The Dead Dog Day (6 page)

‘Yeah, we've had some strange ones recently. I just wish the hours weren't so long, you know? It's definitely got worse. I drove all the way to Manchester last week to do that arson story, and when I got there Jeanette suddenly decided arson was too miserable for December and I had to turn round and drive to Cornwall instead to interview that bloke who was giving away all his belongings to raise money for the local hospice. Nearly nine hours in my car – I couldn't feel my bum by bedtime.'

Sam and Wendy laughed and leaned over to clink glasses. Cora smiled fondly at them. It was good to be out. Her hours had been ridiculous recently. Justin had often gone on about it, and what a bitch Jeanette was to make her work so hard. Cora's stomach lurched and she took another swig of wine. Surely he wouldn't have killed her because of that … No. Stop it. How would he even have got into the newsroom without anyone noticing? He didn't even know what floor it was on. Did he? Oh, for goodness' sake. She shook her head violently, trying to get the thoughts out of her head.

Wendy scowled at her. ‘Cora, you look like a cow shaking off flies when you do that. And I know what you're doing – stop thinking about him. More alcohol, that's what you need!'

She stood up, waving the empty red wine bottle.

‘Another one of each?' She wandered off in the direction of the bar, not waiting for an answer. As usual, every man she passed did a double take, gaping at her stupendous cleavage. Wendy wiggled her hips and pouted as she squeezed through the crowd. Happily ensconced in a relationship with Dan, a video editor at the studio, whom she fully intended to marry and have a brood with, she had no real interest in other men, but she certainly enjoyed a good flirt when she was in the mood.

Cora and Sam watched her and chuckled. ‘She's a right one. Wish I got that much male attention.' Sam sighed.

‘Oh shut up, you do alright, farmer girl.' Cora playfully punched her friend on the arm. Sam had of late become a serial dater, determined to find her Mr Right. She was working her way through the books of a ‘young farmers' dating agency, hoping to find someone to slot in with the latest of her constantly changing big plans for her future, which currently involved climbing as high as she could in the TV industry before she was 40, then packing it in and moving to the country with pigs, donkeys, and a houseful of kids. Cora didn't fancy that herself in the slightest, but she very much looked forward to visiting – although she knew from past experience that Sam's future plans would probably involve something entirely different by this time next month.

She smiled at her friend and drained her glass. It was Christmas, and it was time to start having fun.

8

Less than a mile away, in the central London police station from which DCI Adam Bradberry was co-ordinating the hunt for Jeanette Kendrick's killer, there was very little in the way of festive cheer. A tatty artificial tree, scarcely three feet tall and with several branches missing, drooped miserably in the corner near the photocopier, a solitary cracked silver bauble and two battered elf ornaments nestling in its faded foliage. One elf, which only had one leg, had its face turned to the wall as if mortified by the whole sorry spectacle. On the table beside the coffee machine, a big round tin of Roses chocolates sat with its lid askew, surrounded by bright yellow and purple sweet wrappings. Adam swiped the offending packaging into the bin right next to the table with a sigh, then walked back to his desk, slumping into his chair and fixing his eyes once more on the still picture on his computer screen.

It had been five days since Jeanette's body had been found – five days during which Adam and his team had accomplished, in his weary eyes, absolutely nothing. They had questioned every single person in the newsroom, appealed for witnesses and information on every news channel and radio show, and in every paper, and had gleaned nothing. He knew from past experience that if he didn't get a lead soon, the papers would stop being supportive and turn on him, but he was running out of ideas. It seemed impossible that a woman could have been thrown out of a window so close to a busy office, and for nobody to see or hear a single thing, and yet this, it seemed, was exactly what had happened.

Deeply frustrated after another day of dead ends, Adam had finally told his team to go to the pub for an hour and then come back refreshed in the morning. Discouraged and weary, they'd needed no second bidding, pulling on coats and gloves and gratefully heading for the door, although he'd been touched that several had called out to him to join them as they'd passed his desk. He'd told them he'd be along shortly, wanting to spend a few minutes reading through his notes on the case yet again. Adam Bradberry wasn't really the anxious kind, but he was definitely anxious today. He knew very well that a murder like this, without doubt the most high-profile of his career to date, could make or break him. Catch this killer quickly, and his climb up the ladder would be expedited. He was ambitious, and all ambitious cops longed for a case like this – a well-known victim, plenty of media coverage – but it would benefit his career only if he could crack it quickly, and efficiently. Fail, and his failure would be in the spotlight just as much as, or maybe more than, a successful outcome.

Adam gazed at the hooded figure outside Television Centre, frozen in the still taken from the CCTV footage of the front of the building – the footage that had been running non-stop on the various TV news programmes, eliciting nothing of any use whatsoever.

‘Who are you, and what are you up to?' he said out loud. ‘And why, on day five of the investigation, are you still the only half-decent lead I have?'

He paused for a moment, as if expecting the figure to respond, then shook his head and turned his computer off. Then, feeling more than a little despondent, he grabbed his coat and headed for the pub.

In the street just yards from the A-Bar, his broad shoulders lightly dusted with snowflakes, Benjamin Boland was signing autographs for a group of open-mouthed girls. His two friends, Carlos and Edward, stood nearby, hands thrust deep in pockets, looking resigned. It was always like this when you went out with Benj. The girls jostled for position around him as one of them nervously pointed a camera phone, hands shaking with cold and the thrill of it all. Benjamin smiled seductively, and the girls, eyes wide with excitement, nestled closer. Picture taken, they thanked him profusely and scampered off, shrieking and pulling out mobiles to text their friends. Benjamin Boland! They couldn't believe it! And he was so
nice
!

Benjamin strode across to where Carlos and Edward were now huddled under a jeweller's shop canopy.

‘Morons,' he said, brushing snow from his heavy black Prada coat. ‘Right, where are we going? Shall we just pop into the A-Bar till this weather stops?'

The others nodded their agreement and the three walked smartly down the street. The shaven-headed bouncer, who was slouching against the door trying to keep warm, straightened up abruptly when he saw Benjamin, and even opened the heavy door for them. By the time they had pushed their way to the bar, a buzz had already started, as here and there the slightly more sober members of the throng began to recognise the TV star. Benjamin didn't mind. They might stare and whisper, but mostly he didn't get bothered in here.

He nodded at the barman, who immediately rushed over, wiping his hands on his white waistcoat. Benjamin glanced at Carlos and Edward, and sighed. Edward was gently picking a snowflake off Carlos's long dark eyelashes. Benjamin liked going out with his gay friends – no competition – but sometimes they were a bit tedious. He nudged Edward.

‘Champagne?'

‘Naturellement!' Edward put on a fake French accent.

Benjamin turned back to the barman.

‘Dom Pérignon please,' he said, and pulled his black American Express card from his wallet. ‘We'll start a tab.'

The barman nodded and rushed off to find the champagne. Benjamin leaned on the bar and gazed slowly around the room, looking for talent. A busty redhead carrying two bottles of wine squeezed past him, and he watched as she wiggled her way to a corner table. His eyes widened suddenly as he realised who else was sitting there. Wasn't that – what was her name again? From
Morning Live
. That reporter, the cute one. Kara. No, Cora. She looked even hotter in the flesh. She was always covered up on TV, but even at this distance he could see that her shirt was slightly open, revealing a nice cleavage and a hint of lacy bra. And boots – long leather boots. Nice. He turned back to the bar as the champagne arrived, and smiled at Carlos and Edward as he poured the amber bubbles into the crystal glasses. A couple of glasses of this, and he'd make his move.

‘Honestly, I thought I was going to be
sick
, I was laughing so much!'

They were back on the dead dog story again. Cora was bent double over the table, clutching her stomach, while Sam, who always cried when she laughed, dabbed her mascara-streaked cheeks with a tissue, then used it to wipe the table as Wendy snorted into her wine glass, sending a spray of red wine onto the polished wood.

As usual, the talk was still mainly about work, tonight mainly a string of increasingly drunken anecdotes from Cora, who was feeling slightly hysterical and had decided this year had
definitely
been the most bizarre of her life.

‘Insane stories all year, and then Jeanette gets bumped off. We'd never have predicted
that
this time last year, would we?'

Sam and Wendy shook their heads. They were both starting to look a little dazed.

‘Hey – another possibility for that Chris thing – heard a few people talking about it in the office today.' Sam put her glass down on the table a little too heavily.

‘Go on!' said Cora, then tutted as she slopped a little wine onto her jeans. ‘Now what?'

‘Well – Jeanette used to call Clancy Chris, or Chrissy, sometimes apparently. From the name of her company, Chrysalis Productions? It had become a bit of a nickname.'

Wendy and Cora looked at her, then at each other.

‘No way,' Wendy pronounced. ‘Clancy adored Jeanette. Dropped her off at work early doors every day and everything …'

‘Exactly.' Sam picked up her glass again. ‘So she was there, at the studio, in the early hours. Could have hung around, come back later, shoved her out the window. Easy.'

Cora frowned and took another glug of wine. It was starting to slip down worryingly easily.

‘I doubt it. Anyway, the cops are talking to her, aren't they? Talking to everyone. We'll soon hear if she's a suspect. I'd be amazed though. Now – can we please change the subject? Murder is NOT very festive.'

She swayed slightly in her seat, and then squinted as a familiar face on the other side of the room caught her eye.

‘Hey, hang on, look who it is – there, by the bar – isn't that Benjamin Boland?'

Sam and Wendy jumped to attention. All three were spectacularly unimpressed by ‘celebrity', having met enough so-called stars at
Morning Live
to realise that most of them were deeply uninteresting. But a decent sighting was a decent sighting, and Benjamin Boland was the man of the moment. His primetime extreme travel show,
Go!
, had been getting huge ratings for months.

Wendy wagged a finger and took another slurp of wine. ‘Oh yeah, I saw him earlier when I was at the bar, forgot to mention it. He's verrrrrry tall. He's so bloody macho on screen I thought he might be a shortarse trying to compensate, but he's not. Verrrrrrry tall.'

‘Everyone's tall next to you, Wend,' Cora giggled.

‘Hey, Cora, you could do worse than him, you know.' Sam, who was the most sober of the three, poked her in the arm. ‘Go and chat him up, I dare you!'

‘No!'

‘Oh, go on!' Sam craned her neck. ‘Phwooaarr. He might be a macho idiot, but he's undeniably attractive.
Gorrrrrr
geous in fact. If he was a farmer, I might even be tempted. Go on, Cora, be a devil.'

Cora drained her glass. ‘No way! Anyway, he only goes out with Kelly Brook types. I'd have every lingerie model in the country trying to scratch my eyes out. However …'

She eyed the latest empty bottle speculatively. ‘There's no harm in a little flirt. And we do need a refill … I could just casually stand next to him while I order it, and see what happens …'

They all grinned at each other, and simultaneously turned to peer at the bar. Benjamin was leaning casually on it, a flute of champagne held elegantly in one hand as he chatted animatedly to two handsome Mediterranean-looking men in matching black polo necks. His dark curls brushed the collar of a tight fitting white shirt, casually untucked over a pair of expensive looking black trousers. Shiny leather loafers that shoe-addict Cora instantly recognised as Versace completed the oh-so-casual-but-incredibly-sexy look.

Her mind was made up. ‘I'm doing it.'

‘Woo-hoo!' Sam and Wendy clinked their empty glasses. Cora got up, smoothed her shirt, winked at the girls and headed, a tad unsteadily, to the bar.

Carlos and Edward, who both worked behind the scenes on
Go!
, were in the middle of a funny if rather shocking story about the sexual proclivities of an in-the-closet children's TV presenter. Benjamin was having a good time, but after several glasses of champagne, the urge for some female company was growing. He was very proud of himself having, in line with his brand new ‘no models' policy, already turned away three busty girls with no brains who had invited him to come back to theirs for a ‘private party'. It was a pleasant surprise, therefore, to suddenly find Cora Baxter ordering drinks at his elbow.

Benjamin gave her a surreptitious once-over. Yep, even better close up, he decided. She was patently a little the worse for wear, but that would just smooth his path. And he knew from watching her on TV that she was bright, and funny … and yes, seriously cute – glossy brown hair, sexy cleavage under that shirt, great arse in those tight jeans. And those boots! He'd get her to keep those on later …