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. Gorrrrrrgeous 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 …
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 23rd 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.
The Dead Dog Day Page 5