London (2 page)

“Hmmm…so they went through everything in the flat?”

She nodded. “They were methodical, rifling through every book. They even cut into our mattresses, but neatly along the seams, so I didn't notice right away.”

“Yet they took nothing?”

“Not even a Q-tip.”

“So you think the attack and the break-in are connected?”

Tallulah nodded slowly. “I do, yeah… That's what I feel, even if the police don't. And like I said, it's why I've come to see you. I want to get to the bottom of this—with or without the police.”

I was quiet for a moment before asking, “So what do you think they were searching for? What do you think they attacked your brother for?”

She clicked open her little turquoise Chanel handbag and carefully pulled something out of it.

“This,” she said as she placed a small object in my hand.

It was a flash drive.

“So why do
you
have it?” I asked as I plugged the flash drive into my laptop.

I'd quickly gone into the house and fetched the laptop from my bedroom. Now, back in the garden house, I was sitting at the round table, while Tallulah stood behind me.

“Gavin gave it to me on Sunday morning before he left the flat. He said, ‘Make sure you hold on to this. Don't let it out of your hands. It's valuable.' I tried asking him about it, but he was in a rush to leave. Thinking about it now, maybe he was just trying to evade my questions. Anyway, he told me again that he had to check something near Westminster, and that he'd see me later.

“I didn't really give the stick much thought at the time because I figured he'd be back soon and could explain everything. Besides, Gavin has masses of flash drives that he uses on a daily basis. So I slipped it into this handbag,” she said as she lifted her tiny Chanel crossover, “and it hasn't left my side since.”

“Did he seem nervous or scared about what he was going to do, or whoever he was going to meet?”

“No. But then again, Gavin isn't the type who gets nervous…although…”

“Although?” I prompted after a moment's silence.

“He was excited. I mean, you'd have to know him to have noticed, but
I
saw that he was excited about whatever he was going to do. And then, like I said, he seemed evasive. Normally, he confides in me about everything. I remember thinking it was like he knew something he shouldn't. What's that expression, ‘like the cat that got the cream'?”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded.

“Well, that was Gavin on Sunday morning.”

“You said the attack must have happened at around, or just after, eight a.m.?”

Tallulah nodded.

“Did your brother often go out so early on a Sunday morning? He must have left your flat by seven.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “He actually left the flat at six forty-five. Like all photographers, Gavin loves the morning light. Yes, it was early, but not unusual for him—not if there was something he was keen to photograph or investigate.”

I nodded and made a note of the time. “And when your apartment was ransacked, did they take Gavin's computer? Surely he'd downloaded whatever is on the flash drive onto his computer too.”

Tallulah nodded. “He did. I checked as soon as I got his computer back. But you see, at the time of the break-in, his laptop wasn't in our flat. He'd taken it to a friend's the day before for safekeeping. When I called the friend to tell him about Gavin, he told me he had the computer.”

Tallulah and I both fell silent as I mulled everything over in my mind.

“Is there anything else you can tell me? About Sunday, I mean,” I asked eventually.

I saw Tallulah hesitate for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to say what was on her mind.

“Any little thing?”

“Well, there is one slightly odd thing I noticed…but only later on, at the hospital.”

I waited.

“This may have nothing to do with anything—I mean, the police didn't even notice, but…”

“Tell me anyway,” I said. “Details—even ones that seem insignificant—can sometimes say a lot.”

After a moment she said, “I picked up my brother's clothes at the hospital to take them home.”

“And?”

“And his shoes, socks, and the bottom half of his jeans were wet—not soaking wet, they'd had some time to dry. But my point is, it wasn't raining on Sunday morning. His jacket, for example, was bone dry. So why were his jeans and shoes so damp?”

Good question
, I thought—and one I had no immediate answer for. In my notes, I labeled the detail “TBLI”—To Be Looked Into.

The contents of the flash drive had finally downloaded. I clicked open the only folder on the stick—Gavin had named it
Close-up
—and Tallulah pulled a chair up next to mine as I started scrolling through the images.

“I don't understand,” I said. “There doesn't seem to be anything suspicious or even odd about these images. In fact, they're really beautiful photographs; Gavin's good.”

The images were of fashion designer Johnny Vane. He was one of a small handful of Brits—like Vivienne Westwood, Alexander McQueen, and Christopher Kane—who had started very small in London and managed, through sheer creative talent, to build strongly individualistic and highly identifiable brands, putting London back on the fashion map as they did so.

The photos were all of Johnny and seemed to be “day in the life” reportage. By the look of it, Gavin must have taken the photos just before the Vane fashion show a couple of months earlier. Many of the pictures showed Johnny at work in what I presumed to be the Vane design studio—sketching, pinning fabric, and so forth. There were also photos of Johnny and his team doing fittings with various models, and even some interior shots of his streamlined, stylish home. (At least I presumed it was his home.)

A large number of sleek portraits of Johnny rounded out the contents of the stick. In all of them, he wore what seemed to be his trademark look: spiky hair, perfectly clipped salt-and-pepper stubble, black leather biker jacket (the knock-off versions of his famous Vane biker jacket were cult favorites at my school), black skinny jeans, black shirt, biker boots, studded fingerless gloves (he seemed to wear these all the time—even in the photos of the fittings!), and an assortment of silver rings. The lighting was beautiful, and even the candid shots had a strong sense of composition. Gavin clearly knew what he was doing.

Of all the photos on the flash drive, however, it was the last one that really caught my eye, precisely because it was not beautiful and slick. In fact, it seemed to be a photo of a photo—and an old one at that. Furthermore, the careless way the old picture had been photographed, lying on a nondescript brown envelope and with little attention paid to cropping or lighting, suggested that the shot was a candid one.

Otherwise the original photo in the picture was charming. It was of two young boys—they looked to be about five or six, and possibly twins. They stood knee-deep in water, smiling and happy, with one boy holding the other in a big bear hug.

Presumably
, I thought as I looked at it carefully,
one of those boys is the young Johnny.
All the other photos on the stick were of him, so it seemed likely that this one must be too…although I'd have to find a way of verifying that.

“What are these photos for?” I asked Tallulah. “Why did Gavin take them?”

“They were for an interview with Johnny Vane, something one of the fashion magazines—
Harper's Bazaar
—hired my brother to do. I think Gavin said something about the story running next month, in time for Johnny's anniversary—twenty years since he first established himself as a designer. Incidentally, this is an edited selection of the photos he took. Gavin sent the same choice of images, minus the old one, to
Harper's Bazaar
.

“I know because I checked his emails when I got his computer back from his friend. Anyway, photographing Johnny Vane for
Harper's
Bazaar
was a real coup for Gavin because this is the sort of reportage work he'd like to do more of. He was super excited when his agent called him about it, although I suppose now he'll regret ever having taken it on.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe the attack had nothing to do with these pictures. We just don't know yet. Then again, maybe Gavin was on the trail of something important. And if we can uncover what that was, maybe he'll feel it was all worth it, once he recovers.” I paused for a moment as thoughts crowded my mind. “Speaking of which, you said that the doctors hope to wake him up at the end of the week, right?”

Tallulah nodded. She'd gone quiet again, and her face was tight with agony and fear. “Like I said earlier, it's a bit touch-and-go right now, but, yeah, the plan is to wake him on Friday evening—hopefully. Why?”

“Just wondering…”

I scrolled through the photos again and again, Tallulah by my side. But apart from that last slightly odd picture, nothing obvious jumped out.

When I mentioned this to Tallulah, she said, “Yeah, that's the problem, isn't it? Nobody looking at these images could possibly believe that there was anything strange or sinister about them, but my brother would never ever have said, ‘Don't let it out of your hands,' if he didn't have a good reason. And he wouldn't have taken his laptop to his friend's unless he was worried someone might want to steal it. I've never known him to do that, not even after his first shoot for Italian
Vogue
, when he was so worried he might lose his photos that he made copies on ten different sticks, just in case.”

Tallulah was flustered, and color had risen to her cheeks. I watched as she stood up suddenly. A look of frustration flashed across her face, and her eyes narrowed in anger as she crossed and uncrossed her arms. “I'm sure the images on this flash drive, our flat being searched, and what's happened to my brother are related—I'm sure of it! I want to find who has done this! I want to find the person responsible for hurting my brother!” She stopped and breathed deeply, then fiddled with her fingernails in silence.

I turned back to my laptop and flicked through the images. “Have you any idea why your brother named the file ‘Close-up'? I haven't seen any close-ups on the stick at all.”

“I hadn't thought about that, but it's typical Gavin,” Tallulah said as she bent over my shoulder to look at the screen. “He tends to give his files slightly coded names. They always have something to do with the content of the file, but usually the connection is only obvious to him. I remember once looking at a bunch of photos he was editing. They were all on a file labeled ‘Elle,' so I thought they were something he'd shot for
Elle
magazine. But, no, they were photos he'd taken for some Japanese magazine editorial inspired by the actor Elle Fanning.”

After a few moments, I heard Tallulah move behind me again. It sounded as if she was looking through her handbag. I turned around just as she pulled out a phone and offered it to me. “It's Gavin's,” she explained. “Surprisingly enough, the attacker didn't take it. Gavin had it zipped up in an inside pocket of his jacket, so I guess they didn't notice it. Anyway, I thought you might find it useful. I've had a look and couldn't see anything suspicious, but maybe you'll have a better idea of what to look for.”

I took the phone and asked Tallulah for the code.

“Oh yeah.” Her mouth broke into the first semblance of a smile I'd seen since we'd shaken hands. “That might help… I have it written down somewhere. Hang on.” She rummaged in her tiny bag again. “Oh, I don't have it on me right now, but I'll look it up as soon as I'm back home and send it to you. Luckily I know where he keeps his passwords.”

“Fine,” I said.

“So, Axelle,” she said as she watched me, “you will take on this case, won't you?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I will…but we won't have much time.”

Tallulah raised her eyebrows.

“Remember I asked you when your brother is expected to regain consciousness?”

She nodded.

“Well, I imagine whoever put him in the hospital will still want to get their hands on this stick. Unless they found what they wanted on the memory card in Gavin's camera.”

Tallulah shook her head. “He changed memory cards for every job. I even saw him put a new one in on Sunday morning. Whoever has the camera won't have found much—if anything.”

“And they didn't find anything in your flat, so I reckon the only option they have now is to threaten Gavin into handing the stick over the first chance they get.”

“I hadn't thought of that.” Tallulah's voice sounded distressed, and she started picking at her nails again.

I watched her for a moment before saying, “There's another scenario we have to consider too…”

“Yes?”

“Gavin probably got a good look at his attacker, right?”

Tallulah nodded.

“Well, it might not just be the stick the attacker's looking for now.”

Tallulah didn't say anything, but she stopped picking her nails and stared at me.

“They'll also want to stop Gavin from identifying them…”

“But how?”

“By silencing him for good.”

Castings and Clues

After Tallulah left, I ate a quick lunch at home, then changed for my
Teen Chic
casting at Chic House on Cavendish Square in Mayfair. Annoyingly, though there was nothing I would have loved more than to concentrate on the new case, I knew I'd better go to the casting or risk ticking off my agency—and my mom. And the last thing I needed right now was to draw any of
that
kind of attention to myself.

I didn't have to wear anything superspecial for the casting—you don't necessarily need to see magazine editors in high heels or anything—but still…dressing to see
Teen Chic
was not like dressing to hang out at home. Ratty old pullovers and unbrushed hair wouldn't cut it. And my large glasses would definitely have to stay behind—or at least in my shoulder bag. I went upstairs and changed into a pair of dark skinny jeans, covering the sweater with my favorite Burberry trench coat (both detective-y and trendy!). Then I took the blue leopard-print scarf I'd found in Topshop out of its drawer and chose a pair of Converse.

My last and by far my best “accessory” for the day was Halley. I figured it would be more fun for both of us if she came along, and if her excited barks and wiggles were anything to go by, she totally agreed. I snapped on her leash and left the house before Mom could interrogate me about Tallulah's visit.

Halley and I walked to Notting Hill Gate and caught the 94 bus. Thirty minutes later we arrived at Oxford Circus, and from there it was a ten-minute walk to Chic House.

As I pushed the heavy revolving door of the building, I told Halley, “This casting better be good because it's seriously eating up sleuthing time.”

With a sweet look from her bright, little button eyes and a wag of her short, white tail, Halley made it clear that she understood exactly what I meant.

Chic House is the headquarters for the London-based magazines owned and published by Sid Clifton.
Teen Chic
shares the large office building with
Chic
,
Chic Bride
, and
Chic Rogue
, among others.

The casting I was going to—as my booker, Jazz Bhatnagar, had excitedly explained to me the previous Friday—was for a “special” booking. This is fashion industry speak for a booking involving someone famous and talented—an actor, musician, or sports star, for instance.

“Now I can't tell you who you'll be working with yet, but—fingers crossed you get the job—you'll find out as soon as you sign the confidentiality contract.” Jazz had practically squealed with excitement as she'd given me my casting details.

A casting basically involves meeting a client—in this case,
Teen Chic
—or a photographer for a potential job. And while that may sound pretty banal and stress-free, the fact is, it's anything but.

A model can easily have a day filled with at least a dozen castings and go-sees—and each casting is like a full-on job interview. Not only do you have to make an impression with the way you look—clear skin, clean hair, groomed nails, cool-ish outfit—but you have to show a lot of personality too. If, in the ten minutes the average casting lasts, you can convince the people you're seeing that you'd be professional, amusing, upbeat, energetic, and fun to have around all day, then you're halfway to getting the job—or at least you're likely to be remembered for another one.

The zed cards (a kind of business card for models) of girls who don't sparkle sufficiently are immediately relegated to the bottom of the bottom drawer…if not the wastepaper basket. And keep in mind that it's all subjective, so sometimes you can sparkle all you like, but you still won't be that client's cup of tea.

There were a lot of girls at the casting; Jazz had mentioned that a few models were needed for the editorial. Half of them were on their phones or tablets, while the other half were chatting. Models are normally quite friendly—at least that's my experience. Yes, it can be intimidating to walk into a room of super cool and pretty-looking girls…but actually, because most models travel so much or may have just arrived in a country, they are usually happy to have someone to talk to.

I said hi to the girls that I'd met on other jobs or castings, and then I found an empty seat and sat down with Halley at my feet. Needless to say, Halley drew a lot of attention—especially from a tiny, cream-colored, long-haired Chihuahua that belonged to a Brazilian model.

While Halley played with the Chihuahua, I managed to get my head in the right space to do the casting, pushing all thoughts of the case out of my mind. But then, just as my turn came, my phone vibrated with a new message that made me feel nervous and excited—even if I had been expecting it:

On my way to Gare du Nord now. Can't wait to see you tonight. xxx

My eyes quickly swept over the short text and I felt my stomach flip-flop.
No time to think about him right now, Axelle. It's time to do your casting, then get cracking on your new case.

I put my phone away, ran my hands through my hair, quickly applied a touch of lip gloss and, taking Halley with me, walked into the editor's office.

“Hi,” said the editor, Jacky Sykes, when we walked in. Then, before I even had a chance to say hi back, she told me that she'd seen me walk at a couple of the shows in New York and knew exactly who I was. I was just about to ask her which shows, but she cut me off by answering her desk phone. She spoke in a series of rapid-fire queries and comments, punctuated by short girlie giggles at odds with her crisp body language.

With a wave of her other hand, she motioned that I should hand her my “model book.” I gave the portfolio of photos to her and watched as she rifled through the pages while continuing to speak on the phone. I knew she must have been studying my pictures, because her eyes were glued to them, but like most editors, she didn't give anything away.

After a minute, she handed my book back to me. I didn't know if I was supposed to say anything or not.
Surely there has to be more to our appointment than just this?
I thought. Apparently not. Phone still glued to her ear, Jacky caught my eye and looked pointedly at the door as she creased her lips into a tight little smile. It looked like something a hungry tiger might do. I was about to tell her that it might help if she'd actually speak to me, when she abruptly finished her call and pushed a bright-red button on the large telephone on her desk. She spoke loudly into the phone.

“I have a model in my office who doesn't seem to speak. Could you please show her out?”

I'd had some bad castings but this was ridiculous—so much for my chance to sparkle. Before I could tell her what I thought of her, the door swung open and her secretary came in. “There you are!” she said loudly, as if I were deaf. “Why don't you come with me?”

Why, I asked myself with mounting anger, were fashionistas so often incapable of giving you the chance to speak for yourself?

As if to prove my point, the secretary kept up a nonstop monologue as she ushered me and Halley out of the editor's office and back into the foyer. I was so angry that I was now willing myself to keep quiet so I wouldn't snap her head off. “Will you be okay?” she asked finally after calling us a lift.

I stepped into the lift, moving back to allow Halley in, then turned and said, “Actually, the sooner I get out of here, the better I'll be. Thanks.” I watched as the doors shut on her surprised face.

Argh! Fashion! What a waste of my time!
I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down, and then, with Halley moving at a brisk trot beside me, I strode out of the lift and into the lobby. I was desperate to get out into the fresh air and, more importantly, get working on the case. I bounded to the revolving door and pushed my way in. As I shuffled toward the open air, I looked down to make sure that Halley was right next to me and not about to get squashed.

I was still looking down as I prepared to step out into the street—so I barely saw a tall, fast-moving figure speed toward me, aiming to enter the revolving door as I walked out. But instead—
bang
—I was sent flying and landed on the ground with a thump, right on my bottom. As I sat sprawled on the pavement in front of the Chic House entrance, I heard the gentle swish of the automated door as it continued to rotate slowly behind me.

Could this day possibly get any more dramatic?
I thought as I checked for injuries.

“I am so, so sorry. Really. Really. Sorry,” said a deep, concerned voice from above.

Please let that be the voice of a friendly, normal person, like a fireman or shop assistant
, I told myself as I sat on my sore bottom, with Halley licking my right ear.
I really can't take another fashionista right now
.

I looked up and saw exactly that. With annoyance I took in the tall figure with long, untamed dark-brown hair and super cool clothes: brown leather pointy-toed boots, skinny blue jeans, and an old white T-shirt under a checked flannel shirt. Two long chains—one with a cross pendant, the other with a key—dangled from around his neck. I could just make out the top of a tattoo peeking out from underneath the collar of his T-shirt. He didn't seem to be that much older than me.

He was peering at me through mirrored aviator sunglasses, his hands held out to help me up.

I debated refusing his offer, but considering I'd already made enough of a fool of myself, the last thing I needed was to fall over again while I was trying to get back on my feet.

“Next time, you might want to slow down a bit,” he said, pulling me up with a smile.

I couldn't believe the guy's arrogance. I spoke out before I was even standing on my own two legs. “Before you start lecturing me on my conduct, why don't you stop trying to pretend you're a famous rock star and take those ridiculous bug eyes off your face. It might help you to see better so you don't go barging into anyone else.”

I watched as his smile flattened into a straight line. “Are you always this friendly?”

“Are you always this arrogant?”

“Look, I'm sorry. Why don't we start over, okay?”

“I don't think so. Unfortunately, I don't have the time, and I'm not even sure it would be worth it.”

Mr. Cool didn't say anything but simply stood there, openmouthed. Even though he had his sunglasses on, I could see the shock on his face. Clearly he felt I'd been in the wrong, and clearly he wasn't too pleased with the turn our conversation had taken. Well, I'd had my say, and I'd had my fill of fashionistas for the day. I didn't wait to hear or say more. Halley and I headed off. I heard him call after me a few seconds later, but ignoring him, I turned the corner and disappeared.

I took a few deep breaths as we walked briskly back toward Oxford Circus. Maybe on another day, it would have taken me longer to calm down after the casting I'd just had, but honestly, I was so intrigued and anxious to get working on my new case that my anger was rapidly evaporating with each stride I took. I pulled my phone out of my trench coat pocket and called Ellie.
She should be back from Miami
, I thought with a glance at the time. I hadn't seen her since I'd started studying for my GCSEs, and I was eager to discuss the case with her. Fortunately she answered and was ready to meet me whenever. She had the day free.

“Where?” Ellie asked.

What I wanted to do more than anything else was to check out the scene of the crime. I wanted to see where Gavin was attacked. It was, I felt, the logical place to begin my investigation. Not that I told Ellie any of this—yet.

“How about down on the Embankment?” I said. “I need to walk Halley. I'll be somewhere between the entrances to the Westminster and Embankment Tube stations. On the Big Ben side of the river.”

“Perfect—I can go for my run down there… But don't you usually walk Halley in Hyde Park? Why the change?” I could hear the curiosity in Ellie's voice. She knew something was up, and I could practically feel her smile through the phone as she teased me.

“That, Nancy Drew, is on a need-to-know basis.”

“And I don't need to know?”

“Not yet. But don't worry; you'll soon be in the picture.”

We made plans to meet an hour later and hung up. Then, as I slipped my phone into my trench coat pocket, I realized with horror that Gavin's phone was no longer in my other pocket! I'd been carrying both phones, one in each of the two large front pockets of my coat…but now I had only mine. The other pocket was empty.
Argh!

I started to panic and quickly moved to the side of the pavement to search through my shoulder bag—but Gavin's phone wasn't in it. Panic really set in as I realized it might have slipped out of my pocket when I'd fallen. If that was the case, then I'd have to go back to Chic House.
Double argh!

I stomped back the way I'd come—scanning the pavement all the way, just in case—and into the lobby. I asked at reception whether a phone had been handed in within the last fifteen minutes. The answer was no. Hmm…then had it somehow slipped out of my pocket while I'd been on the casting? I was fuming with myself—why had I kept Gavin's phone in an unzipped pocket? I wanted to get going. I should have been meeting Ellie down at the crime scene, but instead I was stuck back in Chic House retracing my steps.

I took a deep breath as the lift doors opened and Halley and I stepped back out onto the
Teen Chic
floor. I searched all over the waiting area and asked the models present if they'd seen my (Gavin's) phone, but no one had. Not that anyone was paying much attention to me; since I'd left, the atmosphere at
Teen Chic
had suddenly become charged with an air of excitement. Furthermore, all the models were preening (even more than usual), checking their reflections in their powder compacts and arranging their hair.