The Dead Dog Day (15 page)

Cora smiled with satisfaction as Nicole flicked the TV on to the Comedy Channel. Then she took another sip of wine, and settled back on the cushions to watch
Frasier.

19

Monday 8
^th
January

‘Brrr. I'm going to wait in the car – I'm freezing!'

It was nearly 6 a.m. and, run-through done and still with twenty minutes to go before the first hit of the morning, a shivering Cora turned and nearly walked straight into a gently swaying man who had wandered up behind her. He smelt strongly of stale beer.

‘What ya doing?' he slurred, pleasantly. ‘Ish thish televishion?'

Cora giggled and Nathan, who was now adjusting the lens of his very large television camera, stared at the drunk.

‘No, mate, it's radio.'

The drunk gaped at the TV camera.

‘Oh, that'sh a pity,' he said, disappointed. ‘I thought it wash telly. Alwaysh wanted to be on telly. Never mind.'

He turned and drifted unsteadily off into the darkness. Cora raised her eyebrows at Nathan, who shook his head.

‘Somewhere, this morning …' he began.

‘… a village is missing its idiot.' Cora finished the sentence and they both laughed.

Meeting people who were still coming home from the night before was an occupational hazard when you worked this early in the morning. If you ever attempted to stop and ask directions on your way to a location, nine times out of ten the only person around would be inebriated. She usually let Nathan handle the wandering drunks – he treated them with utter disdain but impeccable politeness, which always made her chortle.

‘Right, I'll be back in a few minutes. Stay warm.'

Nathan, who was wrapped up like an Eskimo, grunted. Pulling her scarf up over her nose, Cora trudged off to her car. Another Monday, another week. Wonder what this one would bring?

Monday. Three weeks to the day. Jeanette's killer took another sip of coffee and gazed at the dull dawn. A new plan was needed. There was still one more to go, and extra care would be needed this time. Getting away with it once had, it seemed, been relatively easy. Twice might be trickier. So. First, more coffee. Then, later today, when things were less busy, time to plan a murder. What a satisfying way to spend a Monday.

On the doorstep of the elegant home where the late Jeanette Kendrick had lived, DCI Adam Bradberry said a brief goodbye to her tearful partner Clancy Carter and marched down the white-painted steps, Gary hot on his heels. In the car, they both sat in silence for a moment, frustrated at what appeared to be yet another dead end. The police automatic number plate recognition system, known as ANPR, had indeed shown that Clancy had driven straight back to the couple's home after dropping Jeanette at TV centre at 3 a.m.

‘And OK, so there was no sign of her car coming back again between then and 8 a.m. But I still thought she
could
have done it. Got a taxi or something back later, or borrowed a car, or even got the Tube or a bus,' Gary mused sadly.

‘Another theory scuppered by a delivery guy,' sighed Adam. After further questioning, the distraught Clancy had suddenly remembered that a delivery van from John Lewis had arrived on the morning of the murder. An hour ago the driver had been traced and confirmed he'd spoken to Clancy at her front door at 8.40, when he came to deliver a chair to her neighbours and they weren't in.

‘Yep. Unless she was in a helicopter or something, no way she could have killed Kendrick and been back at home at that time, not in rush-hour traffic. Another one bites the dust, eh?'

‘Looks like it. Any joy with the Chris thing?'

‘Nope. It's a bugger. No idea what she was trying to say. But I'm starting to think maybe we shouldn't put too much emphasis on that, you know boss. Security guard could have misheard – we've only got his say-so that that's what she said.'

‘Maybe. And she did have pretty severe head injuries. Could have just been talking rubbish. OK, you're right, let's not put too much emphasis on that for now. So what about Scott Edson's vehicle? He where he says he was too?'

‘Still working on that one. Sorry, boss. Too much to do, not enough staff. You know how it is.'

‘I do. But we need to get a result on this one fast. Three weeks and nothing. It doesn't look good, Gary.'

Gary nodded morosely and started the engine. As they headed slowly back to the station in the morning traffic, Adam reached into his pocket for his phone and a piece of cardboard fluttered out. He grabbed it. Cora Baxter's business card. He looked thoughtfully at it, feeling a little regretful that he didn't have any news on the case to share with her at the moment. She was a very attractive girl, and he had a small inkling the feeling might be returned – he was sure she'd been staring a little the other day. He didn't know if she was attached or not, but if not maybe when all this was over he'd ask her for a drink or something. It had been a long time since he'd had a date. He slid the card carefully into his wallet, then located his phone and carried on with his day.

‘Right – how do I get hold of her?'

Benjamin Boland surveyed his slightly wind-burned nose in the mirror and frowned. His trip to Finland had been excellent, but he wasn't entirely happy with what it had done to his skin. A serious facial would be needed.

Carlos shrugged. ‘Email, I guess? Seeing as you didn't manage to get her number. You know, that night you failed to chat her up.'

Benjamin glared at him. ‘Oh shut up. OK, email. How do I find her email address then?'

Carlos tapped his smartphone. ‘They're all the same over there at TV Centre. First name dot surname at Morning Live – all one word – dot co dot uk.'

Benjamin was scribbling the address down.

‘Bet she says no again.' Carlos smirked and then ducked as Benjamin threw a hairbrush at him.

‘Bet she doesn't. Nobody
ever
says no to me twice.' But Benjamin wasn't as confident as he sounded. Please say yes, he begged silently. Please.

He flipped open his laptop and began composing an email to Cora Baxter.

20

Tuesday 9
^th
January

‘I need a can of beans, a tin of drinking chocolate, a packet of digestive biscuits, and a Noodle Pot. And I'm in a huge hurry – so, quick as you can, please.'

Cora looked at her watch, feeling increasingly stressed. She'd still heard nothing from Justin and the whole thing was making her feel ill. Plus, it was 3 a.m., she had a two and a half hour drive ahead of her and she was trying to buy props for this morning's broadcast from a garage shop assistant who seemed to be somewhat less active than a sloth.

‘Can of beans. What were the other things again?' he said slowly, squinty eyes peering at her from a blubbery face.

‘Drinking chocolate, digestives, Noodle Pot,' Cora snapped, finding it hard to conceal her irritation. She hated the security measures that meant you couldn't actually go into most urban garage shops during the night, but had to ask the staff to get your shopping for you and pass it through a hatch. Especially when she was tired and grumpy.

‘Drinking chocolate, digestives, Noodle Pot,' repeated the cashier, and lumbered off again.

Cora sighed and tapped out a quick text to Nathan to tell him she'd probably be a little late on location this morning. They were broadcasting from a restaurant kitchen in Liverpool, along with a nutritionist who'd be talking about ‘high salt food'. Apparently half a tin of beans had as much salt as five bags of crisps, and the other items on her list were equally surprisingly salty.

The assistant was back. ‘Got your biscuits and your drinking chocolate. Wot flavour Noodle Pot?'

‘I don't care. Anything,' said Cora, who'd never eaten a Noodle Pot in her life.

‘But there's loads to choose from,' the boy said, frowning. He started counting on his fat and not entirely clean fingers. ‘There's beef and red pepper, chilli chicken, tikka masala, sweet and sour …'

‘I DON'T CARE.'

Cora spoke rather more loudly than she'd intended, then paused as the cashier pouted sulkily. ‘I'm sorry – it's just that I really am in a hurry. I honestly don't care what flavour, I'm not going to eat it. Just get the nearest one. Thanks.' She smiled, mentally urging the boy to get a bloody move on.

He looked at her wide-eyed, seemingly bemused that somebody was urgently buying food at three in the morning but was not going to eat it, then shrugged and shuffled off to the grocery shelf again, coming back moments later with the packet.

Gratefully Cora paid, ran back to her car, threw the bag onto the passenger seat and hit the road. Once she was on the motorway and doing a steady eighty miles an hour northbound, she was able to breathe again. This sort of stress really wasn't good for you.

She flicked the radio on and relaxed a bit, smiling a little as the eighties music show brought back school-day memories. Positive thoughts, that's what she needed. Otherwise she was going to go mad, which wouldn't help anybody. Positive thoughts. Paint on a smile. She forced her lips into a wider grin, which suddenly became a natural beam as she remembered what she would be doing on the coming Friday night. Because, amazingly, on Friday night she, Cora Baxter, would be going on a date. And only with Benjamin bloody Boland!

The email she'd received from him yesterday had actually been very sweet, once she'd got over the shock. No mention of diarrhoea. Simply a nice message, saying he'd been thinking about her since they'd met in the bar, and that he would really like to see her again, and if by any chance she was free on Friday night he would be honoured if she'd let him take her out for dinner.

‘Honoured?
Honoured
?' Nicole had snorted down the phone when an excited Cora had rung to fill her in.

‘What's happened to him – has he acquired a time machine and gone back to the 1950s on that travel show of his or something? Who says
honoured
nowadays?'

But she was genuinely pleased for Cora, as were Rosie, Wendy, and Sam who'd all received similar phone calls in quick succession. Cora – their friend, Cora – was going out with Benjamin Boland,
the
hottest man on television.

‘I cannot WAIT till Saturday to hear all the gossip. Seriously, Cora – do NOT get too drunk,' Sam had warned her. ‘You need to be able to remember
every minute
of that date.'

Now, as she drove in the dark on the M5, Cora started planning what to wear on Friday, a little flutter of excitement building inside her. It had been so long since she'd had a date with somebody new.

‘Just don't make a prat of yourself with him again,' she said to herself sternly.

And, Justin and mysterious murders temporarily forgotten, she turned the music up and sang along loudly and happily all the way to Liverpool.

21

Friday 12
^th
January

Fridays were pretty much the same as any other day of the week for a police murder investigation team. Especially for a police murder investigation team which was rapidly running out of suspects, and ideas. But as lunchtime came, and the rustle of sandwich bags and crunching of crisps temporarily replaced the tense buzz in the incident room, things suddenly stepped up a gear.

‘Look at this, boss.'

Adam looked up from his bacon and egg, all-day breakfast roll and wiped a smear of brown sauce from his top lip. He swallowed.

‘What is it, Karen?'

‘OK – so Scott Edson, the angry engineer who'd been in to see Jeanette Kendrick for a 7 a.m. disciplinary, went down in the lift and left the building around 7.40, right?'

‘Right.' Adam took another nibble of his roll.

‘And when we brought him in, he told us he drove straight home. So he should have headed out west, this way – look – along the Victoria Embankment, and then onto the A4 and M4.' Her index finger with its bitten nail traced the route on a map on the wall.

‘OK. So – problem?'

‘Yes, problem. Well, problem for him anyway. We've tracked his van, and he certainly didn't go straight home. For a start, we have CCTV footage showing the vehicle at a Shell garage
here
' – she pointed again – ‘at 8.20. That's about forty minutes after he left TV Centre. He should have been miles away by that time.'

Adam stared at the map. The garage Karen was indicating was on Southwark Bridge Road. Not only was that, at a guess, less than five minutes' drive from TV Centre, but it was in completely the wrong direction for Edson's drive home.

‘So he lied. He didn't go straight home.'

‘Looks like it. TV Centre to that garage is about a four-minute drive if the roads are quiet. Even if it took, say, ten or fifteen minutes maximum to get there in rush hour traffic, that still leaves a lot of time unaccounted for. So what was he doing between 7.40 when he left, and 8.20 when he's still only a few minutes' drive away? And most importantly, did he come back into the building during that time and chuck somebody out of a window?'

Adam nodded slowly. ‘Let's talk to him again. Lean on him a bit. Actually, lean on him a
lot
. And find out exactly where he went after he pulled out of the TV Centre car park. Good work, Karen.'

Adam took a long slug of coffee, screwed his brown paper sandwich wrapper in a ball, and aimed it at the bin opposite his desk. Bull's-eye.

For breakfast TV staff, Friday was always the best day of the week. As soon as the
Morning Live
closing credits rolled at 9.30, the weekend officially began, with no more work until Sunday afternoon when the dreaded call from the newsroom would come, telling the show's crews and reporters where in the country they were needed to be for Monday's programme.

For Cora, this particular Friday was an extra good one. After her morning broadcasts in Reading she'd driven to London and checked into her usual hotel. Now she opened her wardrobe door and surveyed the six outfits she'd brought with her.