So, Adam pondered, maybe neither of the bereaved children had ever been given full details of the crash when they were young. And while it seemed Benjamin had, when he grew up, begun to look into his parents’ death, maybe it had been too painful for Jeanette to do the same. Could Benjamin have been in the dark too, until the day he’d been called to Jeanette’s office to discuss appearing on her show? Did he spot the picture on her wall, recognise the plane, and start his research then? Could that day have sealed Jeanette’s fate?
Adam frowned. He wanted Boland here now, in front of him. He was angry, angry at himself for not considering that the murder could have taken place in a different way, for assuming that somebody inside had pushed her out, not that somebody outside had pulled her. But who would have thought like that? A better cop than him, maybe. He looked at the time on the scratched screen of his mobile phone. Just after 7 p.m. The cars were on their way to pick Boland up, and it wasn’t far. As long as he was at home, maybe this case could be wrapped up by midnight. Adam tapped his keyboard and the dark computer monitor sprang into life. A little more research into that accident and all involved in it, that’s what he’d do. Solid facts to throw at his best suspect so far. A little knot of excitement was forming in his stomach. He had a good feeling about this. A very good feeling indeed.
57
‘He’s not at home, boss. We’ve got a car outside his apartment building, in case he comes back later. And we’ve got patrols heading for some of his usual haunts. According to his agent he rang earlier to say he’s not been feeling too well, wants to take the next couple of days off. In theory, he should be at home …’
Adam sighed, frustration building again. ‘Alright. Let me know as soon as you find him.’
He put the phone down and turned back to his screen. Out of interest, and to fill the time while he waited, he’d started looking more closely at the fourth man who’d died, Guy Ferill. There were a few further articles in the newspapers in the months after the crash: first the accident investigation pieces, the ones Justin Dendy had discovered and handed over. But then several more – short articles about the funerals, and then a brief follow-up in a local London newspaper when a memorial service had been held for Christian Kendrick a year later. In the past two hours Adam had miraculously managed to acquire copies of all of them, calling in favours with journalists on the night desks of the relevant papers, promising exclusives when the case was resolved. Intrigued, and also because it was proving to be an otherwise quiet night and they were bored, the reporters had called up their own archives and emailed the pieces to him, hopeful of a scoop in return.
Now Adam sipped his fifth strong coffee of the evening and read each article carefully. Guy Ferill and Christian Kendrick had been close friends, by all accounts, as well as regular work partners. Their love of socialising was mentioned more than once, while Kendrick was twice referred to as a ‘maverick’ who’d been a little wild in his youth before settling down with the love of his life and having a daughter, ‘the apple of his eye’. Jeanette, of course.
Adam put his mug down and absent-mindedly picked up a half-eaten pear that had been lying next to it. He took a mouthful and grimaced. It was nearly black. How long had that been there? He spat into the bin, threw the offending fruit in too and turned back to the screen. So – Guy Ferill. Here we go. Single, a few years younger than Kendrick, but from a big close family. There was a photo here, of the young man with his three sisters, and some children, his nieces and nephews. Adam’s eyes flicked over the list of names under the photo.
‘Guy Ferill, pictured from L-R with his sister Joyce Stratton and her son, James; sister Frances Cane, with her daughter Beth and son Peter; and youngest sister …
He froze, staring at the last few names on the caption. His eyes flicked from the words to the photo. One little girl stared out at him, eyes bright even on the black and white, photocopied page. His heart thudded. It was her, no doubt about that, even though so many years had passed. He’d know her anywhere. Dear God. What if Boland wasn’t finished with his killing, his revenge? Could that mean …?
He pushed his chair back from his desk so violently that his coffee cup crashed to the floor, the dark liquid splashing onto the already filthy carpet. Oblivious, he ran from the room, shouting at a few bemused officers to follow him. He had to get to her, now. Before Benjamin Boland did.
58
‘Thanks so much for driving me home. The offer still stands, you know. You’re welcome to stay. Er, on the sofa, of course,’ Cora added awkwardly.
Justin smiled. ‘It’s fine, honestly. It would be a bit weird, after all that’s happened. I’m happy in a hotel, and I’ll head to the parents’ in the morning, hire a car. Don’t worry about me.’
He paused, and then reached out and took both of her hands in his.
‘I’m just so happy, Cora, that we’re friends again. I’ll never stop feeling bad about the way things ended, but if we can just put it behind us …’
Cora squeezed his fingers and then gently pulled her hands away. ‘Hush, it’s fine. Water under the bridge and all that. Thank you for looking out for me, for caring enough to have me followed – and to follow me yourself! I think my ankle will recover, one day …’
He groaned and covered his face, and she laughed.
‘Teasing. Now go – I’m knackered and you must be too. Give my love to your mum and dad, OK? And keep in touch.’
‘Goodnight, Cora.’
He headed off down the driveway, listing slightly with the weight of the holdall on his shoulder, and turned halfway to blow her a kiss. She raised a hand to catch it, and pressed it to her cheek, smiling, then shut the hall door and locked it. For a moment she stood there, almost too weary to climb the stairs, then took a deep breath and began the ascent, dragging her bag and tackling the steps one at a time like a toddler, wary of her still slightly delicate ankle.
It had been good of Justin to drive her car home from London; his concern about her injury, her exhaustion and her mental fragility after discovering her boyfriend was probably a murderer was quite touching. They’d stopped at Reading services, suddenly ravenous after a day of travelling and the stress of the police station, and he’d even treated her to a burger and chips. And they’d talked, talked for a solid hour across the greasy table, happy to be in one another’s company again despite everything that had happened. Justin had told her he’d felt the chemistry between her and Adam, teasing her into admitting that yes, there was an attraction there, an attraction that had somehow grown slowly even though he was a doting father.
Justin had looked at her then, a flash of hope in his eyes, but she had shaken her head.
‘I haven’t changed my mind, Justin. I still don’t want my own. I’ll never want my own. But maybe I could put up with one being around now and again, if the relationship was right.’
He’d nodded ruefully, and she’d reached for his hand, and they’d sat there for a moment, both finally accepting that this was the end. At least, she thought now, as she tackled the last few steps, she knew that things were good between them again. And now, what a relief to be home, what a relief to know her own bed was just a few metres away, and that her friends were close by.
‘I’ll ring Rosie and Nicole tomorrow, get them round,’ Cora thought as, slightly out of breath, she finally made it to the landing outside her own front door. She fumbled in her handbag for her keys. ‘They will quite simply die when they hear what’s happened. And as for Sam and Wendy, and the boys …’
She allowed herself a tiny smile as she slid the key into the lock and let herself into the hallway. Even though the whole thing was utterly horrific, and she was still reeling from the knowledge that Benjamin was involved, part of her still relished the prospect of the fabulous gossip she’d soon be passing on to her friends.
‘I’m officially a disgrace,’ she announced to the hall clock, which was glowing the time at her in purple neon. Nearly 10.30 p.m. She dumped her bags on the flo
or and flicked the light switch, kicking off her shoes with a happy sigh. It was so good to be home.
She headed straight down the hall towards the kitchen. A hot chocolate, a hot shower, and a hot water bottle were what were needed, she decided as she opened the fridge. Was there any milk that was still within date, though? She was cautiously sniffing the carton when she heard it.
THUD.
Cora almost dropped the milk. What the hell was that? It sounded as though it had come from the lounge. She stood still for a moment, but all was silent. She put the carton down on the worktop, heart pounding, then smiled shakily to herself. The events of the past few days were making her paranoid. It had probably just been somebody in the flat below.
‘Pull yourself together, woman!’ she berated herself out loud, at the same time half-wishing she’d insisted Justin had stayed the night. But heck, she’d better get used to evenings alone, seeing as she was single again. Might as well start now, she thought sadly.
She opened the saucepan cupboard, pulled out a milk pan and poured in enough for a generous drink, then put it on the hob and turned the power on. Then she wandered into the bedroom, retrieved her hot water bottle with its cuddly faux mink cover from its drawer and placed it next to the kettle. She was spooning chocolate powder into her biggest mug when she heard it again.
THUD. CREAK.
This time she did drop what she holding, the spoon clattering into the sink. There was no doubt now. That noise was coming from the lounge. There was somebody there. A burglar? Please, not again, not a repeat of what had happened in Spain. But there’d been no sign of a break in, had there? How could somebody be in the lounge? Didn’t they hear her come in? Cora stood stock still, mind racing.
The police. She needed to call the police. With a horrible sense of déjà vu, she instantly realised she didn’t have her phone with her. It was still in her bag in the hall.
‘Oh, hell,’ she groaned, casting her eyes around the tiny kitchen for a suitable self-defence weapon. The fire extinguisher next to the cooker, that would do. Grabbing it, she moved as silently as possible into the hall, realising halfway along it that she’d have to pass the open door of the lounge to get to her bag. And then what? How could she make a phone call? They’d hear her. This was impossible. What on earth was she going to do?
THUD.
Another noise, softer this time. She’d make it to the front door, run for it, get out onto the street and scream for help, she decided. Her heart was beating so fast that she was panting slightly. She was almost at the lounge door now, could see into the room, illuminated slightly by the glow from the streetlights below. Was there somebody in there? Where were they? She paused, torn between the urge to flee on down the hallway to freedom, and an unexpected desire to see who was in her home, and why. And how had they got in?
Suddenly, recklessly, she reached out and flipped the lounge light switch.
‘Who’s there? What are you doing in my flat?’ Her voice, strong and resolute, rang out.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cora saw a startled movement in the far left hand corner. Gripping her extinguisher, she turned to face the intruder, then gasped.
‘You! What are you doing here?’
59
Benjamin took a long deep breath and looked down at the slumped body on the floor. It had only taken a moment to overpower her and squeeze her throat, hard but not too hard … enough to cut off her oxygen supply and render her unconscious, but not hard enough to kill her. Not yet.
He sat down suddenly on the sofa, his legs unexpectedly feeling weak. The first time had been so easy, but this time … could he do it? Could he finish the job? She was so beautiful …
‘COME ON!’ He thumped both fists on the coffee table, a flash of anger burning through his veins. She had to die, and she had to die now.
‘DO IT. DO IT.’
He stood up again purposefully, marched over to where she was lying, and crouched down next to her. Her throat still bore the livid red marks of his hands, stark against her soft white skin. He stared at her, willing himself to feel the hate, the anger. Her eyelids fluttered and a soft moan escaped her lips. She was coming round. Now, Benjamin. Do it now. Do it now, and then it will all be over. Do it …
He reached out and gently turned her fully onto her back. A minute, that’s all it would take. A minute of pressure on her throat and it would be done. He breathed deeply again, summoning up the rage, the memories …
He had always carried the anger with him. Ever since that day, when he was seven years old, and had come home from school to find his safe, happy little life torn apart. He could still remember the blue flashing light on the patrol car parked in the driveway, and inside on the sofa his Auntie Ellen, ashen-faced, a policewoman holding her hand. Auntie Ellen, of course, not his real aunt but a friend of Mummy’s. And Mummy and Daddy dead, killed when the plane that was taking them to a party in Scotland crashed, and his world crashed with it.
He was considered too young to go to the funerals, too young to be told the details of what happened. But he was smart and cunning as a child, and he acquired the newspapers, read every detail, gazed with anguished eyes at the photos of the plane which had ruined his life. Revenge though had never entered his head, until that day in Jeanette’s office, when he had seen the picture on her wall, the picture of the aircraft he knew so well, that caused a twist of pain in his guts every time he saw it. Suddenly it had all clicked. Kendrick. Jeanette Kendrick. Christian Kendrick’s daughter.
The old anger had come surging back, and he’d decided, there and then, that the only way to heal the ever-present pain in his heart was to avenge his parents’ deaths. He briefly considered killing Jeanette’s mother, the wife of the man who’d stolen his childhood, but dismissed the idea. Jeanette would be so much easier. He’d noticed the big unsealed windows in her office, wondered if that was something he could use. He’d gone back too, not long before the day Cora called ‘Dead Dog Day’, on the pretence that he was reconsidering Jeanette’s job offer, and placed a tiny listening device under her windowsill. He needed to listen to her, on the day, find out when she was alone. He’d swiftly removed the device again when he’d finally travelled up in the window cleaner’s cradle, unsecured and so very convenient, and appeared at her window. He’d timed it perfectly, listening intently first via his earpiece from around the corner, hearing her office door rant about the stupid dog, hearing her slam back inside, the device so sensitive he could even hear the blinds snap shut, knowing she was there on her own and that now was the time.
He’d even bought his apartment in the building just along the road specifically so he could be close to TV Centre, watch and wait, consider his options, wanting to carry out the perfect crime. The idea had struck him suddenly one day as he lazily watched the building’s window cleaners through his telescope, realising with interest that the cradles were always there overnight, tucked neatly away in the shadows along the side of the building, when the marathon monthly window cleaning task was being carried out. He’d wandered down there, casually checked them out, happy to see that they were the straightforward manual, hand-cranked wire rope style, no problem for him to operate after he’d once had to use one in a filming stunt. Then it was just some duct tape, a balaclava, and gloves. They’d probably shed a few black fibres, but he made sure he’d got rid of them immediately, stuffed deep into a bin outside a restaurant on the way home, never to be seen again. And he’d been so careful, walking away from the scene of the murder and not running, nothing to draw attention to himself.
His gamble had been that Jeanette might not come to the window when he suddenly appeared outside – that he’d have to climb in and throw her out instead, risk being caught inside her office. But in the end, she’d come so easily, so surprised to see him smiling there seven floors up, so curious, actually thinking at first that he’d changed his mind about joining the show and was making a dramatic, Benjamin-style gesture to impress her, stupid woman. As soon as
she was within reach he’d grabbed her, leaning in through the opening and gripping her tightly by the arms, telling her the real reason he was there, and why she had to die.
‘I didn’t know … I had no idea … I’m so sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry. Please, if …’ she’d stuttered, trying to apologise for her pathetic excuse for a father. He’d grown angry then, risked reaching into his pocket with one hand, still holding one upper arm in a vice-like grip, grabbing his pre-prepared strip of tape and slapping it across her mouth. He didn’t want to hear any more, and he didn’t want her to start screaming, to be stopped before he could finish what he’d come here to do, what he’d been planning for so long. And she’d been so weak, when it came to it, the great Jeanette. So easy to haul through the open window, so easy to drag out and over the window ledge, into the cradle. He’d had momentum by then, fury and anguish giving his gym-honed body even more strength, lifting her flailing body in one smooth movement over the side of the cradle, dropping her like a piece of litter. A vase or something had fallen inside, he’d heard it crashing to the ground, but that wasn’t a major problem; it could easily have happened if she’d jumped, or if somebody had pushed her out from the inside, which was what the idiot police had instantly assumed. It had worked, worked beautifully. The perfect crime.
He hadn’t been able to attend the funeral with Cora, too busy with filming commitments, but he had studied the TV news clips and newspaper coverage of the event with quiet satisfaction, noting the pain on the faces of Jeanette’s mother and other relatives.
His revenge, though, had only been half finished. There was the other family, Guy Ferill’s family. They too had lost just one person, while he had lost two – another score to settle. He’d got private investigators on the case, tracking down the man’s relatives, and been shocked, astounded, to discover that one of Ferill’s nieces also worked in television – not only that, but she also worked at TV Centre, alongside Jeanette. The perfect choice, so easy for him to access.
The Dead Dog Day Page 27