London (3 page)

What is going on?
I wondered, as I headed toward Jacky's office, hoping to find the phone under her desk or something. I turned the corner, and the scene outside Jacky's closed door stopped me in my tracks. About a dozen people—junior editors, stylists, even a bike messenger—were pushed up against the door, obviously trying to listen in on Jacky's conversation.
How odd
, I thought—and more to the point, how would I be able to get past them and into her office?

Surprisingly, it wasn't difficult. They were all too intent on listening in. I just kept saying,
Sorry, sorry, excuse me
, until I was within reach of the doorknob, then turned it, ready to walk straight in. Jacky's PA suddenly realized what I was doing and tried to stop me, but I brushed her off. It wasn't as if the casting with Jacky had gone so well that I was going to get a booking. Clearly, with the amount of time she'd spent “talking” to me, my zed card had gone straight to the bottom of her pile. At this point I was willing to risk coming off as rude to save myself some time.

I opened the door and saw Jacky, giggling, eyes sparkling as she leaned on her elbows and gazed adoringly into the eyes of Mr. Pretend Rock Star. She was an entirely different creature from the abrasive editor I'd seen twenty minutes earlier. He, on the other hand, once he bothered to look up and see who'd walked in, began to smile at me, as if my unannounced visit amused him. Pointing to his sunglasses on the desk, he said, “Do I still look like a pretend rock star?”

As I looked into his eyes (brown, with flecks of green-gold, in case you're wondering), I felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. Mr. Pretend Rock Star wasn't a pretender at all—he was the real deal!

He was none other than Josh Locke, the lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter of a very, very popular boy band. And I suppose it was no big surprise that he was at Chic House. After all, he was on every fashion designer's wish list of personalities they'd like to dress. Jenny and Ellie were huge fans—like ninety-nine percent of the teen female population of Great Britain. Or probably the world by now.

No wonder the models had been preening
, I thought.
What is it about fame that turns people's heads?

Jacky stopped batting her eyelashes at Josh Locke long enough to look at me. “Axelle!” she cried, her voice suspiciously friendly, as she waved her PA away (although I noticed that the PA didn't shut the door completely, and through the one-inch crack she left, I could make out about six pairs of eyes). “We were just talking about you.”

Was she pretending to be almost human for Josh's sake? So that he wouldn't think she was a model-eating editor? And why were
they
just talking about
me
? “Have you found your voice yet, Axelle? And, by the way, I hear you've met Josh already.”

“Actually, Jacky, I never lost my voice. And as for Josh, I think I know enough,” I said tightly.

“I told Jacky that we met downstairs. I recognized you from your zed card.” He pointed to the card on Jacky's desk.

“Yes, Josh said you bumped into him in the lobby,” Jacky said in a honeyed voice.

I glared at him. “Actually
Josh
bumped into me.”

“Well, anyway, seeing as you're here, we can discuss the booking—”

I interrupted Jacky before she could go any further. There was no time to talk. I had to get out of her office and down to the crime scene as fast as possible, so I gave her the best excuse I could think of. “Jacky, I'm very sorry, but I have another casting across town that I'm running late for. I really have to go. I just wanted to ask if I'd left a phone here.”

“No, I'm sorry, Axelle, I haven't seen anything. But have a look around, if you like.”

“There's no need to do that,” Josh broke in.

“Oh? Why's that?” I asked.

“I think I've found it.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone. He held it across the desk for me on his open palm. “Is this what you're looking for? It flew out of your coat pocket when you bumped into me by the revolving door.”

I glared at him again. “Thank you,” I said as I reached for Gavin's phone. “Although if you hadn't knocked me over in the first place, none of this would have happened.”

“Absolutely,” said Josh with a wry smile. “So it's a good thing I was wearing my sunglasses.”

I ignored his comment, and after thanking Jacky and saying good-bye, Halley and I left. Josh had insisted on opening and shutting the door for us, and it was quite funny to see how everyone scattered from behind the door as he opened it.

As we retraced our steps to the Oxford Circus Tube station, I took deep breaths and pushed all thoughts of pop-star arrogance and fawning fans out of my mind.

At least I had Gavin's phone again, thank goodness, and now nothing else was going to stop me from getting on with the case. A sense of renewed energy surged through me as I realized that I could forget about fashion for the day and my time was now my own. Halley and I got on a southbound Bakerloo line train to the Embankment station. Then I found a quiet corner and sat down with Halley snoozing at my feet. Next to my TBLI list I started writing another list—of the things I needed to do
now
…

First, I needed to check out the scene of the crime.

But I also needed to dig into Gavin's background. What if the mugging was totally unrelated to the flash drive? It could all be an incredible coincidence. Fleetingly, my granny's mantra—
Remember, Axelle, there is no such thing as a coincidence. Keep that in mind once you start solving cases…
—intruded upon my thoughts. I ignored it and chose to take the thorough route. Unlike my grandfather, I didn't have hundreds of cases under my belt. Jumping to conclusions was something I couldn't afford to do.

Simultaneously, however, it was important to dig into Johnny Vane's background. Thorough route aside, my gut (and Tallulah's conviction) told me this was the line of inquiry that would eventually lead me to Gavin's attacker. The question was, how?

If Tallulah was right, an important clue was buried somewhere in the images she had brought me on the stick. But
what
? What was so suspicious about those pictures that someone was willing to do anything to get hold of them?

I looked at the top of my list:

Go to the scene of the crime.

While I'd been at the casting, Tallulah had emailed me twice: once with Gavin's phone code, and a second time with the details of the exact location where Gavin had been found, so I knew where I was headed. With a bit of luck I might stumble upon something interesting. It was definitely worth a look.

I looked at Tallulah's first email again and jotted Gavin's phone code in my notebook for safekeeping. Then I accessed his phone and started looking through it. His photo album was the first place I checked. Needless to say there were thousands of images on there. And although I wasn't as thorough as I could have been, nothing popped out at me. I did see a few shots from the Johnny Vane shoot, but nothing I hadn't already seen on the flash drive. There were also quite a few of Gavin and Tallulah goofing around, and many of the London cityscape.

Like Tallulah had said, Gavin's calendar and agenda gave absolutely no information about a meeting on the Embankment on Sunday morning. Everything else noted in his agenda had to do with work, and each entry was clearly marked as such. I searched his contacts list, but nothing there struck me as unusual either. (Although, how could I really judge?) I sent Tallulah a message asking her to verify that she'd been through her brother's list of contacts. Her answer was unambiguous:

I know everyone on there.

Hmm…I sent Tallulah another question:

Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against Gavin? Or a score to settle?

A message came back:

No. Everyone likes Gavin. No enemies that I know of. Although obviously there's one now…

Another quickly followed:

BTW the police are still looking into these possibilities. But so far, nothing. Why am I not surprised? Zzzzzzzz…

I had to laugh. Tallulah certainly didn't rate the police highly for their efforts. I wrote back, asking her to notify me of any updates. Then, pulling my tablet out, I turned to my next line of inquiry and started scrolling through the images from Gavin's flash drive that I'd downloaded earlier. But again, apart from the last shot—the one of the old photo—nothing struck me as especially strange. After a few minutes I put my tablet away and pulled out my notebook.

Inside was a paper copy of the old photo from Gavin's flash drive, which I'd quickly printed at home before leaving for the casting. As the train came to an unexpected halt, I carefully examined the image of the smiling boys under the stark fluorescent lighting of the train car. If I was hoping to find the fragment of an address written on the brown envelope in the background, I was disappointed. It was clean. And whatever marks I could see on the picture itself appeared to be scratches on the surface of the original.

The more I thought about it, the more I questioned why Gavin even had this image on the stick. I mean, the photo itself seemed banal enough: two young boys having fun on a sunny day. I could only guess that it was included because one of the boys was Johnny Vane, but if so, why this particular old picture—especially when all of the other photos were of Johnny now, today?

I wondered whether Gavin's job brief from
Harper's
Bazaar
magazine had included getting images from Johnny's childhood. I quickly opened his phone again and searched in his agenda. Nothing. Then I searched his emails, and while I found several relating to the booking, I didn't find anything that gave specific details. I quickly sent Tallulah a message asking about it. Her answer came back immediately:

Yes, looked into that, but found nothing on G's laptop and nothing printed—though he must have had an email with the details. I tried his agent but he wouldn't release any details. That's standard procedure for any kind of agency BTW.

Grrr!

I scribbled a reminder to myself on my TBLI (To Be Looked Into) list.

I picked up the photo again and noted another interesting thing about it: in the background, across the river in the right-hand corner of the picture, I could just make out the edge of a tall, turreted building that felt somehow familiar, like it was somewhere in the city. If it was, that meant the boys had been snapped at some point along the Thames. I needed to find out where that photo had been taken. Maybe it was near where Gavin had been attacked. And if so, was that a coincidence—or not?

While those thoughts ran through my mind, I grabbed my tablet again and started researching Johnny Vane online. (For once the Tube's Wi-Fi signal was strong.) If I assumed that the photos of Johnny were a factor in Gavin's attack, then perhaps the closer I was able to get to Johnny, the closer I would also get to Gavin's attacker. It was a lead worth following, I thought.

I knew who Johnny Vane was, of course, but I had no idea about his background. After a few minutes of delving into his personal history though, I was more convinced than ever that I should follow my gut concerning the old photo.

According to various online sources I checked out, Johnny had a twin brother—so he was probably one of the boys in the old photo, though I'd still have to confirm this.

Also, according to his Wiki page, tragedy was a strong feature of Johnny's childhood:

Johnny Vane's father, James Vane (from a junior branch of the Somerset Vane family), died of a heart attack in 1973, while having supper at his London club. Johnny's twin brother, Julian, drowned in 1977, and his mother, Clarissa Vane, the famous fashion model and muse, died in an accident at their home a few months later.

Apart from these two sentences, no other details were given about the deaths. Even so, my head was buzzing just from reading the word “drowned.” My mind jumped back to Gavin's photo of the two boys standing knee-deep in water. Could Julian have drowned in the Thames? I saved my questions for later as I finished reading the article, which went on to tell me:

Johnny Vane's younger sister, Georgiana Vane (born 1973), works in PR for Johnny Vane Ltd.

I clicked on the link to Georgiana Vane's page, but it was notably brief. Apart from confirming that she worked for the publicity department of her brother's fashion company, no other information was given.

I learned more about Johnny's mother on her Wiki page:

A renowned beauty and model, Clarissa Vane (née Ryder) was, and still is, often cited as a muse to many of the most influential London fashion designers and fashion photographers from the 1970s to the present… Entire fashion collections have been dedicated to her beauty and style.

I wasn't sure what a muse was exactly, not in the fashion sense, at least—although I'd heard the word used, especially in connection with Kate Moss. But presumably a modern muse was to fashion designers and stylists what a classical muse was to poets and artists: someone who inspired creative types to, well…create.

Wiki confirmed that Clarissa Vane had appeared at the most glittering jet-set parties of the late 1960s and early 1970s, not to mention in front-row seats at all the Paris fashion shows. She had certainly traveled—from Marrakesh to Gstaad to Jamaica. No destination seemed too far away for a party.

And:
Two portraits of Clarissa Vane, dating from 1975, are on view at the National Portrait Gallery in Trafalgar Square, London…

Hmm…muse and sometime model…how tragic to have died so young
, I thought as I looked at various images of her beautiful, symmetrical face and lithe figure. Ironically, her face was serene and classical, with a halo of thick, shoulder-length, dark-blond hair and large, long-lashed blue eyes. It gave no indication of the nomadic and bohemian existence she'd lived. She seemed otherworldly, almost like a beautiful statue.