A glam fashion mystery in my home town? This is the case I’ve been waiting for!

When a deliciously dangerous case lands right on her London doorstep, top model and secret sleuth Axelle can’t resist strapping on her heels and snapping on her shades to track down the person who attacked fashion photographer Gavin.

But what’s the deal with the mysterious memory stick full of photos? And can Axelle stop getting distracted by a certain mega-cute boy band member long enough to stop a killer in their tracks?

Carina Axelsson is a former fashion model, whose jet-setting career saw her starring in advertising campaigns and fashion magazines across the globe, including shoots for Vogue and Elle.

After growing up in California, Carina moved to New York, and then later to Paris, where she studied art and rounded off her days in fashion with a short stint working as a PA to international fashion designer John Galliano. Her experiences – along with a love of Scooby-Doo and Agatha Christie – inspired her to write the Model Under Cover series.

www.carinaaxelsson.com

instagram.com/carinaaxelssonwriter

uk.pinterest.com/carinaaxelsson

For Annie and Mary, with love and thanks

About this book

Carina’s Fashion Credentials

Title page

Dedication

MONDAY NIGHT:

Message From Miami

TUESDAY MORNING:

London Calling

TUESDAY AFTERNOON:

Castings and Clues

TUESDAY EVENING:

Burgers and More

WEDNESDAY MORNING:

Seen from the Side

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON:

Mega-mansion and Megastar

WEDNESDAY EVENING:

Moonlight on the River

THURSDAY MORNING:

Model Manipulation

THURSDAY AFTERNOON:

Halley Undercover

THURSDAY EVENING:

Time Will Tell

FRIDAY MORNING:

More Pieces of the Puzzle

FRIDAY AFTERNOON:

Backstage Drama

FRIDAY EVENING:

The Past Finally Speaks

SATURDAY:

Picnics and Plans

Don’t miss Axelle’s next case

A Crime of Fashion

Stolen with Style

How to Speak Supermodel

The London List

Acknowledgements

Copyright

I’m sending someone to you. Trust her. No time. Boarding. See you in London. Ellie x

I was at home in Notting Hill, standing in front of my closet, looking at my shoes. And while anyone watching me could be forgiven for thinking that I was eyeing my heels, dreaming of walking down the fashion runway sometime soon…well, not.

I was actually wondering if I’d ever have another case to solve…

Despite my mum’s well-laid plans to turn me into the next Karlie Kloss, all I wanted to do was solve mysteries – and I’d always felt that way. Well, ever since my gran started spoon-feeding me detective stories: Nancy Drew before I could read and Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple reruns instead of after-school cartoons. By the time I was old enough to play Cluedo, I think it’s fair to say that I was obsessed with the idea of becoming a detective. Besides, as my gran liked to remind my parents, “It’s in her blood, you know.” Eye rolls would follow, but the fact was, Gran was right: my grandfather – Gran’s husband – had been a detective with Scotland Yard. My fate was, as Gran and I saw it, sealed by destiny’s kiss. So despite what my BFF and neighbour, Jenny Watanabe, liked to say – “You read up on Scotland Yard forensic techniques more often than you crack open Miss Vogue, Axelle. You do realize that’s not normal?” – how could I resist the path I felt destined to follow?

Then, a few months ago, my parents, in a shrewd attempt to derail my sleuthing efforts, sent me to Paris for Fashion Week. However the detective gods intervened and, fortunately for me, the biggest, juiciest mystery Paris fashion had ever seen landed in my lap. Okay, maybe not in my lap, but close enough: my Aunt Venetia, fashion editor supremo, became a suspect in the case of missing fashion designer, Belle La Lune. I mean, what was I supposed to do – ignore the chance of a lifetime and make my gran spin in her grave? Do fashionistas wear socks with Birkenstocks?

No way.

So I did what I had to do and found Belle La Lune before the police did. Not that I talked about it afterwards. Going undercover as a model to find Belle taught me: A) that a real case was, like, a gazillion times better than Cluedo, and B) that if I wanted to suss out more fashion crimes I’d have to be discreet about my intentions.

That plan paid off when I was asked to hunt down a diamond thief in New York City during the fashion shows.

Both the Paris and Big Apple cases had given me a dream start to my detective career…or so I’d thought. But, maddeningly, since returning from New York City three months earlier, I hadn’t had a single case present itself. Nothing. Nada. Right now, I was feeling about as wanted as last season’s trends.

Which was why I was staring at my heels, asking myself if another fashion mystery would ever come my way, when my mum rapped on my door and walked in, catching me by surprise.

“Ah! There you are!” she chirped. I could feel her eyes on my back. “Can’t wait to get back on the runway, can you, darling?”

“Actually, Mum—” I said.

But I was interrupted before I could say anything more. “Well, I wouldn’t worry, Axelle. The agency has kept you busy since you finished your GCSEs, and, with the Resort shows starting this week, you’ll be back in the thick of it before you know it. Speaking of which, didn’t the agency say you had a fitting for the La Lunes tomorrow? And something about doing Jorge Cruz this week, too?”

Argh! My mum – all she could think about was my modelling career!

She was right, though – my London modelling agency, Thunder, had kept me busy the last couple of weeks. After I first returned from New York City, I’d concentrated on studying for my GCSEs – and I liked to think that I’d done well. But rather than fret while I waited for the results, I thought I’d accept some of the options my agency had run past me, in the hope that by putting myself in the thick of things, so to speak, a juicy mystery might come my way. Not that this strategy seemed to be working.

I sighed, and was just about to turn and face my mum, when she stopped me in my tracks.

“And now the fashion world is even beating a track to our door,” she said enthusiastically. “There is a fashion blogger downstairs and she’s asked to see you. Her name is Tallulah Tempest and, from the little she’s told me, it sounds as if she’d like to interview you. So there you go – no need for any of those detective dreams you used to harbour – your fashion career is here to stay! Can I tell her you’ll be down?”

I shut the doors to my closet, leaned down and scooped up Halley (my West Highland White Terrier) from the floor, planting kisses on her head as I thought about it.

As far as I was concerned there was only one reason a fashion blogger would have taken the trouble to find me at my home, and it didn’t have anything to do with fashion – at least not directly. Because no matter who is looking for information – blogger, magazine journalist, interviewer (and often all they want to know is what a particular supermodel eats for breakfast) – anyone in the business always contacts a model’s agency first, unless they know the model well. So for a fashion blogger to search me out at home…

Ellie’s text from late last night came to mind – the one she’d sent just as she was about to board her flight from Miami to London. Surely Tallulah was the “someone” she’d been referring to? I looked at my watch quickly; it was still too early to call Ellie – she wouldn’t be landing for another hour at least…

“Axelle? Should I tell her you’ll be down?”

The name Tallulah Tempest rang a bell… Hmmm… I felt a ripple of excitement; if my suspicions about her visit were correct, then I didn’t want to waste another second. I set Halley down on the floor.

“Axelle?”

“Don’t worry, Mum,” I said as I pecked her on the cheek and walked past her. “I’ll go and see her now.”

Tallulah was standing looking out over our garden from the window of our living room. As I shut the door behind me, I quickly ran my eyes over her. I liked her at first glance.

Tall and whippet-thin, with raven-black hair that was shaved on one side of her head, she wore a short, tight, black leather skirt under a slouchy patterned pullover. This was accented with a loose black snood around her neck, black tights, and ankle boots decorated with studs. The latter looked like something I’d seen on the Valentino runway when I’d done Paris Fashion Week. From the gold chain across her chest hung a tiny, bright turquoise, quilted-leather Chanel handbag. Tallulah looked both fierce and exotic in that fashion-y kind of way London has become known for: edgy, unstudied, and mysteriously cool. Furthermore, her self-possession and quiet confidence were tangible.

I caught a quick glance of myself in the large mirror across the room as I approached her. My big, geeky glasses and unbrushed hair definitely brought my score down in the style stakes. On the other hand, all the better to blend in as a detective, I told myself.

She turned and, keeping her blue, kohl-rimmed eyes on me, extended her hand.

I saw her eyes dart rapidly over my shoulder to the door as we shook hands. The action took less than a second, but it was enough to make me understand that, whatever it was she had to tell me, she’d prefer to do it without being overheard.

Without a word, I led Tallulah out through the back door, Halley at my heels, and down to the bottom of our somewhat wild, but romantic, garden. There I searched for a key under a stone and opened the garden-shed-cum-tea-house that didn’t get as much use as it should.

Although it was a cool, sharp morning for the end of June, we’d had a couple of warm weeks, and the roses and peonies were in full bloom, their fragrance heavy in the moist air. The last of the morning mist had burned off, and, overhead, the clouds scuttled by at a rapid pace. Halley chose to do a reconnaissance tour through the garden rather than join Tallulah and me in the shed.

“Ellie sent me,” she said before we sat down. “She told me you could help…”

I nodded. So Tallulah was the mystery person Ellie had messaged me about. That was good, I thought, because it made things much easier knowing I could trust her. We’d be able to move along more quickly – if this was indeed a case.

“She says you’re a…a Sherlock Holmes in the making…”

I raised my eyebrows at Tallulah. “She did?” I asked. Coming from my modelling BFF, Ellie B (non-modelling name: Elizabeth Billingsley), that was high praise indeed. Ellie always teased me for being too single-minded about my detective pursuits, so it was nice to hear the compliment – especially as I doubted I’d ever hear it directly from her lips!

“I…I was surprised she sent me to you. I know you as a model, but I didn’t know…”

I watched her struggle to describe what I do. To help her, I said, “That I help out with…tricky situations?”

She nodded. “It’s not something you advertise, exactly, is it?”

“Not at all. I keep this interest of mine quiet – I have to. I wouldn’t be able to gather half the information I do if everyone knew I was a detective.”

“Of course,” Tallulah said. “And just to reassure you, nobody, apart from Ellie, knows I’m here…”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Tallulah took a breath before continuing. “I’m not sure where to begin…”

I said nothing, waiting for Tallulah to start without my prompting. This was one of my grandfather’s interviewing techniques and I knew from experience that it worked. The rule is, when someone is nervous, yet wants to spill a secret, do not – under any condition – interrupt him or her. Sit quietly and let them unwind their story at their own pace; pushing for information will only scare them off.

“My brother, Gavin, is a fashion photographer – or, rather, he’s working in fashion to make ends meet. He’s studying photojournalism…that’s what he’d like to concentrate on eventually. But he’s very talented with the camera, and the fashion world loves his work – his portraits especially. Anyway,” Tallulah fidgeted for a moment before finally sitting still and looking me in the eyes, “Gavin’s in hospital.” She let out a big sigh before continuing. “He was found unconscious on the Thames Embankment near Westminster Bridge on Sunday – the police told us he’d had a vicious blow to his head…”

I was shocked. “Will he be all right?” I asked.

Tallulah nodded slowly. “Eventually, yes, the doctors think so. But right now it is a bit touch-and-go. He’s in an induced coma.”

“For how long?”

“If he continues to respond as he has been doing, then they’ll bring him out of it by the end of the week.”

Tallulah turned away quickly, but her clenched jaw and fists told me how hard it was for her to talk about the situation. It took her a moment before she turned back to face me.

“So what happened to him on Sunday?” I asked.

“We think he was attacked…”

I thought for a moment. “Was he missing anything?”

“His camera.”

“Nothing else?”

Tallulah shook her head.

“Was he going to meet somebody?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. He told me that he had to ‘check something’ – those were his precise words – near Westminster, but he didn’t tell me what. And he didn’t mention that he was planning to meet anyone – although I’ve got a strange feeling that he was. It’s odd, though, he doesn’t usually keep secrets from me – normally we each know exactly what the other is up to… Gavin and I have always been close,” she explained when she saw my eyes widen, “and since we both moved to London at the same time, we’ve only got closer – especially with both of us working in fashion. Anyway, to answer your question, no, he hadn’t noted anything in his agenda about a meeting on Sunday morning.” Tallulah paused and then, looking me straight in the eyes, she said, “The police are convinced it was just a random mugging.”

“Because of the missing camera?”

“Yes. And because of the CCTV images – there was nothing unusual on the footage they have, just a couple of elderly people, a blind lady and a few joggers. Also, they say that stretch of the Embankment is a target area for muggers because of the tourists, even so early on a Sunday – the police estimate that Gavin was attacked shortly after 8 a.m. because that’s the last time he was seen unharmed on CCTV. He was found at 8.15.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “But I don’t think it was a random mugging. I think someone was looking for something – something my brother has.”

“What makes you say that?”

“After I visited Gavin in the hospital, I went back to our flat in Camden; someone had broken in and searched it while I’d been away.” For the first time I saw a tiny chink in her cool façade: she suddenly started picking at the dark purple varnish on her nails.

“Searched? Like, everything turned upside down, every drawer emptied, kind of searched?”

Tallulah nodded. “I’ve never experienced anything like it – and I don’t want to ever again. It’s been horrible staying there, but I feel I have to do it for Gavin.”

It seemed I’d been right about her self-possession and confidence: not many people could stay alone in a flat that had just been ransacked. I listened as she continued. “I’ve cleaned the flat up as well as I can, but I didn’t want to tell my parents, you see…they’re worried enough as it is… I did call the police though…”

“And?”

“Well, because nothing was taken, they didn’t seem to think there was much they could do. They filed a report and that was that.”

“Could it have been a burglary that went wrong? Perhaps whoever broke in was disturbed before they managed to take anything? Maybe a neighbour’s dog barked, or someone went up the stairs? Is there a stairwell in your building?”

Tallulah nodded. “Yes, but our neighbour on the floor above us was away for the weekend, and the store below us – it’s a second-hand bookshop – is closed on Sundays. So I doubt the intruder was caught by surprise.”

“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 straight away.”

“Yet they took nothing?”

“Not a cotton bud.”

“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 memory stick.

“So why do you have it?” I asked as I plugged the memory stick 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, as Tallulah stood behind me.

“Gavin gave it to me on Sunday morning, before he left the flat. He said, ‘Make sure you hold onto 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 memory sticks 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 about to do, or whoever it was 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 it was 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, 8 a.m.?”

Tallulah nodded.

“Did your brother often go out so early on a Sunday morning? He must have left your flat by 7?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not especially unusual. He actually left the flat at 6.45. 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 stick 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 labelled the detail “TBLI” – To Be Looked Into.

The contents of the memory stick had finally downloaded. I clicked open the one and 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 at all 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 other 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 a sort of “day in the life” reportage – by the look of it, Gavin must have taken the photos just before the last 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 high-street versions of his famous Vane biker jacket were cult favourites 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 memory stick, 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 – 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. I know because I checked his emails when I got his computer back from his friend. Anyway, photographing Johnny Vane for Harper’s 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 colour 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 memory stick, our flat being searched, and what’s happened to my brother are related – I’m sure of it! I want to find whoever 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 labelled ‘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 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 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.”

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 peeving off my agency – and my mum. 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 super special 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 jumper with my favourite Burberry trench coat (detective-y and trendy all at once!). 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 too, and, if her excited barks and wiggles were anything to go by, she totally agreed. I snapped her lead on and left the house before Mum 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 share the large office building with Chic, Chic Bride, and Chic Rogue, amongst 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 bin. 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 might have only 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-coloured, 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 all at once – 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 though, 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 lipgloss 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 girly 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 just 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 was 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 non-stop monologue as she ushered me and Halley out of the editor’s office and back into the foyer. I was so angry 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, most importantly, get cracking on the case. I bounded to the revolving door and pushed my way in. As I shuffled towards 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 towards 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, open-mouthed. Even with 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 towards 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 cracking on my new case that my anger was rapidly evaporating with each stride I made. I took 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 at that moment 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 entrance to 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 seemed suddenly 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 towards 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 it, obviously trying to listen in on her 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 in order 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 per cent 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 for 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 two-centimetre 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 job I was wearing my sunglasses.”

––