‘She’s waiting for us in there,’ says Nasrin, nodding towards the screening room. I drop my handbag at my desk, collect my tablet, and follow her in.
‘She must get up at the crack of dawn,’ I say. ‘It’s barely gone eight.’
‘I don’t think she sleeps.’
‘This was way faster than expected, right?’
‘Must be why we pay her the big bucks,’ Nasrin quips as we reach the doorway.
‘Pay who the big bucks?’ Marie, the agency’s investigator, is already seated in the front row of the plush cinema-style seats.
‘You,’ says Nas, heading down the short aisle. ‘Because you’re fast.’ She takes the seat next to Marie and I sit next to her.
‘Fast, yes. But I’m also the best.’
Marie (pronounced Mah-ree, as she’s French) Maillot could play Lisbeth Salander in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo if she weren’t nearing seventy – Retiree with the Dragon Tattoo? She’s petite, lean and wiry, has jet-black hair cropped short, tattoo sleeves up both arms, wears enough black eyeliner to sink a gothic battleship, and is dressed (as she always is) head-to-toe in black – most of it leather.
She’s also ‘smoking’ an unlit cigarette – her way of observing the ‘archaic’ laws banning smoking inside. She once told me she can’t quit, either smoking or sucking on unlit cigarettes, because she took up the habit when she was eleven. But the latter is about more than the nicotine – she also has a strong oral fixation, something I diagnosed long before her revelation. Actually, a first-year psychology student could have determined that – in their third week of uni.
‘Where is the client?’ she asks in her pronounced French accent, looking towards the door.
‘On her way,’ says Nasrin. ‘You barely gave us any notice.’
Marie shrugs and draws in noisily through her cigarette.
‘Wanna talk us through the highlights?’ Nasrin prods.
‘Non. We will wait.’
Nasrin glances at me, her eye roll conveying ‘what’s her deal?’, then unlocks her phone and starts scrolling.
I stifle a smirk and turn on my tablet so I can review the case notes while we wait. How the next phase of this case plays out – reuniting Elle with Leo (if that’s even a possibility) – will depend entirely on Marie’s findings. Though, I have mapped out some approximations.
Nearly thirty minutes later, I’ve wandered down the rabbit hole and am wholly absorbed in my notes when Anita’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
‘Poppy, Nasrin, Ms Bliss is here.’
The three of us turn in unison and I stand so I can properly welcome Cassie. ‘Thanks, Anita. Hello, Cassie, come on in.’
‘Hi, Cassie,’ adds Nasrin over her shoulder.
‘Sorry it took me so long to get here.’
‘No worries,’ I say to reassure her. ‘We’re sorry we couldn’t give you more notice, but we wanted to bring you in as soon as we had news.’
‘That’s brilliant – and perfect timing. Elle had a real wobble this morning.’ She looks past me to Marie, curious.
‘Cassie, this is our investigator, Marie Maillot. Marie, Cassie Bliss, our client.’
Marie nods at Cassie solemnly, and I indicate for Cassie to sit next to me.
‘We begin,’ says Marie with a dramatic gesture. Au fait with the agency’s AV system after years as our investigator, she presses a button on a large remote, and the screening room goes dark. Two seconds later, the slideshow begins and a low-resolution photo of Leo and Elle fills the screen. This was the sole photo of Leo that Cassie was able to provide us, mined from the archives of her social media.
‘Et voilà, Leo Jones,’ says Marie, ‘born in the early nineties in Dallas, Texas.’
Cassie shifts in her seat – excitement, perhaps.
The photo vanishes and is replaced by a photo of a man and a woman who appear to be in their sixties.
‘Leo’s parents,’ says Marie.
And even if she hadn’t just said where they were from, it would have been an easy guess. They look like they’re straight out of Dallas, the American TV show from the eighties. The man is wearing a large cowboy hat, his thick silver hair only visible at the temples, a dress shirt tucked into jeans, a bolo tie, and the most enormous belt buckle I’ve ever seen. In a pinch, it could be used as a satellite dish. His feet aren’t visible but no doubt they’re adorned with cowboy boots.
And the woman – oh my god! – is swathed in a hot-pink taffeta dress that screams ‘eighties prom’, and the only thing bigger than her puffed sleeves is her hair, which is teased into a blonde bouffant. She’s wearing an entire MAC counter of makeup and showing off (what I’m guessing is) a ten-thousand-dollar set of teeth. There’s also something quite sad behind her eyes, making me wonder why. My gaze flicks to her husband’s eyes, which are hard and steely. Perhaps that’s why – she’s married to a cold man.
‘Leonard Campbell Junior and his wife, Piper née Jones, marr—’
‘Wait,’ says Cassie. ‘So, Jones was his mother’s surname?’
‘Mais, oui.’ Marie doesn’t offer any further explanation and turns back to the screen, her expression sour. She prefers her presentations to ‘tell a story’ and I know from experience that interruptions mess with her flow.
‘Well, that explains it,’ Cassie mutters.
‘Why Elle couldn’t find him?’ I whisper and she nods.
Marie clears her throat with a loud ‘ahem’. ‘May I continue?’ she asks peevishly.
‘Yes, of course,’ says Cassie, frowning at the screen. I can only imagine the thoughts zipping through her mind.
‘Before he died, Mr Campbell was the—’
‘Sorry,’ Cassie interrupts again. ‘Leo’s dad has passed away?’
Marie huffs out a breath of frustration. ‘Oui, but there is more,’ she says, her tone indicating ‘no more interruptions’. ‘Before he died, Mr Campbell was the third wealthiest cattle rancher in Texas.’
‘Wowser,’ says Cassie under breath.
‘Now,’ Marie proceeds, ‘back to Leonard the third.’
The onscreen image changes to a collage of photos from Leo’s childhood. In the youngest, he is around three. In the oldest, I’d guess late teens. And in every single photo, he’s on a horse, wearing a cowboy hat, or both.
‘So, Leo was a cowboy in a former life?’ quips Nasrin, but the weak joke goes unacknowledged.
‘I knew Leo was from Texas but this…’ Cassie trails off, but her meaning is clear and I agree. The poor kid looks like he’s starring in a Western – and not by choice.
‘From a young age, Leo was groomed to take over from his father as head of the family business,’ continues Marie. ‘Unfortunately for Leo, his interests lay elsewhere.’
The next collage is a stark contrast: multiple photos of Leo – I’d say from his late-teens to early-twenties – in a variety of outfits and hairstyles (leaning heavily towards the Bieber flip-and-switch), and not a pair of chaps nor giant belt buckle in sight.
‘Now, that’s the Leo I remember,’ says Cassie, her voice steeped in affection.
‘As you know, Leo attended Kingston University to study fashion. But, of course, this was not his father’s plan. Leo was supposed to attend university in Texas and study agricultural business. His mother, however…’
Marie expertly moves to the next collage, this one showing several photos of Leo with his mother. There is obvious love between them and in one, she appears to be tickling Leo, who is caught mid-squeal, his face radiating pure joy.
‘She was his champion and it was Madame Campbell who made her son’s dreams come true. She helped him “escape”, one might say, using her own money to pay his tuition. When Monsieur Campbell discovered his son had not shown up at the university in Dallas, Leo was already in London and using his mother’s name. This, of course, caused an enormous rift between Monsieur et Madame Campbell. Their marriage – basically, kaput.’
Ah, so that sadness in her eyes… it was about the marriage.
‘And,’ continues Marie, ‘Monsieur Campbell threatened to discard Leo.’
My head pivots towards Marie. ‘Do you mean, disown?’
Marie flutters her hand in the air. ‘Discard, disown – as I said.’
Another thing she doesn’t like: being corrected for her malapropisms.
‘That’s like proper out of the stone age,’ says Nasrin.
Marie shrugs, her hands extended. ‘It happens,’ she says, then draws on her cigarette again.
‘But what about after uni? Why did Leo leave London so suddenly?’ asks Cassie.
‘Pfff, I am coming to this,’ says Marie. She progresses to the next slide, which shows photos of a little girl.
‘This is the sister, Brandy.’
‘Brandy?’ scoffs Nasrin.
‘It is an American name,’ replies Marie with contempt, though it’s unclear whether it’s for the name or for Americans in general.
‘Now…’ She moves to the next slide, a single photo of Brandy with Leo – and the age difference between them appears to be about six or seven years. ‘The sister, Brandy, she had a head for business – and the interest – from a very young age. But the father, Leonard’ – she says his name as though it’s left a bad taste in her mouth – ‘he does not want to leave the company to a girl.’
‘Now that is out of the stone age,’ says Nasrin.
‘Oui, absolument. Alors—’
‘Wait, when did Leo’s dad pass away? Is that why—’
Marie pins Cassie with one of her looks and Cassie’s words dry up as if they’ve been sucked from her mouth by a vacuum cleaner.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Just thought I might be piecing it together.’
In Australia, we call Marie’s sour expression a ‘cat’s bum face’. She sits back and watches the screen as she advances to the next slide, an obituary, its headline blaring:
Cattle Mogul Leonard Campbell Jr, Deceased, Aged 67
‘Look at the date,’ says Cassie. ‘That was right after Leo and Elle finished uni.’
‘Exactement. Leo returned to Texas and took over from his father to run the cattle business.’
‘That would have sucked,’ mutters Nasrin, stating the obvious.
‘But what about Brandy?’ asks Cassie. ‘If she wanted the job…’
‘Too young. Brandy was only sixteen when their father died. Leo agreed to step in until she finished school, then university.’
‘Which was when?’ Cassie asks.
‘Three years ago.’
Cassie leans past me again, pinning Marie with a forthright look. ‘So, where is Leo now? Is he still in Texas?’
‘Euh, non.’
Marie moves on to the next slide, a screenshot of an online article. A man, who I barely recognise as an older Leo, stands in front of Bergdorf’s, the famous New York department store, and in the window behind him are some of the most gorgeous shoes I’ve ever seen – and I’m not really a shoe person. The headline reads:
Reaching New Heights: The Rise of Lorenzo
‘Leo is now “Lorenzo”, based in New York and tipped to become one of the biggest names in shoes,’ says Marie.
‘He’s a famous shoe designer?’ Nasrin blurts out.
‘Not yet, but who knows…?’ Marie takes another draw on her cigarette.
‘So, Leo is Lorenzo?’ Cassie asks, almost to herself.
‘You’ve heard of him?’ I ask. ‘Lorenzo, I mean?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, vaguely. It might sound strange, but I’m not wholly across that side of things – the who’s who of fashion – but I have heard some buzz. But none of this explains why he disappeared on us, why he broke off all contact with Elle.’
Marie shrugs. ‘For that, you would have to ask Leo.’
‘Right.’ Cassie frowns again and taps the knuckles of both hands on her armrests.
‘There is one more thing,’ says Marie. She advances the slide to reveal a shopfront that looks remarkably ‘London’: two sets of floor-to-ceiling windows with wooden frames either side of a wooden-framed glass door, painted in an eye-catching teal. The sign above the windows says ‘Lorenzo’ in a swirly gold font.
‘Lorenzo’s newest store,’ Marie declares.
‘That looks like it’s in Soho,’ says Cassie, leaning forward in her seat.
‘It definitely looks like London,’ I agree.
‘Is it in Soho?’ Cassie asks.
‘Oui.’
‘Wait, so that means he’s here? Leo’s here in London?’ Cassie asks, her excitement visibly building.
The lights come on and I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust. As is her wont, Marie drags this moment out – literally, with another drag on that (must-be-soggy-by-now) cigarette, and metaphorically by locking her intense gaze on Cassie, her chin lifted.
‘Lorenzo – both the label and the man – recently relocated to London. Your Leo, he is… pfff… fifteen kilometres that way,’ she says, poking one of her bony fingers towards the side wall.
‘Oh my god,’ Cassie’s says. She throws a hand over her mouth as she starts to laugh. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she exclaims. ‘This is brilliant.’
Marie is collecting her things, but she’s omitted one salient detail, perhaps the most significant one. Cassie appears to be one step away from sending out wedding invitations but, as far as she knows, this could all be moot.
‘Marie, I’d just like to confirm that there’s no significant other in the picture,’ I say.
‘Ah, non, c’est ça. I am pleased to report that there is no spouse, girlfriend, boyfriend, or any form of significant other,’ she states.
‘Great work, Marie,’ I say, as though she had any influence over Leo’s romantic status. ‘And thank you.’
Cassie leaps up and approaches Marie who, even though she’s also standing, is completely dwarfed. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘But of course.’
‘And that…’ Cassie gestures at the screen. ‘That was brilliant. I mean, how did you get all those photos?’
‘Euh, I know a guy,’ Marie replies – her standard response when anyone asks about the ‘secret sauce’ of her methods. Actually, I suspect she has a sauce guy too.
‘Right,’ I say, wanting to progress to the next phase. ‘Let’s head to one of the meeting rooms and discuss our strategy for the reunion.’ Cassie may have asked us to hold off until after Paris, but given her reaction just now, I suspect she may want to get started right away.
I follow the others out of the screening room and pause at the door to turn off the lights. Nasrin doubles back. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask quietly.
‘Just… how do you think the sis is going to react?’
‘To being reunited with her long-lost love?’ I make a don’t-ask-stupid-questions face.
‘After he ditched her, cut off all ties, then moved back to her hometown a decade later and didn’t tell her?’
Hmm, Nas has a point.
‘Oh… uh.’
‘Exactly.’
