by Nikki Attree
"I’m so sorry, but I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily. I was hoping the police would find them before I had to ring you."
"So what are the police doing then? Why haven’t they found my Gizmo? Have they got any leads?"
Elizabeth avoids making the usual joke about looking for leads for missing dogs. "Well I can confirm that the dogs were stolen from the dog hotel, and we’ve just received a ransom note, so it’s definitely a dognapping. The police are investigating. We’ve broadcast an appeal for information, and offered a reward. So we’re doing all we possibly can to get them back.”
Nikki is shocked: "Oh My God! Do you think they’ll harm the dogs?"
"No, I don’t think so. They’ve sent us a photo and they look OK.” Elizabeth isn't going to mention how sad and bedraggled they look in the photo.
“Can you e-mail me the photo?”
“Umm, well I don’t think ...”
Nikki interrupts. She sounds desperate: “please, it would give me a glimmer of hope, and a bit of piece of mind.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but it’s unlikely. The police told me not to show it to anyone.”
Nikki’s patience is exhausted. "Right, I’m getting on the next flight to the UK. I need to see that you’re really doing everything possible to find my Gizmo. I don't know about you, but my pooch is family. I trusted you to look after him ...”
Elizabeth interrupts: "Nikki, calm down. There’s really no need for you come over. You can’t do anything more than we’re already doing. Listen, you were right to trust me, and you have to trust me now."
“Why should I trust you Elizabeth? You’ve lost my lovely Gizmo. I can’t believe he’s gone.” Nikki is sobbing down the phone now. “If you don’t get him back, I promise you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”
Elizabeth is actually quite worried by the threat of legal action. She knows that she signed a contract to take care of Gizmo. She tries her best to tries to diffuse the situation: “Nikki, I’ve lost my dog as well, you know. I’m as upset as you about it, but it wasn’t me who lost them. It was that bloody Wags hotel. They assured us that the dogs were one hundred percent secure there. It’s them you should be threatening.”
Silence from the Tenerife end, punctuated by Nikki’s sobs.
"Look, don't book a flight just yet. I promise I can sort this out."
"How? It sounds like the police haven’t got a clue."
Elizabeth thinks hard and fast. She’s inclined to agree, but that would only result in an irate Nikki on her doorstep. Then she has a brainwave: "I’m going to hire a private investigator. I’ll get the best in the country. No expense spared."
Nikki’s not sure about this. Maybe it’s clutching at straws, but that’s all she’s got. "OK, I’ll be phoning you every day. If there’s no news soon I’m coming over, and you’ll have to answer to me - face to face!"
"Sure, sure ..." Elizabeth replies with a sense of relief. It’s short lived though. Nikki hasn’t quite finished yet: “... and one last thing. I haven’t forgotten who I signed a contract with, to look after Gizmo, and it wasn’t the dog hotel. Just bear that in mind!” She slams the phone down.
Elizabeth breathes a sigh of relief. “Well, that didn’t go too badly” she thinks, giving herself a pat on the back for her damage limitation skills. And the more she thinks about it, the more she likes her private detective brainwave. Not only will it keep Nikki off her back, but perhaps it might also help ease the tension with her daughter.
Miranda was nearly hysterical with grief when she saw the dognappers’ photo, and Elizabeth was genuinely worried about her. There have been several news stories recently about teenage depression leading to suicides, and an hysterical teenager was the last thing she needed right now. “Perhaps she’ll calm down a bit when I tell her that I’ve got a topnotch private detective on the case” she hopes.
She must admit as well that as a film producer, and a film ‘buff’, she loves the idea of involving a ‘private dick’. After all, they’re some of her all-time favourite TV and movie characters: Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, Sherlock Holmes, Maigret, Poirot, Columbo, Miss Marple ... she drifts off into a film noire reverie.
Then reality bites back. Miranda comes slouching back downstairs and collapses in a heap on the sofa, her head in her hands, still sobbing.
“I think I might have an idea how to find Doodle, darling” Elizabeth says, with as much enthusiasm as she can muster.
Miranda cheers up a smidgen: “really?”
“Yep. We’ll hire a private detective to find her. You know like Sam Spade, or Miss Marple ...”
A blank stare from Miranda.
“... or Sherlock Holmes?”
“Oh, yeah, wadever.”
“Come on darling. Help me out here - it might just work. It usually does in the movies.”
Miranda is about to say: “yeah, wadever” again, but then something clicks in her brain. “You know that old movie about a pet detective?”
“Ah yes, darling.” Of course she does. Elizabeth prides herself on knowing all about every film that’s ever been made. It would be her specialist subject on ‘MasterMind’. “It’s not exactly that old. Nineteen ninety-four, I think?” she says in her nerdy film-buff voice. “Directed by Tom Shadyac and starring Jim Carrey ...”
“Wadever!” Miranda exasperatedly interrupts her mother’s bid to win MasterMind. “Anyway, why don’t you hire a pet detective like Ace Ventura, to find Doodle and Gizmo?”
Elizabeth thinks for a moment. Of course, that’s it! Miranda is absolutely right. They do indeed need a specialist. “Darling, that’s brilliant! You’re a genius!” She gives her daughter a hug.
Miranda is sniffling, rather than sobbing now. She blows her nose. Her mum is relieved to have stemmed the flood of tears, but the plan needs fleshing out. “Wait a minute, how are we going to find a pet detective? I mean it’s not like we can just step into that movie and ring up Ace Ventura.”
Miranda looks at her mother incredulously. Sometimes adults just amaze her with their stupidity. “We search on Google, mum” she says, rolling her eyes and sighing. She reaches for her tablet, and types ‘pet detectives’ into the search engine. A list of ‘Missing Animal Response Technicians in your area’ appears. Elizabeth is well impressed: “you’re so clever sweetie.”
Miranda shrugs, and continues clicking. Moments later she shows her mother a newspaper article with the headline: ‘It’s a Fur Cop!’ It’s about the private investigator (aka the ‘Dreadlocks Detective’) who solved the case of the champion Yorkshire terrier, poisoned by a jealous fellow competitor at the famous ‘Crofts’ international dog show. A few more clicks quickly reveal how much coverage this story received, and how high profile it had made the 'Happy Tails’ pet detective agency. Miranda types the name, and a few clicks later they are looking at a photo of Annie on the agency’s home page.
Elizabeth gazes at the image. She’s not sure what to make of the ‘Dreadlocks Detective’s appearance, but as she browses the website, she’s impressed by the list of cases solved, missing pets recovered, and the clients’ endorsements.
The producer is quite used to ‘creative’ types looking a bit ‘alternative’. She has no problems with ponytails, goatees, even (at a pinch) piercings, but dreadlocks? “Hmm, not sure if that’s a hair extension too far” she mutters, as she ponders whether being a pet detective actually qualifies Annie as a ‘creative’ at all.
However, it’s clear that Annie has built a solid reputation, and is fast becoming a bit of a celebrity in the murky world of ‘missing animal response technicians’. Elizabeth likes to deal with celebrities, or at the very least, high profile reputations.
“Never mind the dreadlocks, I think we’ve found our pet detective” she says triumphantly, and picks up her phone to arrange an appointment.
* * *
The next morning, Elizabeth takes a taxi to Stoke Newington, and arrives at ‘Happy Tails’ an hour late. She prefers to be la
te for most appointments as it makes her feel important. In her experience no one important is ever on time, and the pecking order is decided by whoever is delayed the most. So, the only meetings that she’s ever on time for are with people who are more important than her: celebrity film directors, actors, her boss.
This part of London is new to her. She doesn’t often venture out of Soho, to be honest. So she gazes at the landscape of inner city depredation with interest, casually accessing it for location potential. “Definitely a good example of ‘shady chic’ she’s thinking, as they arrive at the address in Stoke Newington High Street.
There’s a sign, above the door of what looks like a pet shop, advertising ‘Happy Tails - North London’s Premier Pet Detective Agency. We will Find your Furry or Feathered Friend. No Creature too Great or Small. 90% Success Rate!’ boasts the sign.
“Sounds like I’ve come to the right place” thinks Elizabeth, “or have I?” she wonders, looking for the door. She walks into the pet shop and asks the man behind the counter where she can find Annie Capello. Sid, the owner, tells her that Annie’s office is upstairs, pointing to the staircase at the back of the shop.
Elizabeth thanks him and walks cautiously towards the stairs. To get there she has to pass cages of birds, mice, rats ... all squawking, scurrying, squeaking, and smelling of who-knows-what. She grimaces.
"Don't worry,” Sid calls out, “they’ve all been fed!"
Annie greets her at the top of stairs and leads the way into her office above Sid’s shop.
“Did the taxi driver have problems finding the address?” she asks Elizabeth, looking at her watch.
Elizabeth shrugs, as she takes in her surroundings. Frankly, she’s disappointed. She was expecting a slick, contemporary office, maybe some tasteful monochrome pictures of animals on the walls, leather couch, smoked glass table, a few iMacs.
Elizabeth subscribes to the “less is more” school of interior design. In her opinion, minimalism involves too much clutter. A room needs to be surgically purged of everything that’s not absolutely essential. Anything else is a state of squalor.
Her own office is as immaculate as her living room. They are both more-or-less identical statements of her lifestyle, tastes, and design philosophy. As are Annie’s in fact - just not in quite the same way. For Annie, it’s not that she enjoys clutter, just that she likes a room to feel homely, lived-in, and just as much an expression of her personality as it is for Elizabeth.
It’s lucky that her client hadn’t arrived on time, because she was actually busy making a rare attempt at tidying up. Old coffee cups have been removed, the remains of chocolate cookies thrown away, and her pet rabbit’s carrots tucked away in a cupboard. So the office was certainly not dirty, possibly not even cluttered, but nor was it a temple to the God of pristine and organised.
Her desk is covered in a collection of esoteric bric-a-brac, knickknacks, trinkets, and curios - mostly animal themed. There is, for sure, an ancient filing cabinet in the corner, but strangely the papers piling up on the desk never seem to make the giant leap of faith into it. And then there’s the chair ...
Elizabeth’s office chair is a state of the art ergonomic design in carbon fiber, stainless steel, and kevlar, costing many thousands of pounds. Annie’s standard Ikea model is hidden beneath a blanket covered in cartoon kittens. Elizabeth can barely look at the blanket without feeling physically sick. It’s that inappropriate in a work environment. Hell, any environment come to that.
Annie reads the look of disgust on Elizabeths face, after all it’s part of her job to pick up on people’s feelings, but she’s not bothered. “If this woman wants to get all snotty that’s her problem, not mine” she thinks. “I better warn her about Dougal though.” She tells Elizabeth to be careful not to tread on the rabbit, as he has a tendency to bunny-hop out from wherever he’s hiding when you least expect it.
Elizabeth’s eyes widen as she scans the room anxiously. “Rabbit? It doesn't bite, does it?”
Annie laughs, but Elizabeth wasn’t joking. “She’s snotty and she’s got a vivid imagination” Annie thinks to herself. “I know she works in the film business, so maybe she thinks she’s walked onto the set of 'Killer Rabbits'?” Out loud she says: “hey, don’t worry - Dougal is definitely harmless. At least, he hasn’t bitten anyone yet, but there’s always a first time eh?” She grins at Elizabeth, but there’s no response, no sense of humour, no warmth, no breaking the ice.
"Are there any other hidden animals I need to know about?" Elizabeth asks icily.
"Nope, only Dougal. I brought him with me this morning because he’s a bit poorly, and I didn't want to leave him on his own. Like I said, don’t worry about him. He’s just a bit stupid, and he can get under your feet sometimes."
Elizabeth sighs, and wonders what she’s doing in this joke of an office. She sits down, surveys the room again, and tries to make sense of the chaos. The only redeeming features, in her eyes, are the iMac on Annie's desk, and the framed newspaper cutting of the ‘It’s a Fur Cop!’ article on the wall. Pointing at it, she reminds herself why she’s here. “That’s how I found you” she announces. “I looked at your website, and saw that you solved the ‘Crofts’ murder.”
"Yes, that was my big break” Annie replies. “The police had given up on solving the case. I managed to put the pieces of the jigsaw together and ..."
Elizabeth interrupts: “right, OK, I’m a bit busy, so could we cut to the chase please. As I told you on the phone: the two dogs that are the stars of the film we’re currently making were stolen from the hotel they were staying in.”
“Yes, I saw something on the news about it” Annie says. “In fact, I think I caught a bit of an interview you did?”
Elizabeth smiles for the first time since she got out of the taxi. “That’s right. I wanted to tell the public about the reward. We’re offering two thousand pounds for information leading to their return.” She reaches into her bag. "There’s been some developments since then. The bastards have been in touch. Here's the ransom note and the photograph they sent me."
Annie looks closely at the printed note, and the photo of Gizmo and Doodle chained up in a shed, looking muddy, and exhausted. “Well, at least it doesn’t look like they’ve been harmed. They’re just a bit dirty. So that’s hopeful. Maybe we’re not dealing with a sadist here.”
Elizabeth is not so sure: “but they look so sad. My daughter was quite hysterical when she saw the photo.”
“Actually, I don’t think they really look sad, just tired, and dirty.” Annie says, looking at the photo with a magnifying glass. “It looks to me like they’ve been rolling around and playing in some mud. Anyway, don’t worry too much at this stage. This stuff about ‘we haven’t even started on them yet’ is just in there to frighten you.”
She reads the note again, forensically. “Clearly we’re dealing with professional criminals. They know all about you, and the film, and they’ve targeted you. They may have been stalking you for several weeks or even months, waiting for the right opportunity to strike.”
“And they found it, didn’t they, at that bloody useless Wags place” Elizabeth says, bitterly.
“Yes, well I’ll certainly be paying the dog hotel a visit. You never know, the thief may have left some clues there. But all in good time ...” Annie continues to examine the dognappers’ text, noting the enormous ransom demand. This looks like being her biggest case yet, bigger even than the Crofts murder. She tries not to sound too obviously out of her depth: “so, this bit here: ‘We know all about the film business, and we know that you can get the money easily.’ Are they correct? I mean, do you have that kind of money available?”
“Well, I’ve checked our insurance policy, and we’re not covered for actors being held to ransom, but I’d expect the people backing the film to contribute most of it. My production company would probably cover the balance, and I’m prepared to chip in personally if it comes to it, but obviously it will take some time to get a sum like t
hat together.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to it” says Annie. “In the meantime we use delaying tactics. If you have to reply, tell them what you’ve told me: that it’ll take you some time to raise the money. Also, it’s important that you keep the details of any negotiations out of the media. The fewer people that know about the ransom demands the better, so I would advise discretion, and staying vague about what’s really happened to the dogs. You can still go public to appeal for any help to find them, of course.”
Elizabeth considers this advice. Some of it makes sense, some she considers as verging on impertinent by telling her how to do her own job. “And what will you be doing?” she asks, caustically.
“Well, if you decide to hire me, I’ll be investigating the crime, and looking for your dogs ...”
A pause. “This is like getting blood out of a stone, or worse, fleas out of Dougal’s fur” Annie thinks to herself, but she continues politely: "as I say, if you decide to hire me, I’ll need photographs of both dogs ...”
Elizabeth interrupts: “you’ve already got one.”
Annie sighs. “Yes, I know. I mean a photograph that hasn’t been taken by the dognappers.” She continues before Elizabeth can interrupt again: “plus copies of their pet passports with their microchip numbers, and your authorisation to interview the staff at Wags hotel and your film studio ...”
She pauses for breath, and Elizabeth interrupts again: “Impossible, absolutely not!”
Annie sighs again. This time more obviously. “Sorry, what’s impossible?”
“Why do you need to come to my workplace?” demands Elizabeth. “No-one at the office or the studio would steal the dogs. That’s a ridiculous suggestion.”
“And one that I didn’t actually make” thinks Annie.
“You can interview my people online. I’ll get my PA to set up a Skype meeting."
