by Nikki Attree
She says that yes, of course she’d love to help, but she tells him again that she’s more of a cat person - as well as hamsters, guinea pigs, rabbits, fish ... and that reminds her that she promised to invite him to dinner at her place, to meet her menagerie. “Yes, you must come and meet them all and we can talk about your doggie startup, over dinner. My treat. I’ll give you a call in a few days. I’ve just taken on this big job and things are a bit hectic this week. It’s quite well paid though, so I have to give it my best shot.”
“That’s OK. I’m pretty busy as well. I’m actually hoping to seal the deal on this thing with Harry and it looks like the end might finally be in sight. It can’t come soon enough, to be honest. I’m getting more and more fed up working with him.”
Annie breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh right. That’s good news. I can’t say that I exactly gelled with your business partner.”
“Yes, I realise that, and I can’t say that I blame you. Anyway, I’d love to come to your place one evening. Oh, and by the way, congratulations on this new job. Sounds like it could be your big break then?”
“Well yes, maybe. The client is in a different league from my regulars, but she’s a nightmare to work with. A bit like Harry, in fact!”
They both laugh, and agree that you can’t always choose a business partner for their personality. “If I could, I’d choose to work with you, though” he says, with a Jack-the-Lad wink.
She grins. “That’s sweet of you, Jack. Who knows, maybe one day? In the meantime, I want to remember the moment, so smile for the camera ...”
She grabs her phone, snaps a selfie of them giggling together, and then another close-up of him, looking suddenly serious. As we’ll find out shortly, she has another reason for needing a photograph of Jack, just as she had an ulterior motif for wanting a walk in the park with him.
But that’s for later. Right now they’re happy sharing the present moment. It’s been a very pleasant evening together. The spark has certainly been re-ignited, and romance is smoldering.
* * *
It’s been several days since Pauline delivered the dognappers’ third note, with the fake blood photo. Harry is boiling with impatience and just about ready to explode. He’s ready to carry out all his previous threats now. From chopping bits off the dogs and delivering them to Elizabeth’s daughter at her school, to sending in the hit man.
Jack has his work cut out to rein in his partner’s natural enthusiasm for violence. He explains to Harry that the last few days have been crucial for his AMHGF strategy - to leave Elizabeth to stew, and allow time for Absence to Make her Heart Grow Fonder.
Meanwhile, he’s been looking for a place to carry out the hostage exchange, and after a recce he thinks that he’s found a suitable location. He shows Harry his photos of a semi-derelict bedding factory on a run down industrial estate in Wembley. “It’s perfect mate. There’s a big car park. Open on all sides, so we can clock any surveillance. No lights anywhere. It’ll be dark, and deserted in the small hours.”
It’s time to contact Elizabeth again, with the details. This time there’s no persuading Pauline to do the delivery. Harry tries negotiating with her, but the negotiations break down and she goes on strike. She’s “‘ad it up to ‘ere with yer fekin promises” and there’s no way that she’s going anywhere without a sizable wodge of readies as a down-payment.
“No worries” says Jack, “I’ll e-mail the location to Elizabeth.”
Harry looks at him with a mixture of annoyance and incomprehension. He doesn’t want to appear thick. He sort-of ‘gets’ Facebook and of course internet porn, but e-mails have passed him by without requiring his participation.
“Yeah, right. Wadever, mate. Do what you need to do. Just get this rich bird to cough up the dosh OK? Or else I swear, the knife’s comin out for them stinkin mutts!”
Jack heads to the internet cafe on the High Street. Grabbing a coffee, he sits down at a screen and navigates to a list of staff on Cutting Edge Films’ website. There she is: Elizabeth Parker-Smyth (Senior / Executive Producer), with her contact details. Using his scruffylad@hotmail account, he e-mails her:
Elizabeth - If you want to see your dogs alive again then be at the old 'Sleep-A-Lot’ factory, just off the North Circular in Wembley, at 5am tomorrow.
BRING OUR MONEY!
We will be watching you. Come alone or else YOU’LL NEVER SEE THE DOGS AGAIN!
He clicks ‘send’ and gazes out of the window at the traffic crawling past on the High Street, wondering what to do while he waits for Elizabeth to reply. He orders another coffee, browses a few news sites - checking to see what coverage the story is receiving, and then finds the producer’s recent interview on Youtube.
As he watches it, he can’t help but be impressed by her performance, and the way that she doggedly turns every question into an opportunity to mention the film. “Well, there ain’t gonna be a fekin film, missus producer-lady,” he thinks to himself, “unless you come up with the dosh”.
He wiles away a few more minutes looking at glossy websites for expensive cars and dreaming of how he’ll spend the money, but he’s soon bored with that and there’s still no reply from Elizabeth, so he logs onto Twitter for a bit of banter with his online mates.
Just across the street Annie is in her office, gazing down at the traffic and also logging on to Twitter. She notices that her new canine cyber-friend is online and tweets to him:
Sparkle @sparklegirl
Miaow to @ScruffyLad. Did u hear about the #dognapping?
ScruffyLad @ScruffyLad
u know there’s a reward? The dogs are film stars!
Sparkle @sparklegirl
us cats used to be worshipped as gods & don’t u forget it!
Jack stares at the screen. There’s something familiar about this virtual cat. The cogs are turning, but they don’t quite mesh. Another tweet from the online moggie:
Sparkle @sparklegirl
u were going to tell me where you go walkies?
He pauses, fingers hovering above the keyboard, wary of where this is going and perplexed by the nagging feeling that he might know this feline stalker.
Sparkle @sparklegirl
The cat got your tongue then?
And then he remembers: “isn’t Annie’s cat called Sparkle? It couldn’t be, could it?” He gazes out of the window at the pet shop on the other side of the street, silently chewing this over as he sips his coffee.
Meanwhile, Annie is also gazing out of her window, lost in thought. “It’s interesting the way that this chap with his Labradoodle seems to clam up every time I ask him where he is. Quite suspicious actually.” She wonders how she can get him to reveal a bit more about himself.
It’s going to need careful development of their fragile online relationship, via a lot more cat-dog banter, before using some subtle grooming techniques. She formulates her next move in this game of Tom and Jerry, but before she can type it another tweet arrives on both of their screens simultaneously:
Basil @BasilTheYorkie
Hey @ScruffyLad didn’t we meet in Clissold park? Recognise u from your pic & I’m sure I saw u + your Doodle pal on TV?
Jack and Annie stare at their screens. In the real world there’s a few meters of Stoke Newington High Street between them. In cyberspace they are linked by thousands of miles of fibre optic cable. In their minds, they are hanging by a thread. Dangling over a precipice. Not daring to move for fear of reaching the tipping point. The moment becomes a frozen frame. They are on pause ...
There’s a bleep from Jack’s computer as an e-mail arrives in his inbox. It’s a reply from Elizabeth:
Tomorrow is tricky for me. I have an important breakfast meeting. Can you reschedule our rendezvous for the following morning?
Jack is flabbergasted. He can’t believe this woman is actually putting her diary engagements before her dog’s welfare. He’s angry enough to reply to her in character, as Harry:
NO! Listen to me you BITCH.
> Just BE THERE with our f-ing money.
Come alone or else you’ll never see the dogs again!
THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO SEE THEM ALIVE BEFORE WE CUT THEM UP AND DELIVER THE PIECES TO YOUR DAUGHTER!!!
He prints out the e-mail exchange, puts it in his pocket, securely deletes everything, and logs off. He pays the cafe for his coffee plus the internet session, and strides purposefully out of the door onto the High Street. When he gets home he tells Harry that the wait is nearly over. Tomorrow is their big day.
* * *
Elizabeth stares at her computer screen, speechless and motionless. After a few minutes, she realises that she’s been holding the mouse in a death-grip, and nearly crushed it. Reading the dognappers’ e-mails has unsettled her, just as their printed notes did.
It’s not just the sheer mindless nastiness, that’s like reading a villain’s lines in a script. This is for real. In fact this time it feels much more real because she was in direct communication with them. This time she’s also angry that their demands have disrupted her schedule.
She tells her PA to reschedule tomorrow’s breakfast meeting, and finds herself pencilling in: ‘5am: Dog Exchange - Wembley’ in it’s place. “Maybe not” she thinks, and erases the event from her shared online diary. Then she forwards the e-mail exchange to Annie, adding that she has cleared her diary to be available for the meeting with the dognappers.
She spends the rest of the morning organising a camera crew to cover the hostage handover, offering it as an exclusive scoop after a bidding war with various broadcast news companies. She keeps this to herself.
Annie reads the e-mails, immediately noting the hotmail address that the dognapper uses. She picks up the phone, and calls her brother. She brings him up to speed about the case, and requests a police presence tomorrow at the hostage handover. Robert thanks her for the tip-off, but admonishes her for not involving his officers in the investigation. He decides to be there himself, to look after his sister, and to arrest the dognappers personally. Then she calls Tommy, her friendly ‘rent-a-thug’ sidekick, and books him as back-up in case things turn nasty.
Turning back to her laptop she looks again at the dognapper’s e-mails. So, her hunch was right - it seems that Mr SruffyLad is indeed their man, and the net is closing in around him.
Then the thought that’s been nagging away at her for the past few days, like an appallingly catchy hook from an atrocious boy-band, makes an unwelcome return. The thought that she’s been doing her best to ignore. A cold shudder racks her body.
“Look, there’s no actual evidence that it’s Jack” she reminds herself. “Just assumptions, conjectures, gut feelings ...”
She shrugs. “I mean, I finally meet a man that I really like. I change my job to become a private investigator, and I find myself investigating him? It’s all a bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” She reassures herself. “The kind of thing that only happens in a comedy thriller.”
Now she feels guilty for entertaining the idea. She picks up the phone again, calls Jack, and invites him to dinner that evening at her house. Then she gets in her car and drives to Wags dog hotel.
If you remember, Annie has previously exchanged e-mails with Mr Charmley-Walker, the manager / executive client liaison, and mentioned that she would be visiting Wags soon to pursue investigations on behalf of her client. She has an ulterior motive now: to see if there are any clues that point to Jack, or rather, to rule him out of her enquiries.
She arrives there unannounced, figuring that an unexpected visit is more likely to catch the manager off guard, rather than waiting for a slot in his “busy schedule”. Charmley-Walker is not too pleased to be caught unawares. He’s loitering in reception when she walks in, and unable to fob her off. He is at least professional, but not exactly helpful. For a start, he’s reluctant to admit anything that might prejudice the legal case that Cutting Edge Films is pursuing against Wags.
“Of course, we’re not admitting liability, Ms Capello” he says to her, officiously. “We’ve installed the best security systems of any canine boarding establishment in the UK, and we have an international reputation based on many years of utter reliability and quality.”
Annie nods. “Yes, I get that Mr Charmley-Walker, but all the same my client expects me to do my job.”
He frowns, and continues the charm offensive: “well, I doubt very much that you’ll find anything useful here, but please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any issues.” He gives her an unctuous smile and turns away, obviously expecting her to leave. She doesn’t.
“Right, well let’s start with the CCTV footage then” she says, returning his smile.
The smile becomes a scowl, but he understands that their “international reputation” is what is at stake. Not to mention his own job. He ushers her into his office, finds the security camera tapes from the night of the dogs’ disappearance, and leaves her alone to view them.
The room-cam footage is inconclusive. It briefly shows two shadowy figures entering the room before one of them puts an object, possibly a baseball cap, over the camera. She pauses the tape and prints off a still frame, but very little is clear in it. Certainly nowhere near enough to make a positive identification, but still she finds herself staring at it and asking herself whether it could be Jack.
The camera on reception is similarly unhelpful. No sign of any visitors, but it does reveal that the security man spent the night in the reception area scoffing biscuits and crisps, looking at dubious websites, and taking naps. Annie shows video of the sleeping beauty to the manager and he is suitably embarrassed.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Ms Capello” he says, grudgingly. “The night staff will be disciplined, I can assure you. So there’s no need to mention it to Mrs Parker-Smyth.”
Annie shrugs. “Hmm, right, well I’d like to speak to this gentleman if you don’t mind. I very much doubt that he can tell us anything, but he was supposed to be on duty when the dogs were stolen.”
“Well, this particular ‘individual’ (he says the word as if spitting it) is currently off site, but I can introduce you to the girl who was on reception when the dogs were discovered to be missing.”
He returns a few minutes later with Jennifer. Annie asks him to leave them alone so they can speak in private. Once Charmley-Whatsit has left the room, she asks Jennifer if it’s normal for the night security guy to be asleep. She confirms that yes, it is. “Not only that, but I think he might be using the facilities to ‘entertain’ his girl friends. He’s a real slob actually, so I can’t understand why anyone would want to be entertained.”
“And of course, you’ve never thought of using one of the rooms like that yourself?” Annie asks, in as neutral a tone as she can manage. Jennifer blushes, and vigorously denies this outrageous suggestion.
Annie picks up her phone and scrolls through to the photograph of Jack that she took after their date in the cinema (we told you that she had an ulterior motif for taking it) ...“Have you ever seen this man?” she asks.
Jennifer studies the photo. Initially she thinks that it looks a bit like the guy from the film company - Elizabeth’s assistant. What was his name? Jason somebody? Oh yes, he looked a bit like that old movie star ... Jason Gable, that was it. But no, Jason was much better looking than this bloke. She smiles at the memory and blushes an even deeper shade of crimson. There’s no way that she can mention him to this detective woman. That would definitely be the end of her job. She’s already caught the night guy out - he’ll be for the chop now.
“No, I don’t think so” she says, eventually.
Annie watches the trail of emotions race across Jennifer’s pretty features. She notes the smile, the blush, the denial, and she feels a sudden pang of jealousy.
“Ridiculous” she tells herself, “you’re imagining things now.” And indeed she is feeling relief that she’s found nothing here to connect Jack, but she can’t completely get rid of that nagging thought. It�
��s still rattling around her brain like the hook from that stupid boy-band, and whatever she does she can’t seem to get rid of it.
* * *
That evening Jack takes the short bus ride to Annie’s house in Hackney. As always, it’s a huge relief to be out of the house. The past few days have been grim. Harry has been simmering for weeks, but now he’s coming to the boil and Jack doesn’t think he can take much more of the pressure cooker. Once again he asks himself if he’s really cut out for this line of work.
Hopefully things will be different once they conclude the deal and return the dogs tomorrow. Perhaps it will be a turning point, and maybe then he can move on to a brighter future without the need for a psychopath as his business partner. Yep, tomorrow is certainly going to be pivotal, but the outcome is far from certain. Fifty-fifty at best, given Harry’s unpredictability.
Jack has done his best to take care of all that he can, but he can’t control his partner’s erratic behaviour. “He’s like a raging Pitbull” he thinks to himself, “and unfortunately I can’t put a muzzle on him.” Now he’s sweating, as he speculates on which of the many ways Harry will choose to screw it up; which of the various possible nightmare scenarios will become reality tomorrow morning.
Thank goodness he can at least escape tonight to the sanity of Annie’s company. He’s thinking of her as the bus makes it’s way along the High Street, past familiar landmarks. He smiles as they pass ‘Pawesome’ - the vet where they first met, giggling to himself as he remembers Angus throwing up on her boots. She took it so well - just one small example of why she’s a bit special. They stop outside the Odeon cinema, scene of their most recent date, and again he can smile with pleasure, remembering the laughter and tears they shared as they watched ‘Marley and Me’.
