The Dead Dog Day (7 page)

He tilted his head and Carlos and Edward got the message immediately and moved discreetly away. Benjamin arranged his features into their most alluring expression, waited till the barman went off to get Cora's order, and touched her gently on the arm.

‘Hey, beautiful. It would give me great pleasure to buy you a drink – will you let me?'

She turned pale green eyes on him. ‘Well that's very kind of you, but no thanks. I don't accept drinks from strange men.' She turned back to the bar, but she was smiling.

‘OK …' thought Benjamin. He tapped her on the shoulder again.

‘Let me introduce myself, then. Benjamin Boland. I'm only a little strange. And I know who you are. I wake up with you on a regular basis, Cora.' He held out a hand and beamed disarmingly. Cora hesitated for a moment, then took his hand and grinned back.

‘OK, I know who you are too. But you still can't buy me a drink.' She rocked slightly on her heels and clutched the bar. ‘Actually – I think I may have had enough already!' She giggled and wobbled again.

‘Whoops!' Never one to miss an opportunity, Benjamin slipped his arm around her waist. She looked at him for a moment, and then leaned in, her breast soft against his chest. Her face tilted towards his, and their eyes met for a long second. Benjamin suddenly felt more turned on than he had in a long time. His voice was husky, close to her ear. ‘In that case, let's forget the drink. What say you come back to mine and make babies instead?'

Cora flinched, as if he'd just spat in her face. She moved sharply away, and something flashed in her eyes. ‘
Make babies
! You know what? I'd rather … I'd rather clean toilets for the rest of my life in a … in a home for people with incurable diarrhoea!'

Benjamin looked at her, shocked and puzzled for a second, and then laughed out loud. Cora laughed too, and the sudden awkwardness vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I'm just a bit drunk. No offence. I should get back to my friends.' She grabbed her wine from the bar and turned away.

‘Oh – well, OK. Nice to meet you …' But she was gone, already swallowed by the riotous rabble. Benjamin stared after her. He wasn't used to being turned down, but fine. He was pretty sure he hadn't been mistaken about the chemistry between them. If she wanted to play it cool, then that just added to the fun. He knew where to find her, after all.

He turned back to the bar.

‘Ooooh! That didn't go very well, did it?'

Edward handed him a fresh glass of champagne with a smirk. Next to him, Carlos was prancing, making an ‘L for Loser' sign on his forehead. Benjamin ignored them. He smiled to himself. He wasn't quite sure what had gone wrong this time, but the chase was on. He wouldn't be a loser for long.

9

Saturday 23
^rd
December

It was nearly lunchtime the next day by the time a rather weary and hung over Cora had finally dragged herself out of London and reached the outskirts of Cheltenham. Her spirits lifted a little, as they always did, as she drove into her hometown. It was just so – nice. Tall Regency buildings, tree-lined streets, clusters of quaint antique shops here and hip boutiques there, the town always somehow had the effect of melting away her stress and making her smile. Even today in December, people were enjoying the winter sunshine, sipping lattes under the outdoor heaters at Mattino's, Cora's favourite little café.

She turned into her driveway and manoeuvred round the side of the building to her parking space, the wheels of the BMW crunching on the white gravel. She and Justin had moved into the five-storey building in the smartest part of Cheltenham last February. They had decided it was too soon to buy a place together so had rented their two-bedroomed flat, and as Cora hauled her suitcase out of the boot and locked the car, it suddenly struck her that from now on, she'd be paying the rent alone. She could afford it – her salary was reasonable, although telly certainly didn't pay as much as some people thought – but she'd have to economise a bit. She'd been a little too numb last weekend, the weekend of the big break-up, to think of practicalities like that. She grimaced as she struggled up the steps to the handsome red front door with its neat row of doorbells.
Baxter/Dendy
, the top one said. She paused and ran her finger sadly over the letters. Another practicality. She'd have to change that later.

Stopping only briefly to stroke the silky head of Oliver, her neighbours' sleek black cat who was sitting regally on the doorstep, she took the lift to the fifth floor, a hard little knot forming in her stomach. Was there a chance – a tiny chance – that he might have changed his mind, be waiting for her inside? Taking a deep breath, she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. Silence. She shut the door and, dumping her suitcase in the hallway, headed for the living room. Idiot. Of course he was gone.
Really
gone.

The room seemed bleached of colour, faded somehow. The plump sofas, bright modern artworks, gleaming dining table were all still in place, but to Cora's dejected eyes they had lost their lustre, as though someone had come in while she had been away and sucked out all the soul. The DVD rack in the corner was half empty, as was the white Ikea bookshelf, which ran the entire length of the back wall. She cast her eyes around the spacious room, looking again at the gaps. Gone were his iPad and iPod, which normally sat on the big cherrywood table. And the wall clock, the funky Alessi one his brother had sent him for his birthday. Cora glanced out through the patio doors that opened out on to the roof terrace. The aluminium table and chairs were still there, but there was something missing – why hadn't she noticed that last weekend? The barbecue, he'd taken the barbecue. Fine. Cora didn't really do cooking anyway.

Her head pounding and legs feeling decidedly wobbly, she made her way unsteadily across the room and sank down onto one of the vast brown suede sofas with their hot pink cushions. She picked one up and hugged it to her tightly. Justin had hated having pink cushions – there was no danger he'd take these with him!

Cora sat back and stared at the mantelpiece opposite, where her favourite photo still sat. Somebody had taken it at that wedding in Oxford the day they first met. Cora, cheeks flushed with excitement and wine, in a red and white silk dress, smiling at the camera. And Justin, in a sexy dark suit and bright tie, arm loosely wrapped around her waist, grinning too, gazing at Cora. And now, he was gone. And, even worse, he was a potential suspect in a murder case. Cora shook her head, still staring at the picture. It was all just bizarre. If only she could talk to him, ask him what was going on. But how? Emails were bouncing back, and texts and phone calls didn't seem to be getting through. Had he changed his phone number?

She turned to look at the Christmas tree by the window, lavishly decorated with pink and silver baubles to match the room, and suddenly felt desperately in need of a drink. She dropped the cushion, stood up wearily and went down the hall to the tiny galley kitchen. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, shoving it in the silver cooler that always sat on the granite worktop. Grabbing a glass from the shelf, she made her way back into the lounge, and poured herself an enormous drink.

As she took her first mouthful, tears sprang to her eyes. Her friends. She needed her friends. Cora lifted the phone from its cradle on the coffee table in front of her and dialled Rosie's work number.

‘Good afternoon, Rosie's! Rosie speaking.'

Her friend's cheerful voice sang in her ear, and Cora let out a huge sob.

‘Rosie? Rosie, it's Cora …'

‘To Cora. I luv u. This is the picshur of an allien hors I promissd you. I drawed it for u. Luv frm Kevin. PS. I luv u.'

Ah, the return of the alien-drawing tweeter, thought Cora. This time he'd used snail-mail, and the note was written in green ink – always a worrying sign. More perturbing was Kevin's return address – HMP Nottingham. She hadn't had a prison one for a while. Wonder what he was in for? Murdering the English language, probably. Despite the brutal pounding in her head, Cora smirked at her own wit.

She rubbed her throbbing temples, glared at her wine and decided a hot chocolate would be a much more sensible choice. She staggered into the kitchen and made herself one, squirting a load of cream on the top for good measure as her mind wandered back to last night. What on earth had possessed her? Benjamin Boland must think she was a complete idiot.
Incurable diarrhoea
? She blushed red at the very thought, then decided there was really nothing she could do about it and wandered back into the living room, taking a slug of her chocolate as she went.

Lowering herself gingerly back onto her chair, she put the weird drawing onto her ‘no-need-to-answer-but-keep-in-case-ever-need-to-show-police' pile. She put the cup down and wiped a blob of whipped cream from her nose. Ouch. Even her nose hurt! Never mind a
picture
of an alien horse – she felt like alien horses were thundering around racing each other inside her head. Accompanied by alien elephants. And some of those giant chickens from Devon too, probably. Ugh, hangovers. She rarely drank enough to get one any more, but today's was a humdinger.

She whimpered and pushed aside the pile of post she'd been attempting to sort through, picked up from her studio pigeonhole during her week in London. It was the usual stuff. Around fifty per cent was just sweet letters asking for signed pictures – notes from nice, normal viewers who simply wanted to say how much they enjoyed watching her. The other half was the stuff her friends loved to read with a glass of wine – either the alien horse type from, presumably, mad people, or the filth type from perverts.

Cora picked up her mug and rose carefully from her seat at the dining table. Trying hard not to jar her pulsating skull, she walked slowly over to the patio doors and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. She looked at her reflection in the window. She couldn't see her face clearly, but she knew she looked dreadful. Her eyes were still pink and puffy from her lunchtime bout of crying, her hair matted, old make-up from last night streaky on her cheeks. She really needed to pull herself together. It was just being back here, with all the memories … and that damn CCTV thing. Where the hell was Justin, and what was he playing at? She sighed, balanced the mug carefully and pushed the doors open. It was one of those gloriously bracing, fresh December afternoons, the last rays of sun sparkling and dancing on the shiny metal of the terrace table. Yellow winter pansies glowed in the four oversized grey pots dotted around the decked floor. Pulling her cardigan tightly around her, Cora sat and gazed at the quiet street below.

Rosie and Nicole, her best friends in Cheltenham, would be here soon. Cora smiled, looking forward to seeing them, and started giving herself a stern talking to. OK, so she was single again. But she had a lovely home, wonderful friends, a job hundreds of journalists would kill for – what was there to be sad about? There must be men out there who didn't want kids, men who wanted the sort of life she wanted – mustn't there? And had she actually really, really loved Justin? They'd said it to each other a lot, but had it just been one of those things you say, when you're cosy and comfortable with someone? Certainly the early months of their relationship had been incredible, passionate, exciting – but recently it hadn't been like that. She'd just accepted it, she supposed, as how things were in every relationship after a while. But maybe it had been more than that. Maybe they were never meant to be. Well, they were pretty obviously not meant to be, actually, seeing as she was sitting here on her own.

She sighed and picked up her BlackBerry. A quick look at Twitter and she'd go and sort herself out. She whizzed through all the news feeds she followed, catching up on the day's events, then clicked on to her messages. There were the usual few from viewers, but one in particular made her pause.

@a-friend
@CoraBaxterMLive Cora – please follow me. I need to DM you urgently. Please. It's important.

She clicked on the tweeter's profile. A private account. No photo and just one tweet, the one to her. No followers.

‘Hmmm. Why do you want to direct message me, stranger? Probably a weirdo, but what the heck,' she said out loud, and sent a follow request. ‘Let's see what's so important, Mr or Miss
@a-friend
!'

She shivered and stood up. Time to go in. She needed painkillers and a hot shower, in that order.

10

‘OK, what the
hell
is that?'

Nicole was standing by Cora's dining table, holding the picture of the alien horse between finger and thumb, her nose wrinkled as though someone had just thrust a rotten kipper under it.

‘What?' Cora, hair still damp from her shower, appeared in the doorway, straining under the weight of an enormous tray laden with teapot, mugs, and a mountain of cream cakes. She dumped it onto the table with relief. ‘Oh, that. An alien horse, apparently.'

Rosie, who was sprawling on the sofa, sat up and peered over the back.

‘Gosh, Cora, you do attract some nutters,' she said.

‘Tell me about it.' As she dumped the tray on the table, Cora's BlackBerry beeped. She took a quick look. Her follow request to the mysterious
@a-friend
had been accepted. Good. Now let's see what you've got to say for yourself, she thought, as she picked up a chocolate éclair and took a rapturous bite.

‘Mmmm! I should get dumped more often; this is delicious, thank you!' she mumbled, spraying pastry over Nicole's sleeve.

Nicole dropped the drawing back onto the pile and frowned at Cora, brushing the crumbs from her black jumper neatly onto the table.

‘Pig,' she said, reaching across to select a custard slice from the plate. Rosie leapt off the sofa and joined them, and the three friends sat in companionable silence around the big table, chomping contentedly.