’

  Kat leaned forward. ‘The Jurassic Coast?’

  ‘That’s right. Dinosaur country. You’ll be walking in the footsteps of sea monsters. Recently they discovered one that makes T. rex look like a kitten. In just ninety-five miles of coastline, there are one hundred and eighty-five million years of history. On some beaches, you can pick up ammonites – they’re related to modern octopuses, squid and cuttlefish – as easily as you can build sandcastles.’

  ‘So the practice is located in the cove itself?’ asked Dr Wolfe, keen to keep the interview on track.

  ‘Indeed it is. Bluebell Bay Animal Clinic was owned by my late client Lionel Baker. Tragically, he had a heart attack, aged just forty-eight, while out jogging. He was a health nut. A vegan. As you know, they’re frequently the first to go.’

  Kat and her mum exchanged glances. ‘We’re vegan.’

  ‘What, both of you? Well, I read that in the Daily Maelstrom, so it may have been fake news. These days, it’s hard to tell the difference. Now, where were we?’

  ‘You were saying that Lionel Baker passed away,’ said Dr Wolfe. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. When did it happen?’

  ‘Three and a half months ago. I’m acting on behalf of his relatives, who live abroad. It took some time to wind up his business affairs, and even longer to pack up his home, for reasons I’ve yet to get to the bottom of. Did I mention that the job comes with a cottage? It’s beside the practice, with far-reaching views over the bay. It has a wonderful garden too, although that may be in need of attention.’

  With each fresh detail, Kat’s excitement grew. Dr Wolfe was doing her best to be professional, but she was quivering.