Living three hundred miles apart was a killer (no pun intended), but being together—even drenched in stinking river water—felt, well, right somehow.
As we stood on the loading dock and gazed at Westminster Bridge, Sebastian suddenly made a small gasp.
“What is it, Watson?” I asked.
“Holmes, did you save the old photo to your phone?”
“Yes, I did,” I answered, pulling my phone out and searching through my album. I found the picture quickly and, standing next to him, held up the phone so we both could see it.
Sebastian studied the image for a moment and then said, “Follow me.” He led me back to the end of the dock, down the ladder, and onto the beach. The water had risen, but hadn’t yet reached the riverbank wall. With our backs to the wall we retraced our steps to near where he’d been stuck.
“Look,” Sebastian said, as he pointed out over the Thames in front of us. “The photo must have been taken from this beach. Do you see?”
“I think you’re right, Watson,” I said as I zoomed in on the image. The background matched up perfectly with the fuzzy detail we could see in the photo—which I could now see was in fact the western edge of the Palace of Westminster! But we’d never have noticed it if we hadn’t come down here.
“No wonder we couldn’t work out where the photo was taken,” I said. “You’d have to stand in this exact spot, looking from this angle and at low tide. It seems even more likely now that Gavin came here on Sunday morning. The photo must have led him to this beach.” I paused, thinking hard.
“You’ve gone quiet…”
“Sorry. I’m just thinking. The photo has led us to this beach, but so what? What does it tell us? We don’t know where Julian drowned exactly—and it doesn’t seem that we’ll find out either. Mr. Rivera didn’t tell us anything specific, and we got hardly any details from the newspaper reports. Furthermore, the four people who probably could help us haven’t given anything away so far. So how could Gavin have found out more than we have?”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“True. And like I said, he could have come down here because he’d figured out the location of the photo, but the location may not be all that important. Maybe this location”—I waved my phone around to indicate the area where we were standing—“has nothing to do with the motive for Gavin’s attack. Maybe there’s something else in the photo, some other little clue we’re still missing.”
“Like what?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “If I knew, we wouldn’t be standing here, dripping and shivering…but…but maybe Gavin found out some intriguing detail about Julian’s death. Not that it necessarily happened here on this beach. But the photo must have prompted him to investigate…”
I felt a chill run up my back, and not just because of my wet clothes.
What had Gavin seen in the photo? What had tipped him off to the idea that something wasn’t quite right?
My grandfather’s trusty mantra flickered through my mind: Things aren’t always as they seem…
What had Gavin seen that I hadn’t?
“Before we get you back home, there’s something I’d like you to do, Holmes.”
We were back by the dock, alone. I looked at Sebastian, my eyebrows raised.
“Take your wet jacket and T-shirt off—you can wear mine.” I started to protest, but Sebastian wouldn’t have any of it. “You’re going to catch your death if you don’t,” he said, “and you’ve a case to solve. That’s not a good combo.”
He had a point. “Okay, fine.”
“Oh, and Holmes?” he said with a smile as he pulled off his jacket and shirt.
“Yes?”
“I promise I won’t look.”
I rolled my eyes at him as he held his jacket up as a screen for me to change behind. After I peeled off both my T-shirt and jacket, Sebastian handed me his shirt. It was warm and smelled deliciously of him. I put it on and he took a step toward me, holding out his jacket so that I could slip my arms into it. But I couldn’t take that as well.
“Sebastian, keep it. You can’t walk around half naked. Then you’ll be the one stuck indoors with a fever, and I need your help to solve this case. Please. I’ll be fine with just your shirt.”
“Axelle—”
“I promise.”
I watched as he slowly slipped his jacket back on. And can I just say, he looked gorgeous, standing in front of me, torso bare and bathed in moonlight. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
And then Big Ben struck.
“Your mom,” Sebastian said with a laugh.
Grrr!
I knew he was right. The last thing I needed at the moment was to be grounded for getting home too late. Quickly, we turned and left the dock.
We’d just reached Westminster Bridge and were standing waiting to cross the road, when I noticed someone vaguely familiar on the other side of the crosswalk. With a jolt of surprise I realized who it was. Gently I signaled Sebastian to follow me away from the crossing and toward a group of tourists taking London-at-night photos with Big Ben in the background. I didn’t want the person I’d spotted to see me. I watched as the lonely figure stood and waited for the lights to change before heading across the bridge. I followed at a safe distance, but she didn’t go far. She stopped in the middle of the bridge and, arms on the stone wall, looked out over the black Thames.
“Axelle, who is it?” Sebastian asked.
“That is Georgie Vane.”
As we walked on toward the Tube, I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking about…her dead brother, Julian…and Johnny maybe? Their childhood? And had she come because of something she knew? Or, like us, because of something she was trying to find out?
THURSDAY MORNING
Model Manipulation
“Axelle!” called my mom from downstairs. “Axelle, you need to get down here and take a look at this!”
A few minutes later I was standing in our kitchen in shock. Both of the morning papers my parents read included photos from last night’s La Lune party at Kensington Gardens. And while that in itself wasn’t shocking, the following was: an image of yours truly, cozily ensconced on a bench with Josh Locke. Either the photographer had found an angle that made it seem as if Josh and I were practically joined at the mouth and sitting on each other’s laps, or some photoshopping had been done. Either way, the effect was the same. It definitely looked as if Josh and I were more than just good friends.
Was that why my phone was buzzing with messages this morning? I took it out of my pocket and looked. I had over fifty direct messages on Instagram!
I was starting to feel queasy.
At that moment my mom’s phone rang in her basement office. We listened as the answering machine picked it up. “Hello, Mrs. Anderson? We’re calling from the Daily Sun. We’d just like to confirm that your daughter, fashion model Axelle Anderson, is in a relationship with Josh Locke. We’ll try you again later. In the meantime, if you hear this message, please call us back at…”
I read some of the DMs and sank further into shock. Some of the comments were really nasty; a few even threatened violence.
I hate you!!!
Don’t think it’s gonna last. Josh Locke went out with my friend and…
I’m going to find you, YOU B****!
Josh certainly wouldn’t need to bother hiring bodyguards, I thought. All he had to do was unleash a few fans, and he’d be more than safe.
“Mom, I swear—it was nothing like this! Josh and I sat together on the bench. That much is true, but we weren’t anywhere like this close to each other in real life. We were just talking. Besides, Sebastian was there with me!”
My explanation was cut short by Primrose, who helps in the house in the mornings. Actually, it wasn’t Primrose herself who offered a fresh distraction, but rather what she was carrying. “Axelle, this
is for you. It was on the doormat. It’s unmarked—it must have been delivered by hand.”
I took the envelope and looked at it. It was manila, A5-sized, and it had my name handwritten on the front in black ink. I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I hesitated to open it. Was this some kind of threat from yet another crazed Josh Locke fan?
“Shall I open it for you, darling?” Mom asked.
“No, that’s all right, Mom,” I said as I ripped into the envelope.
The contents caught me completely by surprise. “So what is it?” Mom asked, peering at what I was holding.
“Oh, nothing to worry about. It’s just a note about school,” I lied. “I’ll take it upstairs.” All thoughts of Josh were pushed to the back of my mind as I sprang up the stairs two at a time. “I’ll be right back,” I called down.
I sat on my bed, Halley next to me, and emptied the envelope. Inside was a photo of what I presumed to be the entrance hall of the Dawson Place mansion—I recognized the stained-glass windows. Attached to it with a paper clip was a note.
Help!
At the time everyone asked me about what I could see, but not about what I could hear. I’m so, so tired. And the nightmares don’t stop.
Help me.
I looked at the photo again. The word “Hall” was handwritten in the top left-hand corner. The picture was printed on normal photographic paper, recently it seemed—if the crisp edges and ever-so-slightly sticky surface of the image were anything to go by.
Holding the photo up to the light coming through my window, I carefully studied the word in the corner. Like the writing on the envelope it didn’t seem to be particularly masculine, feminine, old-fashioned, or unusual in any way. I certainly didn’t recognize it.
The thought running through my mind, of course, was that whoever had sent this to me had sent the old photo to Gavin.
I picked the envelope up again and looked at it carefully. Hmm…it looked similar to the one in the background of Gavin’s photo. I got up and went to my desk. On top of it lay the four copies of Gavin’s photograph that I’d printed first thing that morning. (I’d figured that at the rate I kept handing them out, I should make several.)
Was it a coincidence that both of our photos had been delivered to us in the same way? I doubted it.
So who’d sent them? And why?
In my head I imagined someone frightened and haunted by the past. Maybe they’d stayed quiet for so long that now they were desperate to speak out. About what though? Something they knew? Or, as their note suggested, something they’d heard?
They were probably terrified of being found out by whoever had threatened or frightened them into staying quiet all these years. Hence, perhaps, the anonymous clue and the plea for help?
Yesterday I’d made it clear to Johnny, Georgie, Caro, and Jane that I was delving into that part of their past. Perhaps whoever had sent Gavin the clue had realized they had another chance of releasing the truth…through me.
But which one of them was it? Assuming the sender was one of those four people, of course…and it now seemed more likely than ever that it was. Tallulah, Sebastian, and I had searched every possible lead in Gavin’s agenda and phone and had got nowhere.
I looked at the photo again. Why an old picture of the hall? There had to be a connection with Clarissa Vane’s death… The newspaper reports and Mr. Rivera’s account all told the same story. Clarissa Vane had fallen as she’d walked down the stairs in the hall of her Dawson Place mansion. Death had been instantaneous. There’d been no suspicion of foul play, although the newspapers had made a point of saying that she’d been at a party the night before, insinuating that perhaps she’d been under the influence of something. It all added to the feeling of an untimely tragedy.
I reread the note:
Help!
At the time everyone asked me about what I could see, but not about what I could hear. I’m so, so tired. And the nightmares don’t stop.
Help me.
So who was there when the accident had happened? I had to find out.
It was time to get working on the case—and the first thing I had to do was call Mr. Rivera to ask him if we could meet early that evening. Fortunately he agreed.
A million thoughts seemed to be going through my mind, and the most distracting, annoying, and just plain stupid one was about the photo of me and Josh in the newspapers. As if having that maliciously manipulated image weighing heavily on me wasn’t enough, I kept being reminded of it by the way my phone was vibrating relentlessly. If I hadn’t needed to be available in case Tallulah or Sebastian called, I would have turned it off altogether. I’d already received a good number of texts from girls at school—including ones I only vaguely knew (how did they get my number?)—commenting on how amazing it was that I’d kissed Josh Locke. Argh!
I sent them all the same reply:
I DID NOT KISS HIM!!! The photo has been manipulated! We sat on the same bench and were present at the same party—but that’s it!
Another worry circling my mind was what Sebastian was thinking. Yesterday I’d insisted numerous times that Josh and I were only friends. I needed to talk to him about the photo of the hall…but dreaded having to discuss the photo in the papers. Case first, Axelle, case first, I told myself. Gavin and Tallulah are depending on you, remember? While I was brushing my teeth I decided to send Sebastian a message. I kept it as simple as possible, in the hope that he hadn’t read any of the papers:
Where are you?
His answer came back right away:
I can’t sing or write songs—are you sure you have the right person?
Grrr! I wrote back:
I’m sorry about the photo, but can we please talk about it when I see you? It’s not how it looks.
Sebastian:
Now you’re paraphrasing yourself: “Things aren’t always as they seem.”
Me:
You’re in fine form this morning, aren’t you? I have a case to solve. Are you up to helping me? Or not?
Sebastian:
Oh, so you can solve it without my help?
Me:
Just try me.
Sebastian:
Still tough, Holmes. I like that. Anyway, I plan on watching you solve it—from up close. When and where?
Me:
After La Lune show, Bond Street Tube station in Mayfair—westbound platform of the Central line. At 4-ish. Will message you when show is over. Need to go to Notting Hill Gate, meeting Mr. Rivera again at 5. Can you bring notes re Clarissa’s death? Also, interesting development this morning…image to follow.
I took a photo of the picture and note I’d received and sent them to Sebastian before texting again:
Hand delivered to my address this morning. Let me know what you think.
Now didn’t seem like the moment to remind Sebastian that I had a meeting with Josh Locke’s grandmother, so I didn’t say anything about it, although knowing him, he would remember anyway.
Sebastian:
I’ll be there at 4. No need to message me unless plans change.
Then:
Just saw the image you sent… I’ll have a proper look and get back to you. Assume you’ve had some thoughts already?
Me:
Sort of…
Sebastian again:
By the way, I still don’t sing or write songs.
Me:
With your voice, it’s probably better that way.
Sebastian:
Ouch! Now who’s in fine form?
I was smiling as I put my phone down, but it didn’t last long. A quick glance out the bedroom window gave me my second big surprise of the morning. Thanks to my supposed romance with Josh Locke, there were now paparazzi standing outside our house!
I pulled back quickly. Here was a situation I absolutely had not thought
about. I grabbed my phone and texted the number Josh had given me the previous day. There was no way I could let him drive me to his grandmother’s now. I’d have to insist on a change of plan—one that didn’t include me going anywhere with him.
The whole fame thing freaked me out, frankly. I don’t know how Josh could deal with it—even if, as Jenny insisted (and she did have a point), it was a part of his life that he couldn’t really do much about. I, however, could do something about it. I could get myself, by myself, to meet his grandmother.
Josh picked up on the first ring, and fortunately he understood my point. He apologized for the situation he’d put me in and said that normally these things blew over within twenty-four hours. If it didn’t, he promised he’d get his publicist to write a brief statement saying there was no truth in the rumor. He said he’d already spoken to his lawyers about getting some kind of official apology from the newspapers in question and wanted them to make it clear that the photo had been manipulated.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath while he’d been talking, until he began to explain that he’d be insisting on some kind of accountability from the newspapers.
“That would be great, Josh,” I said as I let out a long, slow breath. “I’d really appreciate that. And I know my parents would too.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “I’m only sorry that now when we’ve got over our rocky start, I’ve really given you fair reason to hang up on me and say good-bye for good. Will you give me another chance?” As he said that, I thought how he’d looked the previous day and the way he’d left the studio, beanie pulled down low, guitar slung over his shoulder. That, I thought to myself, was the real Josh Locke.
When I suggested it might be best to meet him at his grandmother’s, he tried talking me into meeting him around the corner from my house. “The paparazzi don’t know we have plans to see each other this morning. They’ll probably think you’re going out for a booking or something. They won’t follow you far.”
He had a point, but how could I be sure they wouldn’t follow me as far as his car—no matter where he parked? And honestly, I didn’t want to run the risk of being followed while working on a case. I was and needed to remain an undercover model…not that I could explain any of that to Josh.
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