The Dead Dog Day

by Jackie Kabler

  ‘You, Boland,’ he said firmly. ‘You are going to go to Lapland, and then you’re going to come back and go on a date with Cora Baxter. Deal?’

  The face in the mirror grinned back at him. ‘Deal!’ it said.

  18

  ‘So no, I didn’t bloody kill Jeanette. In case you’re wondering.’

  Scott banged his mug down and glared at his colleagues.

  ‘Scott! Of course we weren’t wondering. Don’t be ridiculous,’ Cora said soothingly.

  ‘Honestly, mate, as if!’ Nathan reached out and squeezed Scott’s shoulder, while Rodney shook his head and smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Well – thanks. That means a lot,’ said Scott, sounding somewhat mollified. ‘I wish the cops had as much faith in me though. They’ve told me they’ll want to speak to me again, you know, after ‘further enquiries’. Elaine’s in bits. Me, questioned for murder, just because I thumped a lift! I only did it because that woman pissed me off so much.’

  The others looked at each other and grimaced. Poor Scott. They’d all been horrified over New Year to hear that their friend had been questioned about Jeanette’s murder, and desperate to hear the details. Finally back on the road together today, they’d had the blow-by-blow account, and while none of them thought Scott was remotely capable of murder, it seemed his little show of temper as he left the Morning Live studios had raised police suspicions.

  ‘So, what further enquiries are they making? Did they tell you?’ asked Cora, and took another bite of her sausage sandwich. They’d all stopped at a little roadside café for breakfast after the morning’s lives, and as usual she was starving.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Scott sullenly. ‘Told them I drove straight off and never came back to the building, which I didn’t. They have my reg details, so I s’pose they’ll look at traffic camera footage or something. I dunno. I’m just pissed off with the whole thing. I’m going. See you tomorrow, unless I’m in bloody jail or something.’

  He pushed his egg-smeared plate away angrily and stood up, chair scraping loudly on the grubby tiles, then slouched out of the café without another word, letting the door slam behind him.

  ‘Phew-wee.’ Nathan leaned back in his red plastic chair and ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘You don’t think … do you?’ Rodney pushed his glasses higher onto his nose, anxiety wrinkling his forehead.

  ‘No. No! Of course not. But something’s going on.’ Cora rubbed her temples. She could feel a stress headache brewing.

  ‘I mean, this business at his house, with all the antiques disappearing? Which none of us have had the guts to ask him about yet, have we?’

  The boys shook their heads.

  ‘And he has been incredibly grumpy and acting quite strangely recently. And, let’s face it, he was definitely edging closer to getting the sack – Jeanette was getting really fed up with him. So yes, something’s very wrong with our Scott. But murder? No. No way.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Nathan. ‘But let’s hope the cops decide he’s innocent sooner rather than later. He’s already on the edge, and I dread to think what will happen if he tips over it.’

  ‘Oh, he’s putting his socks in his pudding now! Elliot! Stop it, that’s not very nice, is it?’

  Elliot giggled and Zoë, his nanny, shook her head good-naturedly and pushed his high chair back from the table, out of reach of his bowl of fruit and yoghurt. She grabbed his wiggling feet, peeled off his now soggy little green socks, and waved them at Cora, who was flicking through a newspaper across the table.

  ‘Cora, would you mind keeping an eye on him for just a minute? Nicole’s still in the shower and I’ll have to go and rinse these out – the yoghurt will start to stink if I leave them in the washing basket.’

  Cora, who’d popped round to see Nicole for a rare mid-week visit, reached out and tickled Elliot’s toes, and he kicked his feet and shrieked with delight.

  ‘Course I’ll keep an eye on him – little monkey. I wouldn’t worry about it though – you know what a state Nicole’s clothes get in at work. That washing basket could probably walk off on its own, a bit of yoghurt’s nothing!’

  ‘I know, but I’ll do it anyway. Back in a mo!’ She tousled Elliot’s dark curls and he gazed after her as she headed for the utility room. Young and pretty in a freshly scrubbed, no make-up kind of way, Zoë had been Elliot’s nanny since he was six weeks old. He adored her, to the extent that Cora – and sometimes even Nicole – got quite jealous, but Zoë was such a sweet, down to earth girl and Nicole and Will relied on her so much that they willingly put up with sharing the little boy’s affections.

  Cora got up, grabbed a wet wipe from the pack on the table and brandished it at Elliot.

  ‘Right, mucky mush, give me that face!’

  The toddler grimaced as she scrubbed at the tomato sauce, fish finger crumbs, and yoghurt smeared across his cheeks, then beamed and held up his arms for a cuddle. Cora unstrapped him from his chair and hauled him out, kissing his damp pink nose.

  ‘Gorgeous boy.’

  She held him close, and his chubby little arms wrapped tightly round her neck. Cora waltzed around the kitchen with him, humming softly, and he snuggled in, his head heavy on her shoulder. She loved Elliot so much, but sometimes she preferred to cuddle him when nobody else was around, just to avoid the inevitable ‘oh, you’re so good with him, I can’t believe you’re not having your own’ comments. To Cora though, enjoying a cuddle with a cute kid was a million miles away from actually wanting to give birth to one. It drove her mad that even her close friends still gave each other knowing looks when they saw her with a small child – almost as mad as when people said, pityingly, ‘and who’s going to look after you when you’re old?’. As Cora delighted in pointing out, nursing homes were full of old people who never had visits from their children, because they’d fallen out or emigrated or just couldn’t be bothered. In Cora’s view, it was much safer to work hard, save your money and provide for yourself in your old age – and what a selfish reason to have children, just so you could have a more comfortable retirement …

  ‘Right, young man, it’s nearly seven o’clock and I make that bath time!’

  Zoë bustled back into the room and Cora, startled out of her reverie, reluctantly relinquished her charge.

  ‘Thanks, Cora, you’re a star. Nicole said she’ll be down in a minute, and to help yourself to the wine in the fridge. I’m going to bathe Elliot and put him to bed before I go home, so you two can catch up. See you soon – say goodnight to Auntie Cora, Elliot!’

  Cora planted a kiss on the little boy’s head. ‘Night night, darling.’

  ‘N’night,’ squeaked Elliot, and flapped both hands at her in his cute toddler wave.

  Cora waved back until he’d disappeared down the hall, poured herself a small glass of wine in case her work phone rang later and sank down at the table again. Wearily, she glanced at her BlackBerry. No messages. She’d tried contacting @a-friend, aka Justin, several times since their Christmas Eve encounter but he’d never replied, leaving Cora deeply uneasy. It was impossible to shake the constant feeling of anxiety she’d had ever since the day of Jeanette’s murder – the horrible knowledge that the killer was very probably somebody she knew, that it was highly unlikely that some random stranger had managed to slip in and out of the newsroom unnoticed. Justin’s silence was making everything worse, her mind swinging wildly from complete faith in the innocence of a man she knew so well, to extreme doubt. She was still pushing the doubts viciously from her head, but she wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to keep that up. It was becoming exhausting.

  She sighed heavily and tried to think more positively. It would be nice to have a few hours of quality time with Nicole. Will had already headed off to the local pub for a snooker night with the lads, so it would be just the two of them, something that didn’t happen very often.

  Nicole and Will lived in a beautifully restored Grade II listed cottage two miles outside Cheltenham. Dating back to
1830, it had all the character you would expect – an inglenook fireplace, beams, flagstone floors – but Nicole had managed to combine its country charm with contemporary décor, so for a building with such small windows and low ceilings it had a surprisingly bright and modern feel about it.

  As in every good cottage, the kitchen was the heart of the home, and they rarely sat anywhere else on their girls’ nights in. It was a big messy room, every surface always liberally scattered with toy bricks, cars and children’s books, but with its massive oak table and grey leather sofa, the squishiest Cora had ever sat on, it was the perfect place to sprawl, especially in winter when the heat thrown out by the shiny cream Aga meant you rarely needed to wear anything much warmer than a T-shirt.

  Cora, already heating up, slipped off her cardigan and sipped her wine sleepily. She was just getting stuck into an article on the latest suspected terrorist arrests in Birmingham when Nicole wandered in, knotting the belt of her black velvet dressing gown, looking fresh-faced and rosy after her shower.

  ‘That’s better! I was reeking – had a dog with chronic diarrhoea today and I didn’t get out of the way fast enough!’ She tittered. ‘Oh, sorry – we’re not supposed to mention diarrhoea, are we?’

  ‘Ha bloody ha.’

  Nicole tipped a bag of crisps into a bowl, sloshed some wine into a glass and slumped onto the sofa. ‘And then …’

  She paused to take a slurp.

  ‘I got home to find Elliot wandering around naked because he’d just climbed into the loo and Zoë had had to strip him off, and while she was shoving his clothes in the wash he did a great big poo right in the middle of the dining room floor, which I walked straight into!’

  Cora groaned. Nicole ignored her. ‘So I had dog diarrhoea all over my jeans and baby poo on my shoes and …

  ‘Tra la la la LA LA LA …’ Cora stuck her fingers in her ears and sang loudly and tunelessly.

  Nicole laughed. ‘OK, OK, I’ll stop! Come on, tell me your news, then. I don’t seem to have any that doesn’t include bodily functions.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  Cora pushed her chair back and came to join Nicole on the sofa.

  ‘Well – not a lot going on really. Things are really odd, with the murder enquiry, and all this Scott stuff. Although he seemed in a better mood today, thank goodness.’

  Nicole selected a crisp from the bowl in between them and pondered.

  ‘A date, that’s what you need, young lady. Cheer you up, stop you mooning over Justin. Nothing serious, just a bit of fun. Come on – what about the hot cop? Sounds like there’s chemistry there, from what you’ve said?’

  Cora held up her hands. ‘No, stop right there – not even in the running. He has a child he sees at weekends. Way too much baggage. So no point in even going there, sadly.’ She pouted and got up to refill their glasses.

  Nicole held hers out. ‘It’s what you’re going to find more and more though, Cora, you know that don’t you? At our age, all the single men either have baggage, or they’re single for a reason, cos they’re peculiar! It’s highly unlikely you’re going to find many men in their late thirties or early forties who are attractive, intelligent, and normal, and still single. I know you don’t want your own kids, but you might have to compromise and put up with one being around now and again. Is that such a big deal? I mean, you actually quite like some kids, don’t you?’

  Cora sat down again. ‘I do, yes. But I think it is a big deal, Nicole. I fully intend to join the long list of women in history who lived life happily and successfully while being totally child-free.’

  Nicole wrinkled up her nose. ‘OK – name five, then!’

  Cora rubbed her hands together. ‘Easy! Jane Austen. Coco Chanel. Oprah Winfrey. Er … Barbara Windsor. Amelia Earhart. See – all successful, all talented, all normal, all with no kids!’

  Nicole laughed and poked Cora in the ribs. ‘Only you could have a list like that to hand. Alright, point taken, nutter.’

  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 8th 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.