You’re probably wondering where I’ve been…
February 8, 2016
Hello lovely readers. Bet you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to! Well, there was lots of STUFF happening last year, and what with one thing and another, my writing’s been on something of a go-slow. I’d written about half of Pet Hate, the sequel to Charity Begins with Murder, and then I realised it wasn’t working for me. I deleted most of it and started again. So here’s Chapter 1 to whet your appetites…let me know what you think! And if you’re new to my writing, Charity and Poisoned Pens are available as ebooks (and I think you can still order hard copy, or proper books as I like to call them) via Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Charity-Begins-Murder-Annie-McDowall-ebook/dp/B005YR0OD2 and http://www.amazon.co.uk/Poisoned-Pens-Annie-McDowall-ebook/dp/B00817OTEC/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
So here’s what Nikki’s up to, several years on:
Pet Hate
Chapter 1
I like my sleep. I don’t like being shocked out of a deep sleep in which I’m dreaming about floating pleasantly in a warm blue sea by the persistent ring of my phone. The last person I expected to be calling me at a quarter to midnight was Deborah Hunt. No pleasantries, no apologies for ringing so late.
“Nikki, I’d like you to join my team.”
“Could we talk tomorrow? I was asleep and…”
” Be at the office tomorrow morning at 8.30. I need you for a special job. By the way, what’s your favourite cake?”
Favourite cake? This conversation was getting more weird by the minute. I wondered if it was someone having a laugh. The sort of thing Carla might do if she was drunk, and after all, my one and only encounter with Deborah had been through Carla and Siobhan.
“I don’t do cake,” I lied, “and I’m busy tomorrow morning. I can come around later – say 5.00pm?” No-one ordered me to their office before I’d had a chance to digest breakfast, and even the celebrated Deborah Hunt had no right to be making demands of someone she’d only met once at this time of night.
“Fine,” she said with a sigh. “Can you make 4.30?”
“I’ll try,” I conceded. I wanted to get back to sleep. “Where do I need to go?”
She gave me an address in Vauxhall. I knew the place: no need to write down directions.
“You won’t be sorry, Nikki,” she said, and hung up.
Two weeks later, she was dead.
Deborah Hunt had created Special Pets for Special Kids, a charity that had become well known for its heart-rending appeals and sweet stories about how disabled children had found fun and friendship through adopting abandoned pets who would otherwise have been put to sleep. Deborah was known in households across the land, and hardly a week went by without her making an appearance on a chat show or sitting on a panel. She hadn’t needed to go on “I’m a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here” because she was still “A” list. More people recognised Deborah than they did the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Maybe that wasn’t saying much. But every appearance was rumoured to generate thousands of pounds worth of donations to Special, and she boasted almost as many followers on Twitter as Stephen Fry. Diamond Debs, as The Sun liked to call her, had set up Special ten years ago, linking her two declared passions: a better life for disabled children, and a life free of cruelty for animals. She’d made a name for herself as an actress who’d starred in one of the nation’s best loved soaps for fifteen years. She’d wanted out, but when her character died trying to rescue a drowning child, it was Princess Di all over again, such was the outpouring of grief. The death of Danielle Delaney was the launch pad for Special. Deborah appealed to the grieving public to support her new project, and they were only too happy to have something to do. Money poured into the new charity, and Deborah’s profile was set to stay very high.
I’d met her at a vegan festival where Carla and Siobhan were launching their new cruelty free aromatherapy range. Carla had jumped at the chance of redundancy with a decent pay-out from the housing association she’d worked at for nearly 20 years, and Siobhan wanted to strike out on her own, the once ethical herbal products company she’d worked for having been taken over by a multi-national that tested shampoo by squirting it into rabbits’ eyes. They’d got some free advice on setting up a small business and had created Kanti, a range of cruelty free, aromatherapy beauty products. They’d got me a free pass to the festival and I’d been helping by giving out the little samples of lavender and vervaine face cream. Deborah had swept in, a pair of hassled looking assistants on her heels, and she’d insisted on a photo-opportunity with us.
“Aren’t you Nikki Elliot?” she’d asked. I’d nodded, surprised at being recognised.
“What you did for those children was amazing,” she’d said. I was surprised that she’d known about what had happened at Action in Caring. True I was newsworthy for a week or so, and then when the trials unfolded my name and picture were in the papers and on the London news channels; but that had all happened over 3 years ago. “Let me know if you ever need a job,” she’d said through lips gleaming with ethical lipstick. She’d insisted that I gave my number to the thinnest of the assistants. The PR was great for Carla and Siobhan, and Deborah’s apparent endorsement gave a great boost to Kanti products; but I wasn’t interested in self-publicists like Deborah, and it never occurred to me that she’d actually ring.
I was in my final week at Action in Caring . Geri and I had built up AIC and got some great projects going. She’d become one of my closest friends during our time working together. But now nobody wanted to pay for youth groups or pensioners’ painting classes, or English lessons for refugee women. We’d entered the age of austerity, thanks to the worldwide bankers’ cock-up and the Tories’ determination to dismantle the public sector and hand all our worldlies to their boardroom buddies. The kids were killing each other in ever greater numbers, London streets bedecked in blue and white police tape like bunting. The old folk edged further towards their lonely ends, trapped in damp and mouldy flats, marooned by chronic lift break-downs that private management companies neglected to repair. The morning I got the news was one of those cold, miserable London mornings when everything was drenched in grey drizzle.
“I’m sorry, Nik,” Geri had said as she twisted a wiry curl around her index finger. We’d been sitting in her little office which we’d painted a cheerful yellow in happier times. Geri’s brow had seemed permanently furrowed for weeks, and her ebony skin was ashy. “You’ve seen the figures. I can’t make them add up any more.”
“You’ve done your best,” I’d said. Truth was, they needed Geri more than they needed me.
“Sorry.”
“I know.”
I hadn’t slept much after Deborah Hunt’s call. Why me? Wendy, cross about being woken up when she’d needed a good night’s sleep after an over-long shift, was sceptical. “She must be desperate.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” She switched off the bedside lamp, turned her back to me, twisted the covers around her with a vicious twitch. The moon was full and shining through the curtains. My brain was hectic. I’d been more worried than I’d let anyone know about being out of work, and I hadn’t had much luck with the applications I’d put in. So an opportunity, any opportunity, was good, right? But call it a premonition, or some kind of foreboding, I wasn’t sleepless because of being excited. I was apprehensive, and a trickle of fear snaked down my spine.
I didn’t get much work done the next day. I rang Carla.
“That’s great, Nikki.”
“It’s weird.”
“But cool. Special’s amazing – all those happy endings for kids and animals.”
“Who the hell rings a stranger about a job at midnight?”
“Just go for it, Nik. She obviously saw something in you. It’s a chance for you to shine.”
“As an office manager in Vauxhall?”
“You don’t know what she’s offering. Look, I’ve got to go. Ring me later.”
I’d brought my interview outfit to change into, complete with less than comfortable shoes. These days I lived in Converse sneakers and proper shoes felt way too confining. I arrived at Special’s swanky building a few minutes before I’d said I would. Time to take stock, get a feel for the place. Special Pets for Special Kids was based in a converted Victorian school building in Vauxhall. It was near the river, close to Vauxhall City Farm, which had been one of my niece Ruby’s favourite places when she’d been a kid. Ruby was twenty five now and expecting a baby of her own. I wondered if she’d bring her or him to the farm. Inside Special’s red brick shell, all was new and trendy. There were lime green sofas in the reception area and large canvas prints on the white walls of cute pets with soft focus children of all sizes and ages. A dapper young man sat behind the elegantly curved desk in the entrance area.
“May I help you?” He wore a navy suit, pink shirt, and turquoise tie. Pinned to his lapel was a little badge shaped like a puppy’s head with the word “Special” wrapping around like a collar.
“I’m here for an interview.”
“Name?”
I told him. He did something on a keyboard, picked up a phone, tapped his desk top impatiently with a ballpoint, and then someone must have answered.
“I’ve got Vicky Ellis for you, Miss Hawthorne.”
“Nikki Elliot,” I hissed at him.
“What’s that? No, she says she’s here for an interview. No, no-one told me either. ”
“It’s Nikki. Nikki Elliot,” I said louder. He frowned. “Trying to be helpful,” I said.
“Elliot, Miss Hawthorne. Says her name is Nikki Elliot.”
“That’s because it is,” I muttered.
I sat waiting on the green sofa for ten minutes before anyone came to get me. A few people came and went. Smart dress code. I’d have to go shopping. A woman eventually appeared from the glass fronted lift that slid noiselessly up and down the building.
“Ms Elliot? I’m Zena Hawthorne. This way please.”
Zena Hawthorne was fifty something with brown wavy hair shot through with grey. Her nose was a prominent beak, long and thin. She wore a grey and black checked skirt suit and the kind of shoes that made my feet hurt just looking at them. I followed her into the lift. We went up to the fifth floor, and Zena led me to a plush looking waiting area with more green sofas and murals on the walls of joyous children embracing lovable looking animals.
“Please go ahead,” she said, opening a door in a glass wall. The smell hit me as the door closed behind me. A smell of hay and cat litter and something avian – the smell you get under railway arches where pigeons are nesting in flocks. I’d entered a miniature zoo, as far from being an office as I could have imagined. A voice jolted me out of my stunned confustion.
“Welcome, Nikki.” I searched for the voice. “Over here, just grooming Hannah.” I followed the sound to a corner and saw Deborah Hunt squatting inside a little enclosure, combing the long hair of a ginger coloured guinea pig. She placed the chubby creature in the hay and stepped over the low fence, brushing strands of straw from her skirt. “Do have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a set of chairs placed around a coffee table.
“Have a seat, have a seat!” I whirled around. Where did that sound come from? A blue parrot did a little dance on a perch and nodded in my direction. “Have a seat, have a seat!”
“Don’t mind Percy,” said Deborah. “He likes to try out his party pieces on my visitors. I rescued him from a pet shop in Croydon. Poor thing was kept in a cage and losing his feathers. Too cruel.”
She came over, picked up a small bundle of scruffy looking fur done up in a pink bow that had been curled on one of the chairs, and held out her beautifully manicured hand. “Nikki, welcome to Special.”
“Thank you.” I reached out my hand to meet hers. The bundle yapped and two sharp brown eyes glared at me from beneath a cappuccino coloured fringe. It bared vicious canine teeth. It wasn’t much bigger than a large rat, but the thing was evidently a dog. I drew my hand back.
“Oh, don’t mind Lulu,” said Deborah, caressing its head. She rose to put it in a beribboned basket that lay beside the coffee table. “You do love animals as much as we do, don’t you?”
I liked some dogs. Rita’s Prudence, an overweight Labrador, was a special favourite of mine – it had been love at first sight between the two of us. But the smaller the dog, the less likely I was to take to it. I like animals enough not to eat them, but that’s about as far as it goes.
“I don’t know where we’d be without them,” I said. Deborah was smaller than she looked on TV, and daylight made her look a decade older, despite foundation slapped on so thickly that it looked like fudge icing. “Is it – she – a rescue dog?” I asked.
“Oh no,” laughed Deborah. “Lulu’s pure pedigree. We’ve always had Yorkshire Terriers in our family.” She tousled the grumpy little dog’s head, and then rearranged its bow. I decided I’d keep my distance. They could give a nasty nip, those inbred little gremlins.
“I wondered, Miss Hunt, if you could tell me more about the job and what you’re expecting in the first few weeks.”
“Yes, of course. That’s the main reason I called you in,” she replied. “Well, the post is as Office Manager. Zena will give you a job description and help you to get familiar with our systems. But the main reason for your post goes beyond the job description.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a trouble maker on the staff,” she continued, “and I want to know who it is.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see what that has to do with the job you’re offering me…”
” I want you to keep your ear to the ground. I want to know who my loyal staff are; who is wholly committed to Special, and who is not. And I want to know if we have any staff or volunteers who may be inclined to sabotage our mission to bring happiness to pets and children.”
“You want me to spy for you?” The whole thing was beginning to stink like something Lulu might have crapped onto the deep pile carpet carpet.
” I want you to work for me, Nikki. And that means, I want your loyalty. You do believe in what we’re doing?”
I wasn’t at all sure. “Yeah. Well, I mean, of course.” I needed a job.
“So you’ll know how important it is that nobody’s allowed to use their position here for their own, opposed, ends.”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
“Good. I knew you’d understand. I’ve chosen you because of your rather extraordinary achievements with your previous employer. And I’ve been assured that you have an excellent pedigree.”
I bit back a comment about my pedigree not being as pure as Lulu’s.
“Zena will go over the paperwork with you.” She picked up the phone and pushed a button, just like high powered lawyers or oil magnates do on TV. “Zena, Ms Elliot’s ready now,” she said.
A creeping sense of disquiet slithered like cold broth through my guts. I’d expected to feel in awe of Deborah, but I just found myself disliking her more and more. There was a coldness underneath the saccharine sentimentality, a hard set to her mouth. My musings were interrupted by Zena’s return.
“I’ve brought the contract for you to sign. When can you start?”
It seemed that my new job was a fait accompli. “Monday soon enough?”
#1
December 27, 2014
Very exciting! “Charity Begins with Murder” is available to download free for the few days around Christmas – my gift to readers with new Kindles! It’s #1 in the Lesbian/gay mysteries category. Tell your friends! And if you’ve read it, please leave me a review…
Be kind to your Kindle!
December 26, 2013
Who spiked the sandwiches? Will Nikki get her girl? Will Benjamin find The One in the Cycle Out club? Is there no end to the number of murders being committed in South London? Download “Charity begins with murder” without further delay! Pass it on…….
Telling Stories 