Fashionably late

"Fashionably late"

There was an expectant murmur around the arena as the crowd waited for
the show to begin. There was excitement surrounding much of London
Fashion Week, but this show, Roderic Valjean's first London show, that
was the one that was grabbing all the attention.

Valjean was this year's bad-boy of fashion, the one with all the flair
and innovation. Where he led, others gaped and wondered. Most of the
big companies had been linked with him in media speculation and
everyone wondered whether he would join one of the big fashion-houses
or continue to go it alone. His show was cloaked in secrecy, nobody
knew what was to happen, save that Maria Schaffenberg would be
modelling for him.

Just like Valjean, Shaffenberg had arrived on the scene with a burst of
energy and dazzled everyone. She was not yet a Supermodel, but she was
clearly on her way. This year, everyone had tried to book her for
shows, but she had rationed herself, raising interest (and her fee) by
making herself unavailable.

This was the only catwalk show that Shaffenberg intended to do in
London. And she had made it plain why, stating that Valjean was the
only designer around who excited her, who had clarity of his vision and
the boldness to execute it.

"When you have the perfect body for wearing clothes, " she was quoted
as having said, "Then it is wrong to wear clothes that do not shudder
with genius and craft. "

She may not have said this at all, the media are notoriously
unreliable. But in any event, the two rising stars of fashion combining
together had everyone smacking their lips in anticipation, making the
Valjean show the hardest show to get tickets for.

Unless you happened to be an ex-model who Valjean was wooing, hoping to
get back modelling for later shows in the year, and an ex-model who was
dating Maria Shaffenberg. Both of which descriptions fitted Damon
Gulliver as perfectly as the Valjean suit he was wearing to the
show.

Damon had modelled for Valjean two years before, when Valjean was
struggling to make a name for himself and they had become quite good
friends. Valjean was one of the nicest people Damon had met in the
fashion world; he had desire, but also a certain nobility, an honesty
that Damon liked and respected.

Maria seemed more than a passing fancy to Damon. She was easily the
most attractive woman he had ever dated and intelligent too. The only
facet of her personality that he did not care for was her insecure
vanity. She was continually looking into mirrors to check for signs of
ageing, for any trace that her beauty was running away from her, and
would not be reassured by any words. Sometimes she seemed to wish that
the very air itself were full of mirrored molecules, so that she could
check her appearance at any stage of the day. She could also be very
melodramatic, but it was a small price to pay when set against her many
other fine qualities.

With those connections, he simply had to attend the show. He had
acquired two tickets, but obviously Francis would never have come to an
event like this. He couldn't even think about the outside world, let
alone be with five hundred people in a confined space. As for Joe,
well, Damon had taken him to fashion shows before and they didn't
really interest Joe. He just shuffled in his seat and laughed and
pointed at the more outr? creations. Besides, Joe was at camp for a
week, with other adults of similar type. And obviously, bringing a date
was out of the question.

And so it was that sitting beside Damon Gulliver was the very awed
Audrey Ribbon, clutching her black leather bag very tightly and trying
to conceal it beneath her arm, conscious that it didn't really have the
right cachet.

She asked Damon why it was that employees at coffee-franchises could
deal with requests for mocha, latte double de-caff, skinny with wings,
but could not cope with anyone who simply asked for a cup of coffee.
She was mildly amused, but there was a trace of annoyance in her
voice.

Audrey Ribbon was someone who got on with things, but had a sense that
the world was no longer heading in the right direction. Things had gone
badly askew at some stage and nobody was setting it right. The bane of
her life were companies who had endless telephone menus rather than a
brief moment of human contact, someone to ask you what you wanted and
put you through to the right place. Audrey Ribbon always made a point
of timing how long such delving through menus took and explaining, when
she finally got to speak to someone, exactly how much of her life their
stupid company had wasted.

The place filled up and the false smacking sound of air-kissing echoed
around the hall.

"Isn't that? " Audrey said, time and time again, and Damon told her
that yes, it was.

"I've got a bottle of his perfume at home, " she gasped, "I can't
believe I'm sitting opposite him. And isn't that...? "

Damon again confirmed that it was.

"Oh my God! I've got her records at home. I used to dance to her stuff
when I was at school. She's always been my favourite singer. "

It had never really occurred to Damon before that Audrey Ribbon had
ever danced, or listened to music, or indeed had ever been at school.
If he had ever given it any thought, he would have fancifully concluded
that she had entered the world as a fully-fledged capable secretary,
nail polish applied and familiar with various computer
programmes.

Damon was enjoying seeing the whole spectacle through Audrey's eyes,
she was so enchanted with the atmosphere and the knots of celebrity. If
he had come with somebody else, it might have all been very blas? and
casual, slightly mocking even, but he liked feeling that this was
something special, something as close to magic as exists in the modern
world. Damon had never been one for the modern trend of irony - he
liked to enjoy things for what they were, rather than behind a knowing
protective layer.

He had not particularly enjoyed all the cameras outside, taking
pictures of him, "Wonder Brain dates Wonder Woman", being the headline
for a series of pictures in OK! magazine of he and Maria out for
dinner.

"I'm surprised everyone is in black, " Audrey whispered, "I thought
these people were all interested in fashion, but they all look the
same. Aren't bright colours fashionable at the moment? Marie Clare said
they were. "

Damon pointed out various groups, "Those are the fashion hacks, the
ones dressed like a parliament of crows, all fashion hacks always wear
black, even when they're scribbling that cerise and mustard are this
years must-wears, dah-ling. Black flatters everyone. And those are the
celebrities' bodyguards, and bodyguards always wear black, it's the
law. The only people who don't wear black are the top-drawer celebs,
and they can wear what they like. "

The lights dimmed and a single red beam swept over the catwalk runway.
The music started, Valjean having persuaded the French group Air to
record some pieces specifically for the show. The first group of models
began walking down the runway, swaying their hips in that jaunty
manner. The first were wearing winter coats, cut elegantly and
daringly, with a Forties look to them, but with modern, technical
aspects.

The next batch came out, wearing long thin dresses in a variety of
colours. The fashion hacks wrote things like, 'rich berry and plum
teamed with pale muted tones'. The next crop were male models, first in
tweed suits and then in Russian Greatcoats.

More and more models and outfits were paraded before the crowd, who
clapped each new outfit. Then Maria Shaffenberg came out. She was
stunning, there was no other word for it. As she arrived on the stage,
there was a slight gasp of excitement.

Damon had spent a lot of time with models and there was an odd trick to
them which surprised many people. There was a particular type of beauty
which translated wonderfully onto film and on the catwalk, but which,
seen in the street or up close became simply pretty, or even less. It
was a little like the way that the gorgeous blue and pink houses of the
Continent simply don't translate to Britain, although the colour
remains the same, the circumstance in which you see it is
different.

None of that applied to Shaffenberg though. She was beautiful, without
any doubt or qualification whatsoever. Whenever, wherever you saw her,
she was simply a thing of beauty. She was statuesque, curved but with
the shape of the Fifties, tapered waist, long legs, a bust that was
tempting and inviting without being over-powering. Facially she
resembled Grace Kelly, a mixture of vulnerability, coolness and the
feeling that she was somehow priceless and fragile. She was a diamond
made of glass, capable of scratching her mark on any surface, yet
seemed though she might shatter at the merest impact.

The volume of the clapping went up several notches and Damon felt a
shiver go down his back. He hadn't really noticed what she was wearing,
but he was certain that it was one of the most fabulous outfits ever to
grace the female form. This show was making it clear, Shaffenberg might
not have been a Supermodel yet, but her invitation was in the
post.

Even the bitchiest of the fashion hacks could find nothing to fault in
her performance. They wrote 'Shaffenberg excelled, in a bias-cut
evening gown of tones of ice-blue and delicate shades of white the
world has never seen before'

It really was an exceptional show; the models seeming to move more like
dancers or actors, expressing drama and emotion as well as displaying
the clothes. There were no straight walk-down-pout-pivot-walk back
techniques, the models used every inch of the catwalk, walking in
angles, crouching even snarling, living in the clothes rather than just
wearing them.

The audience were largely the most hard-bitten bunch of cynics one
could ever find, their veins full of jealousy and gin. But even this
harsh crowd were finding themselves amused, delighted, and surprised,
by the outfits that Valjean was producing. Watching these thin,
blackgarbed hacks with their thin pencils and thin lips crinkle into
genuine smiles, Audrey Ribbon felt echoes of children seeing real
penguins for the first time; here was a genuine air of wonder, delight
and slight comedy.

Maria Shaffenberg returned a few minutes later, in brown belted skirt,
caramel sweater and trenchcoat draped over the arm, the hacks wrote '
the spirit of Lauren Bacall', then in another dress that was the colour
of honey and marmalade and seemed to flow and cling all at once.
Another that seemed so delicate and sheer that it could have been
stitched from rose petals.

It was more than the combination of beauty and fine clothing though,
strong as that blend can be, Maria had gone beyond simply wearing the
clothes, to performing in them. When she smiled, everyone in the crowd
felt as if that smile was for them and them alone, particularly
Damon.

He felt an odd sensation, a mixture of pride and loss. He could see her
soaring and at the same time, getting out of his reach. He felt like he
had lost her before they had begun.

Audrey tapped him politely on the arm, "She really is very beautiful.
"

For every five photographs taken of Maria Shaffenberg, the press took
one photograph of Damon, storing his reaction to each outfit, to each
drop of the shoulder. He composed himself and gave good face for the
cameras. He was dressed impeccably as ever, a new Valjean suit, which
fitted him perfectly, a chocolate coloured tie, again from Valjean and
a shirt from Nicole Fahri.

Shaffenberg came out again, for the climax to the show, this time in an
outfit that paid homage to Jane Fonda in Barbarella, all silver and
cleavage and high silver boots. Valjean himself walked onto the stage,
a little man with delicate hands, and as with all designers, wearing
simple clothes, trousers and a white T-shirt. The crowd rippled with
applause as Maria Shaffenberg made her way to the front of the runway
and Valjean bowed to the crowd.

Nobody was really sure what happened next, but the clearest memory that
Damon had was of Maria Shaffenberg falling to the ground, her arms
falling out in front of her. Damon and Audrey could see the silver
soles of her boots and hear the odd silence that flowed over the crowd.
At first everyone thought that it was a theatrical faint, or part of
the show, but within seconds, Valjean had rushed towards her and
crouched down near to her, looking at her closely.

"She's dead, " cried the designer.

Before panic could set in, Damon found himself on his feet and
clambering onto the stage. Every muscle was tensed as he looked into
the eyes of the designer, which told him all he needed to know.

"Everybody stay calm! " he shouted, taking refuge from his emotions in
activity, "Bruno, Caspar, shut off the exits and call the police.
Nobody leaves until the police say so. "

Two thick-necked bodyguards began moving towards the doors, following
the instructions of Damon, whom they knew fairly well. The fashion
hacks began diving into their bags for mobile telephones; this event
was no longer just fashion but news.

"Wait! " Damon shouted, "Nobody is to use their mobiles until the
police get here. This may be a crime scene, and I don't want any
contamination of it. "

He looked around for other bodyguards that he knew and gave them
instructions, "If you see anyone using a mobile telephone, other than
me, you have my permission to take it from them and stamp on it very
hard. Is that clear to everyone? "

People grumbled, but it was clear that he meant business, and after
all, he was the genius detective, he probably knew what he was
doing.

The area sealed, Damon began to relax a little. That was the priority,
to make sure that nobody left and nobody arrived. What the hell had
happened to Maria? He went through the options, he hadn't heard a
gunshot, although the place was noisy, someone could have used a
blowpipe and a poison dart, she might have been poisoned before the
show began. There was no way to tell, yet.

He went to the toilets and splashed cold water on his face. He could
feel the pain sticking into him, cold and sharp, like an icicle thrust
between his ribs. Tears pricked his eyes and he dug his nails into his
palms until the weakness passed.

Quickly, he checked to see that nobody else was in the toilets and went
over to a quiet corner, where he took out his Nokia to ring Francis.
Francis as usual, was very grumpy when Damon rang, as he had been deep
within the pages of a book. He was fairly sympathetic when Damon
explained that Maria Shaffenberg was dead. As usual, he insisted on as
much detail as possible.

"It sounds to me, " he said, "Like murder as one of the fine arts. What
I suggest you do first is seal the area. "

"Done that, " Damon told him.

"Right, well, the next step would be to..."

Damon heard nothing further. He shook the phone and then pressed
redial. The screen displayed the message 'Battery low'. Damn, why
hadn't he charged it before he left?

At much the same time, Audrey Ribbon had visited the ladies and found
several of the fashion hacks in there, chopping out white powder with
their Egg cards.

"Bloody terrible, isn't it? " said one, as she prepared to snort the
powder.

"Tres dramatic, " said the other, "Still, her boyfriend is here, it
won't take him long to solve the whole thing. He's a complete genius. I
can't imagine anyone could murder his girlfriend before his eyes and
hope to get away with it. "

Audrey felt a tinge of pride that these women were talking about her
employer, even if she was well aware that the brainpower they spoke of
was actually that of Francis Gulliver. She had worked for the brothers
for long enough now to appreciate the vast difference in IQ between
them - on most days of the week Damon came a distant third to Joe, who
despite his childish outlook had swift-like flashes of genius,
particularly anything to do with numbers. Poor Damon, sometimes she
felt quite sorry for him.

She made her way back into the hall and found Damon, who looked white
and befuddled. She spoke to him quietly.

"What does Mr Gulliver say?"

"Nothing, " whispered Damon, "My mobile is out of juice. I can't get
through to him. I don't suppose you've got one?"

"Oh no, " said Audrey Ribbon, with some horror, "Can't stand the
things. I agree with your brother, it's hard to say which is worse, the
phones or the cretins that use? sorry."

"That's wonderful, " said Damon, his usual aura of assurance deserting
him for a moment, "Obviously my brother doesn't think mobiles have any
point, he never leaves his room. What would he need a mobile for?
"

Audrey realised with horror the predicament that her employer found
himself in. Not only had his girlfriend been killed, but also the room
was full of reporters all eager to report on how the brilliant
detective had solved the crime. He could hardly just sit and wait for
the police to arrive. He had to be seen to do something.

"Perhaps I could help? " she suggested, "I do type up all of Mr
Gulliver's case notes, I know a little of his methods. I'm sure that I
could?"

"Please, " said Damon, with a prickle in his tone, "I am a detective
you know. I've been involved in some extremely complex cases. Francis
is entirely reliant on the observations I make. He tends to overplay
his role in these affairs. Still, perhaps you could come with me and
take notes."

"Certainly Mr Gulliver, " said Audrey, rather meekly.

"We have a room full of possible suspects. We must consider motive,
means and opportunity. How could Maria have been killed? There seem two
possibilities to me. Either she was killed by some sort of projectile,
in which case the audience are the suspects, or some sort of poison, in
which case the models and backstage crew are the suspects. There may
have been some form of slow-acting contact poison spread within the
dresses she was wearing. "

"The projectile doesn't seem very likely, " said Audrey cautiously,
"After all, even if the killer had not been seen at the time, there are
television cameras. They would run the risk of their action being
caught on camera. "

"Good, " said Damon, "That tallies with my thoughts. Now, the poison
theory. I'm not sure, it seems a little odd. She didn't appear to be
unwell or anything, right up until she fell. "

"Maybe you should examine the body, " suggested Audrey, wishing to be
as helpful as she could.

Back at the Gullivers' house, Francis had tried to dial Damon's mobile
telephone number several times, but with no success. He realised that
Damon's telephone must have run out of batteries. It didn't take long
for Francis to see the problems which would result from Damon trying to
tackle the mystery alone. Why, he would probably be suggesting
blowpipes and untraceable poisons by now, and would end up making a
complete idiot of himself and be exposed in front of the media.

While Francis did not approve of the media icon that Damon had become,
he was rather fond, both of his brother and of the little intricate
mysteries which the detective agency brought his way, even if every
client thought they were seeking Damon's opinion. He would hate Damon's
limited intellect to cause problems. If people discovered that Damon
was a fool, these interesting diversions would stop being brought to
his attention.

The way forward was simple, Francis would have to re-establish contact
and provide a solution to the puzzle. However, he didn't know where the
show was being held, to get a telephone number for the venue.

What a nuisance. This unwelcome intrusion into his day made him fizz
with short-lived rage. He had planned to reorganise his bookshelves,
placing the books in order of their first word. A system that would
make any book impossible to find for anyone else, but Francis had spent
sufficient time in this room to know his books with deep intimacy. He
also hoped that the new arrangement might reveal unexpected connections
between authors and styles, tempting one to read all books that began
with the word "Stars" for example and compare each against the
others.

He stretched a hand across to the intercom system and pressed the
button to summon Audrey Ribbon, there was no doubt that she would have
the details to hand; her practice was to record extensive details of
all appointments in the diary. Audrey was so efficient; Francis had
complete faith in her. It was only when she failed to respond that
Francis remembered that she had accompanied Damon to the fashion
show.

"Damn all secretaries, " bellowed Francis angrily, "What is the point
in having a personal assistant, who deserts her post to go and goggle
at frocks made by eccentrics! A curse on all frolicking
secretaries!"

Joe too was away, and there was nobody local that Francis could
contact. If he wanted the details of the venue and to get back in
contact with Damon, he was going to have to go downstairs and get the
details from the diary that was kept on Audrey Ribbon's desk.

He would just have to leave the room, go down the stairs and look in
the office. For most people, this would have been very straightforward,
but Francis had not walked down those stairs in eight years.

The very prospect sent cold shudders down his back and he began to take
in huge gulps of air, which seemed to catch in his chest. The room
began to shimmer before his eyes, like a heat haze on a runway.

Francis slid his desk drawer open and shook two fat yellow torpedo
shaped pills into his palm, swallowing them with a dry mouth.

Damon clambered up onto the runway and offered Audrey Ribbon a hand to
help her get up as well. He moved over to the body, which was now
covered by an elegant silken cloth. Audrey stayed a few feet away;
there were limits to how involved she was prepared to be in the
detective work. Anyway, as a gentleman, Damon would not have allowed
her to get even a glimpse of the body. Damon lifted the cloth and
briskly examined the body, trying not to think about what this woman
had meant to him.

For now, she was only a mystery - that was the only way to think of
it.

"No marks on the neck, " he said, and Audrey wrote this down, "No
indications of any puncture wound on the arms or legs. That would rule
out any possibility of blowpipes, or gunshots. "

He stood up and noticed that some of the fashion hacks were peering at
him, pencils scribbling furiously.

"Do you mind? " he said tersely, "I don't work well with an audience.
"

He carried out some more examinations, but remaining quiet this time.
He felt the soles of Maria's shoes and then stood up, leading Audrey to
a quieter part of the stage.

"The shoes are warm, " he said, "And the soles are made of metal, the
same as that part of the stage. "

"So what does that mean? " asked Audrey.

"Electrocution, " said Damon quietly.

Damon's theory was that the assassin had rigged up a device beneath the
stage, which would send a current up to the metallic portion of the
runway. The metal soles of the Barbarella shoes had acted as a
conductor, killing Maria when she had got to the end of the
runway.

"So the question is, " said Audrey, "Who knew that Maria Shaffenberg
would be wearing those shoes? "

Damon quickly assembled a poker face to hide his surprise, "Excellent,
you're learning fast. Let's go and speak to the Show Manager. "

Francis had made it as far as the door of his office, but even opening
it a crack was making him gag and feel nauseated. He had put the bottle
of pills in his trouser pocket and from time to time reached into the
pocket to feel that the bottle was still there, that at least was some
comfort. Opening the door little by little just seemed to be prolonging
the agony; it felt as though unseen enemies were slowly removing the
skin from his body with potato peelers. Surely better just to heave
open the door and have done with it.

But what lay beyond?

He knew, for he was a creature of reason, that all that was behind the
door was a landing, doors running off it and a large flight of stairs.
He knew that there were walls and doors and that the outside could not
penetrate. In logical terms, he was as safe outside that door as he was
in the office, his haven, and his nest. Above all else, Francis was a
man of reason. Yet, the driving force behind his every day was a
crippling fear, foolish in the extreme, yet more powerful than the wish
to sleep or eat.

When dealing with irrational fears, logic and reason are no weapons.
All Francis could think of was the vast hungry horror that lay out
there, in the brutal ugly world. Things and people that wanted to tear
at him, to seize him, to overwhelm him.

What was behind that door, in the distorted mind of Francis, was
everything that he had sought to shut out. Everything that wasn't in
his room, safe and orderly and precise, that was what lay
outside.

He needed to make further preparations.

The Show Manager was a lean man with black tightly curled hair that
fell about his shoulders; he wore his sideburns thin and pointed. He
was wearing a light-grey shirt with what Audrey would have described as
'a lot of flounce', baggy with the cuffs unfastened and flapping about
his wrists. He was wearing some fragrance that smelt of apples and
petrol, and a little too much of it.

The whole of the backstage was in panic, models and assistants
chattering and chewing at cuticles, people rushing with no real sense
of purpose or direction.

When they approached the Show Manager, he was smoking with pace and
already fumbling for the next in the packet; his other hand held a fat
brassy Zippo lighter.

His name was Alessandro, although Damon thought that beneath the
Italian he could detect a tinge of Bristol to the accent. He was
flamboyant in everything he did and said.

"Who was in charge of the clothes, the shoes? " asked Damon.

"Valjean does all of that, " said Alessandro, gesturing broadly, "He
and the dressers. Each model has their own dresser to help them get
ready. Valjean creates the clothes. I? I create the drama, the
spectacle. Without my vision, it is just cloth on skinny girls."

He almost spat out the word 'skinny' to show his contempt for the
models. If somehow he could have made the dresses walk and move on
their own, he would have done this and dispensed with the human element
entirely.

"So have you done a lot of rehearsing? " asked Audrey,
innocuously.

"Some, " he said, "Not enough. The show was very good, but we wanted it
to be more than that. More than a fashion show even. Valjean and I, we
wanted to make art, here in this hall. "

"You've done a complete run-through, all the models wearing all the
outfits, before you did the show? " Audrey asked again, ignoring the
politest of sharp looks that Damon was shooting in her direction.

"Of course, " Alessandro said testily, "Do you think these things just
fall together? We have to work at it. Not just like models, for this
show, we worked like dancers. To get things just right. "

"And you organised the runway? " asked Damon.

"Yes, of course. I am the Show Manager. I produced the sketches, showed
them to Valjean, he agreed. "

"So, if someone put a device under the runway, which would send an
electric charge up through the end of the walk - who would have been
able to do that? "

Alessandro went pale and his accent slipped right across the
Mediterranean and the English Channel to Bristol, "Is that what
happened to Maria? Christ! You mean she was murdered?"

"What did you think had happened?" asked Damon.

Alessandro sat down heavily onto a dark wooden trunk, his cigarette
limp in his fingers and all of the moody artist gestures and mannerisms
simply leaked out of him, leaving a rather shocked young man.

"I don't know, " said Alessandro, as an inch of ash drooped at the end
of his unattended cigarette, "I thought it was just? you know, illness
or something. I know she'd been seeing doctors over here. Bloody hell.
And she worked so hard. Harder than any of the others. She was like
Valjean, she wanted to make this more than just a show, an event -
something people would talk about years later and say they were there.
"

"The shoes she was wearing at the end had metal soles, " said Damon,
"Who would have known that?"

Alessandro thought for a moment, "Valjean of course, maybe some of the
models. The dresser obviously. "

"But not you? " Audrey chipped in.

Alessandro said nothing.

"But you saw the show rehearsed, over and over. You knew as well as
anyone which outfits the models were wearing. And you were in charge of
the runway, the stage. You were in an ideal position to place the
device."

Alessandro looked at Damon, "Who IS this woman? "

Damon took hold of Audrey's arm lightly, "This is one of my junior
detectives. She's new with the firm, first week. Bit too keen. Thanks
for your time. "

With that, Damon led Audrey away, who was still fixing Alessandro with
a look of deep mistrust. They moved away from each other like wary
boxers after the bell, eyes firmly locked on each other.

"What were you doing? " Damon asked her, "It felt like you were about
to shine a light in his eyes and ask him to confess."

"Interrogation, " she told him, "We got several key facts out of him.
Mr Francis says that?"

"Never mind what Mr Francis says, " Damon snapped, "This is real life,
not that room he shuts himself away in. Just take the notes and let me
ask the questions. I'm the detective here. "

Instantly he felt guilty and apologised.

Francis made his way back to the office door, this time with a navy
blue bathtowel draped over his head. He resembled a child playing at
being a ghost, but the advantage was that all he could see was his
feet. It somehow made him feel a little more as though he were safe in
a confined space. He was setting the limits of his surroundings. He
tugged open the door, took a great lungful of air and forced his feet
to move, inch at a time, until the tip of his shoe was beyond the
doorframe.

The dresser was called Polly, a very slight girl. In her ash-blonde
hair was a silver hairslide, the shape of a flamingo. She had eyebrows
that arched free and proud above her eyes, almost perfectly so; they
must have taken a lot of work to look so effortless, Audrey mused.
Polly also had makeup that looks natural and nude, but in fact takes a
great deal of skill to apply. She had a pretty face and a quiet
manner.

She showed Damon and Audrey the rows of clothes that were specifically
set out for Maria. All the time that she spoke to them, she was busy
zipping dresses back into clear plastic bags and hanging them up. She
was not only busy zipping, but she was zipping busily, each dress
sealed with a crisp Trrr-Zziip sound.

"Two of everything, " she said, as she showed them dress after
dress.

"Why is that?" asked Damon, ignoring the snorting noise to his left
that indicated Audrey already knew the answer.

"Just in case anything rips or stains as we're putting it on. We have
to dress each model very very quickly to meet the demands of the show.
Sometimes accidents happen. The spare costume is to save time if
something goes wrong. "

"What about the shoes? " asked Damon.

Polly showed them the shoes, lined up in pairs of pairs. There were two
sets of each, except for the silver boots. Of course, Maria had been
wearing one pair - the same thing was true of that whole outfit.

Damon picked up the boots and examined them carefully, showing the
soles to Audrey.

"Ordinary soles, " she commented.

"Exactly, " said Damon, "So if Maria had worn these shoes, she would
still be alive. Why are these boots not exactly the same as the other
pair? "

Polly was a bit baffled by all this, "I don't know, I just put them on
her feet. Valjean and Alessandro did all the creative stuff. Maria
picked her shoes up and I put them on for her. Look, is there anything
else I can help you with?"

Damon was about to say no, when Audrey interrupted, "What exactly do
you get out of this job? "

"Well, " said Polly, "I love fashion, and Valjean is a genius, it's
wonderful to work with him. "

"But all you really do is put clothes on models and help girls zip up
their dresses, " said Audrey, "It's hardly glamorous. Surely you'd
rather be a model? "

"Not pretty enough for that, " Polly said, with a hint of both sorrow
and resignation.

Once they had left the dressing room, Damon spoke to Audrey
again.

"What were you doing? "

"Establishing motive, " Audrey told him, "That's what you said earlier,
motive, means and opportunity. She had the chance to make sure which
pair of shoes Maria was wearing, and her motive was jealousy. She
always wanted to be a model and hated having to bow and scrape around
Maria. Why would anyone settle for doing a job like that, if they had
potential? "

Damon took a deep breath and counted to ten, he never liked
confrontations, "Well, one could ask why you lock yourself away in a
dismal old house, to type letters and reports for a man who's
frightened of his own shadow and daren't open his door. Couldn't YOU
find something better?"

"I happen to enjoy my job, " Audrey replied, tartly, "I find it very
rewarding working with Mr Gulliver. And believe it or not, I sometimes
find it rewarding working for YOU! "

There was an uncomfortable silence. Damon never liked raising his
voice, and Audrey was not one of those modern girls who felt that it
was acceptable to argue with the boss. When the apologies came, they
both spoke at the same time, and were both happy to forgive the
other.

"I do have a question, " she asked, but with a more respectful tone,
"Whoever was trying to kill her left a lot to chance. Why not make sure
that both pairs of boots had metal heels? "

"I was wondering that too, " said Damon, truthfully.

Francis had now made it to the banister although he had needed to lie
on the landing floor for a few minutes, trembling and sweating. He had
desperately wanted to go back inside, to the safety of the office where
he had control of everything. What prevented him was the mental image
that kept floating before him when he closed his eyes, of Damon proudly
telling the assembled throng that he had solved the mystery (wrongly of
course, for Damon was incapable of solving the mystery of how post got
on the mat in the morning).

He heaved himself to his feet, keeping a firm grip on the towel to
ensure that it did not fall and expose the yawning horror of the space
that was surrounding him. With great determination, he began to descend
the broad staircase.

Valjean sat calmly in a little room all of his own. Unlike everyone
else backstage, he was neither frantic nor distraught. He sat with his
knees slightly apart and with the palm of each hand flat upon his
thighs.

"My dear friend, " he said to Damon, "I had hoped for us to work
together again. It was something of a dream of mine. I never imagined
it would be in your new capacity rather than your old. "

"I'm sorry too, " said Damon, "It? it really was a wonderful show. She
was magnificent. "

"There is that small comfort, " Valjean said quietly, "There was
something wonderful occurring out there. I could feel it; the other
models could feel it. Even those dried-up old journalists could feel
it. She was so much more than a model. "

When Valjean spoke it was with a mixture of confidence and apology, the
tone of a French football manager, who knows a great deal more than the
interviewer, but feels slightly guilty about this. Damon felt very
uncomfortable interviewing a man that he still felt of as a
friend.

Audrey nudged Damon's arm very gently.

"Yes, sorry about this, " said Damon, "We've got to ask some questions.
Just while we're waiting for the police to arrive. "

Valjean spread his hands, holding them with their palms up, "Ask
whatever you wish. I will do what I can. "

"The stage area, who was in charge? Could anyone have tampered with it?
"

"Only I, " said Valjean, "I checked the stage, before the show began. I
looked at every inch. I am a perfectionist, you see. "

Damon looked a little awkward, and threw a sideways look at Audrey
before continuing, "Ah, the other, ah, thing is the shoes. The ones
Maria was wearing. They had metal soles. We think that may have
contributed to her death. But the other pair, they had ordinary soles.
"

"I wanted her to wear the metal soles, " said Valjean, with great
candour, "She knew that it was my wish. The others, they were not
right, they lacked the final touch. "

Damon and Audrey left Valjean alone, pausing outside the door of the
room, to speak quietly together.

"What did you make of that?" asked Damon.

"You really want my opinion? "

"I do, yes, " Damon told her and his eyes seemed full of heavy tears
that he was holding back with a great effort.

"Then I think he was involved. I'm sorry. I know he is your friend.
But, it seems very odd. I have the feeling he was involved, but yet, he
went to such lengths to ensure that we felt that. "

"You noticed that too, " said Damon, "The other two made sure that they
weren't the only ones under suspicion, but Valjean ruled out the
possibility of anyone else. But there is something else. "

Audrey hadn't really picked up any other suspicions, which pleased
Damon. He didn't often have opportunity to dazzle those who knew
him.

"Thinking back to the moment when Maria fell, " he explained, "Valjean
rushed to her side and knelt near her. He was quick to be first there.
I thought out of concern, but actually he never touched her. "

"He wanted to be sure that nobody else could - that nobody else would
get an electric shock by touching her body, " said Audrey and she
raised her eyebrow.

"And if he didn't touch her, then he knew very well what might have
happened if he had, " said Damon, with a degree of pride, "What
troubles me is WHY? The only thing I can think of is that he wanted the
publicity, the drama that the death of a famous model would bring. It's
very sad. I really thought I knew him as a friend and as a man. "

At that point, a tannoy chimed out, "Audrey Ribbon to reception please,
Audrey Ribbon to reception"

Audrey looked puzzled, but scurried off to see what was occurring. At
the reception desk, a woman handed her a telephone receiver.

"Hello?"

"Audrey, " panted Francis, "Thank goodness. I've been trying to contact
you. Quickly, I have information about the killing. Firstly, the death
was by electrocution?"

"Yes, we know that, " Audrey told him in a very matter-of-fact
way.

There was a pause while Francis struggled to take this surprising
information on board, "Very well. I suppose that was apparent enough
even for Damon to stumble over the answer. The killer, though, was
Valjean. "

"Yes, of course, " said Audrey, but not with a gasp of surprise, but
rather a bored yawn, "Thank you very much for ringing Mr Gulliver, but
there was really no need. Your brother has already dealt with things in
a most satisfactory manner. We shall be home in a few hours. Goodbye.
"

After she hung up, Francis found himself alone in the strange office
with a blue towel over his head, starting blankly into the mouthpiece
of the telephone. He felt more confused and alone than he had ever been
in his life. How could this be? His fool of a brother dealing with the
situation capably and with intelligence, not needing him at all? And
then he remembered that the stairs awaited him and the world seemed an
even worse place.

Audrey smiled to herself; it had been pleasant having the opportunity
to defend Mr Damon to his brother. It was not often that Mr Damon had
the chance to shine, she had noted the curt way in which Mr Francis
spoke to him, treated him as though he were a fool. Audrey Ribbon was
quite a perceptive woman and was able to see what neither brother
could. The undeniable truth that they were a necessary pair, that
although the queen may be the most powerful and agile piece in chess,
the lowly plodding pawn is still vital to the game.

Damon needed the brains possessed by Francis, but without the charm and
effort of Damon, the brains would have been of little use. Damon needed
Francis to achieve his success and fame, but Francis used Damon as a
shield to protect himself from the very things Damon craved.

Tired of waiting, Damon went back into the room, to speak to
Valjean.

"I don't understand, " he said, "I know that you killed Maria, but I
can't understand why. Was it just for art? For effect? "

Valjean said nothing.

"You saw how she was out there today, " protested Damon, "She was
magnificent. She was on the verge of being the best of them all. And
you put an end to that. "

Valjean grimaced and opened his desk drawer. At this point, Damon
should have suspected a gun and jumped towards him before struggling
over the gun and finally winning out. However, in reality, the thought
hadn't even occurred to him before Valjean held up a thin white
envelope.

"I was against this, " he said, "But she wanted you to have it. I can
only hope that you are the honourable man that I think you are. "

Damon took the envelope from him and used the ball of his thumb to tear
it open. He pulled out the contents, a letter in Maria's handwriting.
He had seen it often enough to know that. He read it to himself,
silently.

'My dear Damon. If you are reading this, then I put on the metal-soled
boots and I am no more. I hope that for my last walk, I dazzled and
inspired. I hope that my death was a thing of beauty and sorrow. It is
true that Valjean helped me with this thing. Not for selfish reasons,
but because I begged him. However, in the end, it was my choice. He
insisted on two different pairs of boots, so that I could back out or
choose the path I have taken.

You will want to know why. The reason is simple and yet I am ashamed of
it. The reason is the shortness of life, of beauty, of grace. I have
seen doctors; many doctors and they all tell me that I have the cancer.
I would have died within the year, in a hospital bed, with no hair and
awful bones. Is it so wrong that I chose my own style of death instead?
That I wanted to perform and then take my final bow.

There is a similar letter with my solicitor, in the event that anyone
is tried for my murder. Valjean wanted my reasons to go with me to my
grave, and I hope they will that my memory can be untarnished. But, I
could not allow anyone else to take the blame for my actions.

I don't know whether our love affair could ever have lasted, given the
great differences between us, but I am sad that we will never have the
chance to find out.

Finally, I do not want the world to know what I have done, but I will
not let a good friend suffer for my actions. I trust you to do what
must be done'

Audrey came back into the room, with a broad smile on her face, which
died away quickly when she gauged the sombre mood of the room. Damon
handed her Maria's letter, without a word. She read it and touched his
arm lightly, to give what support she could.

It was deeply sad, thought Damon, but not tragic. His overwhelming
thought was that Maria had been deeply foolish, so vain that her
judgment had been clouded. Life was too precious to give away; even
when there was only a little left. She had always been stupidly
dramatic.

On the other hand, Damon was a realist and knew that he was not a solid
enough person to care for someone who was dying. He would not have been
able to hide the awkwardness, the pity, and the sense of someone
watching the clock and willing it to slow down. What would he have even
had to say to Maria in those last few months? Perhaps she had been able
to detect that, the core of shameful selfishness that corkscrewed
through him.

"What will you do? " asked Valjean, "I would still be happy to stand
trial, to preserve her memory. She would not want to be thought of as
vain and foolish. "

"The police will be here in a moment, " said Damon heavily, "I'm sure
they will listen to what I have to say. "

When Audrey got to work the next morning, she was slightly puzzled by
her office. Certain things seemed to have been moved from their usual
position, pencils that were usually strewn around for ease of use had
been gathered up and placed in a pot, all of the books and pieces of
paper were lined up neatly and at precise angles. It looked for all the
world as though someone had been in her office tidying things up. Also
her largest pair of scissors had vanished. She picked up the telephone
and then replaced it. She had been thinking of calling Mr Francis
Gulliver, but that would have been foolish.

Francis had shut himself in his room and had not answered the night
before, even when Damon had banged hard on the door. Damon assumed that
Francis was sulking. Francis did this a lot.

He still ventured into the office the next morning, although somewhat
gingerly, as Audrey brought up the newspapers with their tragic
headlines of 'Model perishes in freak accident'. It had been on the
news the evening before, Francis had heard it. This went some way to
explaining the shattered radio that lay on the floor of his study, the
workings on display like some dissection interrupted. Audrey picked up
the pieces and removed them without comment.

In another corner of the office lay six ragged pieces of a blue towel,
that might have been cut up in a spiteful rage by someone with a large
pair of scissors.

"Well, " Francis said, with heavy emphasis, "I thought for some brief
moments yesterday that you had learned a little from my methods, that
we might make a detective of you after all. But, still you were able to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and bungle the case at the last
opportunity. "

Damon gave Francis a steely gaze and said, "You know your problem
Francis? You need to get out more. "