The Dead Dog Day (21 page)

‘Right, I'm off. Home to get some beauty sleep. Catch you both next week sometime – have a fab weekend.'

‘Bye, you. Have fun.'

Cora wiggled her eyebrows again. ‘Oh, don't worry. I intend to.'

Upstairs, DC Adam Bradberry was standing yet again in Jeanette's office. He turned away from the window with its distant view of the London Eye and sat in the late programme editor's big leather chair, looking intently around him at the room he already knew by heart: the silver-framed picture of Clancy Carter on top of the filing cabinet, dozens of DVD show reels sent in by TV wannabes stacked on top of the bookshelf, the antique print on the wall next to the window and, on the desk, a paperweight in the shape of a Gucci handbag, holding down a neat pile of letters and scribbled notes.

The key to finding out what had happened to Jeanette Kendrick was right here, inside these four walls, or certainly inside this newsroom, he was sure of it. He knew he'd find it sooner or later, despite the fact that everything in here had been gone through in the tiniest detail before being returned to exactly how it was on the day of the murder. That seemed important to Adam for some reason – he was sure that if he visited here enough times, and just looked at the room, eventually it would give up its secret.

It was just that, at the moment, he seemed to have come up against a brick wall. The team had drawn a blank in trying to trace the strange lurking figure in the CCTV footage, and there was no evidence he or she had entered the building anyway. The young producer, Christina, who had seemed such a promising lead on day one, had been ruled out for now, as had Jeanette's partner Clancy. He was wary of dismissing any suspect
completely
, certainly at this stage of the investigation – that was a rookie mistake, and a clever criminal could always find a way that may not be instantly obvious to the police. But he was as sure as he could be right now that neither of those two women were responsible for the murder. And then he'd been so optimistic that Scott Edson might have been the answer, but once the engineer presented them with an alibi …

Adam sighed and picked up the
Daily Mail
he'd tossed on the desk when he'd arrived. There'd been intense speculation in the papers earlier in the week about exactly which member of Jeanette's staff had been arrested on suspicion of her murder, but the
Morning Live
management team had made sure only a handful of staff had known it was Scott, and none of them had said a word. A few days on, the tabloids had lost interest again, apart from a couple of editorials questioning why on earth the police were taking so long to solve what should be a simple case. Adam tried not to take them to heart – he'd learned very early in his police career that news didn't stay news for long.

He flicked disconsolately through the newspaper. He wasn't ruling Scott Edson out entirely either, not yet, but he was devoid of ideas, and the horrible feeling was dawning on him that this enquiry was now at a dead end. Deeply discouraged, he closed the paper again and stared out into the newsroom, smiling briefly as his eyes met those of the producer, Sam Tindall, who had just entered the newsroom and sat down at her desk. It was she, he knew, who had now taken over the deceased woman's duties, and who he had several times during recent visits spotted gazing – rather covetously, in his opinion – at the ex-editor's office. He had asked staff not to use the room for now, and he remembered the disappointment that had crossed her face when she had reluctantly agreed. She was clearly fiercely ambitious, and as he watched her, now speaking animatedly on the phone, he wondered briefly if she might be ambitious enough to kill. There'd been nothing about her so far to raise any real suspicion, but still …

His gaze continued to wander across the rows of busy producers and journalists until it came to rest on Alice Lomas, who was sitting at a desk halfway down the room, idly stirring something in a mug while staring blankly into space. Her long, blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and she was wearing a pale pink jumper which clung to her curves. As Adam watched, she turned her big blue eyes towards Jeanette's office and visibly winced. Then, quite suddenly, she leapt from her chair, sending it careering back into a recycling bin which wobbled violently and fell over. Seemingly oblivious, the newsreader rushed from the room, and as she passed the late programme editor's office Adam could see tears streaming down her cheeks. There was a brief lull in the usual newsroom buzz and a few heads turned to watch her curiously, but nobody moved, and seconds later all was as it had been before.

Hmmm. Adam reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a notebook and flipped through it until he found the relevant notes. Alice Lomas, unlike the other presenters and studio crew, hadn't actually been down on the studio level at the time Jeanette died, but she hadn't been considered as a potential suspect because various people had vaguely remembered her rushing about out in the newsroom at around the time of the murder. Now Adam wondered if maybe they'd been too hasty in ruling her out. On the few occasions he'd seen her, her behaviour hadn't exactly been normal.

He studied the neat list of Alice's movements on what he now knew programme staff had dubbed ‘The Dead Dog Day'. She'd left the studio at 7.55, as soon as the programme had cut to a commercial break, and returned approximately 13 minutes later, in time to do her ‘hello' from the sofa as soon as the 8.00 news was over. There was a list of three people who had spoken to her in various parts of the newsroom during that period but, Adam noted with interest now, none of them had been able to be precise about the time. So, could she have slipped into Jeanette's office just before 8 a.m., done the deed and then calmly re-entered the newsroom to chat to various colleagues to give herself an alibi? It was possible, Adam mused. She wasn't a big woman, but she was extremely fit – a fitness freak, by all accounts, terrified of putting on an ounce of fat. But could she have thrown an equally fit woman of similar size out of a window? Was that why she was so upset now? Or was she, as he'd heard many of her workmates comment, just a drama queen? Not entirely convinced either way, Adam shrugged and put his notebook back in his pocket, then stood up and headed back to the police station.

31

Saturday 27
^th
January

Benjamin Boland was lying on his big, white bed, flicking through the hundreds of channels on his immense plasma and thinking about Cora. She would be here in an hour and he was genuinely getting rather excited, which was extremely unusual. It was usually the girls who got excited about seeing
him
, not the other way round. He really wasn't sure what had got into him lately.

Flinging the remote aside, he lay back on a mountain of snowy, duck-down pillows and let his mind drift. Could he actually, seriously, be getting to the point where he might feel like – he hardly dared say the words –
settling down
? He'd always presumed he'd be at least fifty, and not in his mere mid-thirties, when that thought reared its head. And he'd only been seeing Cora for a couple of weeks. But there was something about her …

Benjamin leapt acrobatically off the bed, went to the wardrobe and retrieved his precious little cardboard box. He sat on the end of the mattress and carefully removed the old photograph, gently smoothing its creases.

‘Hello, Mum,' he whispered. ‘Hey, Dad. I wish you could meet her. You'd really like her, I think.'

He stared at his six-year-old self, so happy and innocent. Six years old. Just months before his world was shattered. He hadn't told Cora yet about the plane crash that had claimed the lives of both his parents and devastated his childhood, had told very few people in fact, despite the rage and despair he still felt when he let himself think about it. For a long time his anger had frequently been out of control, his younger self flying into frenzies that used to terrify those around him. Now he had managed to get mostly on top of it, was a calmer person. It was in the past, and that was where he liked it to stay. He had no time for people who blamed their tragic or tough upbringing for their present day woes. But if he was serious about Cora …

‘I might tell her, Mum. Because I think she's special, like you were.'

He gazed at his mother, floating away into memories. He'd loved her so much. He missed her, even now. Missed both of them. He felt the old fury rising up inside him for a moment. Would his life have been different, if they hadn't died? He'd have been just as successful career-wise, of that he had no doubt. But emotionally? Would he have been such a … womaniser, lothario, sex addict even – all those names the papers called him – if he'd had a more stable upbringing? Why was he like this? Was he searching for something? And had he, possibly, now found it in Cora Baxter?

On the big TV, Big Ben suddenly struck to mark the start of the six o'clock news. Benjamin jumped and, suddenly feeling like a soppy fool, quickly pushed the old photograph back into the box and returned it to its hiding place.

Idiot, he told himself. Pull yourself together. She'll be here in a minute. And spirits suddenly soaring, he raced to the bathroom to get ready for her.

Later that night, as they shared delicious, soft shell crab at a discreet corner table in Hakkasan, Cora was also feeling remarkably close to this man she'd known for only two weeks. There'd been no further contact from Justin, but her anger had dissipated now and she'd barely given him a thought in recent days, her mind filled with Benjamin. He'd been so thrilled to see her earlier, and after a passionate reunion that made her cheeks flush even now as she nibbled her seafood, Benjamin had dug out an old cardboard box and told her about his past. As they'd cuddled up together under his enormous duvet, Cora had been in tears at the thought of the scared little boy this wonderful man had once been.

Now, she smiled at him and reached across to wipe away the sauce that was dribbling down his chin.

‘Sorry,' he mumbled, mouth still full of food. ‘I'm a slob.'

‘No, you're not, you just like eating – that's one of the reasons why I love you!' Cora beamed, then suddenly realised what she'd said.

‘I mean – er, I love that you love food, like I do, not that I, er …' she stuttered.

Benjamin swallowed and smirked.

‘You just said you loved me, Cora. Can't back out of it now.'

‘But I didn't mean … it was just …'

‘Haha! Got ya!'

He leaned back in his chair, grinning. Cora threw her napkin at him.

‘Stop being so smug. It was a slip of the tongue!'

Benjamin leaned forward again and reached for her hand.

‘No it wasn't. At least I hope it wasn't. Because I feel the same, Cora.' His eyes were suddenly serious as he gazed into hers. ‘Yes, it's only been a couple of weeks, but when you know, you know. At least, I think you do. I'm not sure I've ever really been in love before. I've certainly never felt like this …'

His voice tailed off and he dropped his lips to her hand and kissed it. Cora's heart melted.

‘Oh Benjamin. You're so sweet. And yes, it's so soon, and I've only just split up with Justin, but – I don't know. This feels like something special to me. We just seem to fit, don't we?'

Benjamin nodded. ‘We do. I love it. I love you, Cora Baxter.'

‘And I love you,' she said simply.

He smiled and squeezed her hand gently. Cora gazed at him for a moment, then cleared her throat.

‘It's just that – I mean, obviously it's WAY too early to be talking about kids – but you do understand, if we've got to this stage already … you do understand that I'm not interested in having them? Ever? Because I'm scared, Benjamin – I can't even think of starting to get serious in another relationship if the man is secretly hoping I'll change my mind, like Justin was.'

He shook his head. ‘I told you before, I'm not bothered about kids. It's not an issue, Cora.'

‘OK. But if you change your mind – just tell me, Benjamin. Straight away. Don't pretend, don't lie to me. Never lie to me, please? Because, essentially, that was what Justin did, you know? He accepted a childless future, when I told him very early on that that was what it would be if he stayed with me – and that acceptance was a lie.'

‘I won't lie to you. What's the point? Why did he?'

‘I don't know. I guess he was just driven by lust, at the beginning, and thought it would all be OK, that we were enough for each other.'

She paused as a waiter appeared at her elbow and briskly cleared away their starter plates. Benjamin was still watching her intently.

‘But then there was all the other stuff – lazy lie-ins, spontaneous nights out, last-minute weekends away,' she continued, when they were alone again. ‘We both always said how great it was that we could do all that without having to worry about anyone else, we both said how having a child just wasn't for us. That's why it was such a shock, that he changed his mind like that.'

Benjamin nodded. ‘Did you ever – even for a minute – think that you'd made a mistake? When he left?'

‘Only for a moment. That day, when he rang to tell me it was over, and why, I was almost tempted to say OK, I'd have a baby if he'd stay. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't do it, and I won't. Love means compromise, yes, but the absolute certainty that I don't want children is too much an integral part of me to ever compromise on. Do you understand that – really?'

She looked beseechingly at him.

‘Yes, I do. And I'd never ask you to compromise like that. I promise.'

She nodded, suddenly fighting back tears.

‘To be fair, Justin didn't either. I suppose he knew me too well. If he wanted a baby, the only solution was to leave me, and even in amongst all the grief I felt when he left, I was grateful to him for that. That probably sounds weird, but I was.'