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.
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?
London Page 3
