London

Copyright © 2016 by Carina Axelsson

Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Rose Audette

Cover illustration © Yasuko

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

Originally published as
Model Under Cover—Deadly by Design
, © Carina Axelsson, 2015.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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Originally published in 2015 in the United Kingdom by Usborne Publishing Ltd., an imprint of Usborne House.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

Source of Production: Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinios, USA

Date of Production: November 2015

Run Number: 5005177

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

How to Speak Supermodel

The London List

Acknowledgments

Carina's Fashion Credentials

Back Cover

For Annie and Mary, with love and thanks.

Message from Miami

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

London Calling

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 mom'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 granny 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 Clue, I think it's fair to say that I was obsessed with the idea of becoming a detective.

Besides, as my granny liked to remind my parents, “It's in her blood, you know.” Eye rolls would follow, but the fact was, Granny was right. My grandfather—Granny's husband—had been a detective with Scotland Yard. My fate was, as Granny and I saw it, sealed by destiny's kiss. So despite what my BFF and neighbor, 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 granny 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 afterward. Going undercover as a model to find Belle taught me: (A) that a real case was, like, a gazillion times better than Clue, and (B) that if I wanted to figure 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 there.

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 mom 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, Mom—” 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 mom—all she could think about was my modeling career!

She was right, though. My London modeling 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—these are the standardized tests all British high school students have to take—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. If I put 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 mom 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 harbor—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 right away. 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 and saw 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, Mom,” 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 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 extended her hand, keeping her blue, kohl-rimmed eyes on me.

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 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-teahouse 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 knowing I could trust her made things much easier. 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 modeling BFF, Ellie B (non-modeling name: Elizabeth Billingsley), that was high praise indeed. Ellie always teased me for being too single-minded about my detective pursuits, so the compliment was nice to hear—especially as I doubted I'd ever hear it directly from Ellie's 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 the 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 gotten 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 images from the CCTV surveillance cameras at that location—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 eight o'clock because that's the last time he was seen unharmed on CCTV. He was found at eight fifteen.” 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 was away.” For the first time I saw a tiny chink in her cool facade. She suddenly started picking at the dark-purple polish 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.”

Apparently 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 neighbor's dog barked, or someone went up the stairs. Is there a stairwell in your building?”

Tallulah nodded. “Yes, but our neighbor on the floor above us was away for the weekend, and the store below us—it's a secondhand bookshop—is closed on Sundays. So I doubt the intruder was caught by surprise.”