London (9 page)

Those were the photos I'd shot during my first week of undercover model work, while I'd been in Paris solving my first mystery. I thanked her and tried to get a question in, but it wasn't easy.

Caro had to be in her early sixties, but you'd never have known it. That's the thing about fashionistas—the ones who really know how to put clothes together tend to look timeless. You can't peg their style to any definite age or trend.

For example, Caro was well known for the way she mixed Chanel jackets and hip-hop-inspired sportswear. Furthermore she loved a heavy gold chain and a good ear cuff. If I'd gone by her jewelry alone, I'd never have guessed how old she was. Her raspy voice spoke of years smoking cigarettes, although she'd actually quit some time ago.

“It was so hard,” I'd heard her say once. “I was almost at the point where I would have willingly worn velour just to have a smoke.”

But now she was telling me all about how this Jorge Cruz collection had been inspired by Bloomsbury, and how so many other editors and designers were still inspired by Bloomsbury writers and artists such as Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell.

Ah! I thought, just the moment I'd been waiting for. Without delay I jumped right in. “Clarissa Vane was a huge inspiration to designers too. She was your sister, wasn't she?”

To say I'd caught Caro by surprise was an understatement.

“Wow, you have been reading up on your fashion history, haven't you?” she said.

I nodded as she hung various earrings in front of my ears and stood back, squinting at her options through narrowed eyes. I told her about the book Charlotte had lent me. Her sister figured prominently in it—not that her connection with Caro got a mention.

Caro didn't seem interested in talking about Clarissa. Then again, she was in the throes of last-minute before-the-show adjustments. Finally I asked, “Did you and your sister ever have the chance to work together?”

Her answer came quickly. “No.” It was brief, but nevertheless I thought I detected a touch of irritation (with me?), jealousy (of her sister?), and exasperation (perhaps with us both?).

So much for this line of questioning,
I thought. But I wasn't about to leave without having another try—even at the risk of being pushy. So, as she asked me to change into another dress, I reached for my shoulder bag and quickly took out the photograph of the two boys in the water. I'd made a new copy that morning. But then I hesitated. On one hand I was hoping that if I showed it to Caro, she could confirm who the boys were. On the other hand, I didn't want to stupidly put myself in harm's way. After all, if my suspicions were correct, Gavin's attack had something to do with this very photo.

I thought of my granny. Sometimes—especially when we were watching
Midsomer Murders
on television—she would become frustrated when the detective was too timid. “Flush him out! Provoke the villain!” she'd say to Inspector Barnaby as she passed me the crystal bowl full of hard candies she kept next to her favorite armchair. “Show him you're on to him. Make him move!” Granny said that a clever villain would often only make a mistake when provoked or under pressure. “Surprise can be a useful element when laying a trap. You just have to be sure to follow up quickly.”

I took a breath. The call from Tallulah had proved it was definitely time to move things forward—and maybe an element of surprise was exactly what was needed here. I quickly changed into the outfit Caro had given me, and with the photo clasped in my hand, I walked over to her.

While she looked me over and made a few minor styling adjustments—a tug here, another one there—I handed her the photo. She took it, looked at it, and said, “Why are you giving me this?” She seemed confused.

“I thought you might be able to tell me something about it.”

Caro shook her head.

“You don't know the boys in the photo?”

Exasperation crept into her voice as she said, “I don't see what this has to do with anything, Axelle. Can you concentrate on what we're doing, please? I have other models waiting for my attention.”

At that instant an assistant interrupted us to say that Jorge needed Caro's “eye” for some last-minute style adjustments on a dress he was finishing for the show. Caro looked back as she followed the assistant. “See you on Thursday, Axelle,” she said as they left the room. Clearly my question time was over.

It was only as I packed my bag a couple of minutes later that I realized Caro had kept the photo.

As I left Claridge's and walked to the nearest bus stop, Tallulah's phone call kept circling through my mind. The pressure was mounting with every second that ticked by, because I now had no doubt that her brother's attacker would try to get to him again—and soon.

Hopefully I'd be able to meet Georgie next. But would I get any further with her than I had with Caro? I was so sure that the boys in the photo were the Vane twins. Was I wrong? And if I was right, why didn't Caro admit that she knew them?

Just as I hopped onto a bus my phone vibrated. It was a message from Sebastian:

I've found the Vane address in Notting Hill: Dawson Place. And the nanny's name is Jane Wimple. How's it going with you?

Dawson Place? That was right on the border between Notting Hill and Bayswater, and within easy walking distance from where I lived.

I answered him:

Fab news! Well done, Watson! I know Dawson Place—we should check it out at lunch. And find out whatever you can about Jane, please. I'm meeting Johnny Vane tonight—you're invited too! Have just met Caro, but found out nothing. On my way to see Georgie now (hopefully). Any details on the deaths?

Sebastian replied:

Not much to go on from the news archives so far, but your hunch was right—Julian died in the Thames. Not sure exactly where yet.

Hmm…at least now it was clear that Julian did indeed drown in the Thames. I couldn't help but feel it must have happened near where Gavin was attacked.

Well, that's something. And Clarissa?

Nothing more so far, but I'm still chasing info down. I've got the name of a handyman quoted in a couple of the reports though.

That was interesting…

Who is it?

Juan Rivera, former handyman and gardener. He worked at the Dawson Place house. I don't know if he's alive, but it might be worth looking him up. The last address I found for him was in Notting Hill. Reports also mention a housekeeper, but no name is given.

I started to buzz with excitement at the thought of speaking with someone who could give me a firsthand account of life with the Vanes—and perhaps even details of Julian's drowning and Clarissa's accidental death… Although first I had to find out if Juan Rivera was still alive and in the neighborhood—and if he was willing to talk to me. I wrote back to Sebastian:

Definitely worth looking into. If we find him, he might lead us to the housekeeper too. See if you can trace him. Otherwise I have an idea who I can ask. We'll do it at lunchtime. Do you have an address for Jane?

Sebastian:

Still searching.

Me:

Maybe I can find something out at my appointment at Vane HQ…

We exchanged a few more messages, and I learned that so far Sebastian's inquiries into Gavin's comings and goings of the last few weeks weren't bringing much up. I'd put Sebastian in contact with Tallulah, and he'd asked her for more information. He'd also spoken to Gavin's agent and the friend who'd had his laptop, but he'd gleaned nothing new. On the other hand, while checking out Tallulah and Gavin's flat (from the outside and unbeknownst to Tallulah), Sebastian had asked around in the local shops and cafés about Gavin, but found out most from the barman in the pub.

Apparently, Gavin had ducked into the pub on Saturday night on his way home. He'd been in a bit of a state because he thought he was being followed but had no idea by whom. Then, after a drink, Gavin had seemed to calm down and wasn't sure if his mind was just playing tricks on him, the barman said.

I wrote to Sebastian that I'd send him a message after my visit to Vane HQ. We'd decide where to meet then. Then I put my phone away, and for the last few minutes of my bus ride, I looked over my notes:

The photo. Gavin chose to include a photograph that was not part of his job brief on a flash drive of images that otherwise fit the job description. Furthermore, someone seems to be trying to steal the flash drive from him. Why? Because of the photo? If so, what is it about the photo that someone wants to keep to themselves?

Gavin. So far no skeletons in Gavin's closet and no new information, apart from the fact that at one point last week he thought he was being followed… By the person who attacked him? Or…?

The family: Johnny Vane, Georgie Vane, Caro Moretti, and Jane Wimple (technically not family, but close to them). These four people seem most likely to know something about the photo. Will questioning them about the pic reveal why someone wanted it hidden? And will that put me in harm's way?

Water. A recurring theme. Gavin's trousers and shoes were wet at the time of his attack. Why? Furthermore, he was attacked near water (on the Embankment near Westminster Bridge). Johnny and his brother, Julian, were photographed standing knee-deep in water. And Sebastian has confirmed that Julian, Johnny's twin, drowned in the Thames.

The past. Can't help returning to this because my gut tells me Gavin's attack was linked to the old photograph. I need to keep digging.

Tragedy. Unusual to lose sibling and both parents so young. Did Gavin stumble upon something to do with Johnny's childhood: a secret or cover-up, for instance? Could “accidental drowning” or “accidental death” in fact be…death by design?

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end at this thought. I'd never dealt with a case that concerned someone's death—past or present. And with the threat to Gavin, this was proving to be my most dangerous case yet. I put my notebook away and asked,
Where do I start?

Right where you are
, I told myself as my bus came to a slow and careful stop in the heart of Marylebone, two hundred yards from Johnny Vane Ltd.

After getting off the bus, I made my way as quickly as possible to the Vane offices and presented myself at the reception desk. I was led into a showroom full of models. There I tried on a dress and walked for the casting director, then posed for a quick picture before changing back into my own clothes. The casting went well and quickly. But I wasn't about to leave without first trying to meet Georgie.

As I left the showroom, I stopped an assistant and quickly mentioned that I had an interesting photo I wanted to show Georgie Vane. “Would it be possible,” I asked, “to see her for a few minutes?”

The assistant seemed to buy this. “Sure,” she answered. “I'll give her a call and see if she has time.”

She rang Georgie and, keeping her eyes on me, told her what I'd explained.

“Exactly. Axelle Anderson. Hmm…no time? Okay, I'll tell her.”

I put my hand up and loudly said, “Tell Georgie it's an old photo of her brothers. I think it'll interest her.”

I'd been hoping Georgie would hear me—and my idea must have worked because next the assistant said, “Yes,” and then after a few seconds' silence, “Fine, I'll send her up right away.”

Ha
, I thought.
Now let's see if I can get anything out of her.

The assistant got off the phone and called a lift for me, directing me up to the fourth floor.

Georgie didn't say anything as she opened the door to her office and motioned for me to come in. She was wearing ill-fitting trousers, a silk blouse of nondescript color, and a cardigan that was way too small. Her medium-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and a large pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked about as unfashionable as a person can look. Charlotte's comment about Georgie never moving up the ranks of the company came to mind. I wasn't surprised. Fashion publicists are normally the most fashion-conscious people you'll ever meet.

She sat watching me across a messy desk piled high with files and papers. A vase of wilting flowers and various half-finished cups of coffee only added to the disorder. On the shelves behind her, knickknacks and mementos made a busy, colorful background. Books lined some of the walls, some of them obvious favorites, if the slips of paper sticking out of them were anything to go by. In fact, the only stylish-looking thing in her office was a silver-framed photo of her brother, Johnny. Decked out in his usual black-leather biker jacket, black jeans, and studded fingerless gloves and silver rings, he seemed to be keeping an eye on me. For a moment it mildly freaked me out.

“Hi, Axelle,” she finally said as she reached across her desk to shake my hand. “I'm Georgie. Millie says you've got something to show me. An old photo?”

I nodded and sat down as she motioned to the empty chair opposite her. I pulled my tablet from my shoulder bag and brought the photo up on the screen. With a quick prayer to the detective gods that Georgie wasn't the person who'd attacked Gavin, I handed her the tablet.

She sat quietly for a few moments, looking carefully at the photo. Meanwhile, I quickly scanned her desk. I was looking for something—and I saw it just as she cleared her throat and passed me my tablet. She sat back, saying nothing, and loudly clicked a pen she held in her left hand.

“Do you know anything about the photo, Georgie?”

She nodded. “It's of my brothers when they were very young.”
Ah!
I thought, finally I had confirmation that the photo was indeed of Johnny and Julian.

After a moment Georgie asked, “Where did you find it?”

I was scared of saying too much—I didn't want to end up unconscious on the Embankment like Gavin—but I had to push the case forward. I took a quick breath and said, “A friend, the photographer Gavin Tempest, gave it to me. Do you know him?”