The Dead Dog Day (13 page)

Forty-five minutes later Cora was scrubbed and polished and ready for work. Mindful of the other guests, she slipped out of her room, closed the door quietly behind her and tiptoed down the long, dimly lit corridor with its garish red and brown swirly carpet. At the reception desk, the night porter was sitting with his feet up, flicking disconsolately through yesterday's copy of the
Mirror
and picking his nose. At the sight of Cora he sat up abruptly, with a look of great surprise on his face.

‘Morning!' she said brightly.

The porter looked at his watch.

‘Er – morning, madam.'

He eyed her up and down, frowning slightly. Cora sighed inwardly. It was happening again – he thought she was a hooker. The problem with hotel night porters was that they never recognised her, because they never watched breakfast TV as they were always working when it was on air. Therefore, when a woman left their hotel in the early hours of the morning, glammed up with heels, perfume, and lipstick, they all automatically presumed she was on the game. When she had time or was in the mood, Cora sometimes stopped and explained
why
she was apparently sneaking out at 4.30 a.m., but she really couldn't be bothered today.

‘I'm just going out for a few hours – I'll be back for breakfast later,' she announced, as she marched smartly through Reception.

The porter looked at her even more suspiciously.

‘Well – alright then,' he said slowly.

‘
Madam
,' he added sarcastically.

He stared after her as she walked to the door and Cora, feeling his eyes boring into her back, suddenly wished she had a condom in her pocket so she could ‘accidentally' drop it in front of him. That would give him added spice for the story he'd no doubt be telling in the pub later. The problem was that by the time she did make it back for breakfast, he'd be off duty, so he'd never discover what she really did for a living. There were hotel porters all over Britain who thought she was a prostitute. Marvellous, wasn't it? Cora smiled to herself as she fumbled for her car keys. People thought her job was so glamorous – if only! At least there was no ice on the car windows this morning. No scraping required – a good start to the day for
Madam
Cora.

She tapped the address into her sat nav and zoomed off into the darkness. She was only about fifteen minutes' drive away from today's location, and her BMW quietly ate up the miles as she navigated the empty roads. The through-the-night DJ twittered away on Radio One, and Cora reached one hand into the door pocket for a sweet and popped a chocolate caramel into her mouth. She felt bored already. Today's story was one of those tedious tales of a small child who had dialled 999 and saved his mother's life after she'd collapsed with some illness or other, and Cora couldn't summon up much enthusiasm for it.

After a few years, the job had become a bit ‘groundhog day' – the same stories cropped up over and over again. She'd done versions of this one at least twice before. Still, at least it was indoors – another bonus on a wintry morning. She'd actually got her legs out today for a change, choosing a slim charcoal pencil skirt teamed with black patent heels and a tight-fitting grey sweater.

Cora slowed down as she saw the satellite truck parked under a lamppost up ahead and pulled up neatly behind it. She waved at Scott, who was standing in the middle of the road, rubbing his woolly-hatted head and frowning over his compass as he worked out the best way to position the dish, and he waved back. There was no sign of Nathan and Rodney yet, so she locked her car and made her way up the path of number 12, the only house in the street with lights blazing. It was always weird knocking at somebody's door at 5 a.m., and Cora was constantly amazed that so many people agreed to have a TV crew in their home at such a stupid hour. That though, as Jeanette had never tired of pointing out, was the power of
Morning Live
. It was a big show, and people wanted to be a part of it, no matter how early they had to get up.

The woman who opened the door was wearing a maroon velour tracksuit and no make-up. She looked exhausted, but she was smiling and excitedly ushered Cora inside. The living room was small and faded, but cosy and immaculate. A large flat screen TV dominated the space, and a huge gilt-framed photo of a little red-haired boy in a navy school uniform hung over the fireplace.

‘I can't believe it, Cora Baxter in my living room!' the woman enthused.

Cora beamed back. ‘Well, it's very nice to meet you. And this must be little Ronan.'

The ginger-headed boy from the photo, now wearing Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas, was poking his head around the living room door, grinning shyly.

‘Ronan, Ronan, come and meet the lady. This is Cora, off the telly. You recognise Cora, don't you?'

The little boy inched his way into the room and clutched his mother's tracksuit bottoms. Cora crouched down to say hello.

‘So, you're the little star who rang 999? What a clever boy! You're going to be on television now too, isn't that exciting?'

The child stared at her with big, blue eyes and said nothing. Oh dear, Cora thought. Live TV and a child who won't speak. Great. She smiled and stood up. Thank goodness they had the tape of the 999 call to play.

The woman started bustling around the already tidy room, manically straightening cushions.

‘Cup of tea, Cora? I'm going to tidy up and get us both dressed and then I'll put the kettle on. Or maybe I should put the kettle on now, what do you think? We're not on until after six, are we – gosh, I'm so nervous, I've never done anything like this before …'

She stopped and clasped her hands to her mouth.

‘You'll be fine, honestly,' Cora said soothingly. ‘We'll have a rehearsal before we go on, don't worry. But it's just like you and me having a chat, it's easy. Don't panic!'

The woman took a deep breath. ‘OK, I won't. Thank you. I'll go and sort out that tea – make yourself at home.' She gestured towards the worn red sofa.

‘I will in a minute, thanks – just going to check on my crew, they seem to be running late.'

Cora reluctantly made her way back out into the chill air and breathed it in deeply. Her head had started to swim with tiredness. Thank goodness it was Friday. But it was nearly 5.15 – where were the boys? Worried now, she pulled out her phone and speed dialled Nathan. He answered after two rings, sounding out of breath.

‘Sorry, sorry, we'll be there in ten minutes. Shit-hole hotel, no night porter, door locked, had to climb out window … you know, the usual … see you in a mo …'

The line went dead. Relieved, Cora went back inside. This happened all the time too. Small hotels often didn't have night porters, and even though she and the boys were always careful to point out when they checked in that they would need to leave in the early hours, harassed receptionists sometimes forgot and locked the doors. When that happened, your only option was to find a window to climb out of and hope you wouldn't set the burglar alarm off. It happened surprisingly regularly, and the travel desk always had a go at the hotel later, asking them what would have happened if there had been a fire and guests had needed to get out urgently. The hotel managers were always terribly embarrassed and apologetic – the boys would probably get a free breakfast later – but it didn't really help. Getting to location on time was nerve-wracking enough without having to climb out of windows to get to your car.

The boys arrived a few minutes later, Rodney panting slightly as he lugged his gear into the living room where Cora sat running through her notes.

‘That was close,' she said, relieved.

‘Damn hotels. Caught my trousers on a nail on the windowsill too – look! Jodie's going to kill me, she got me these for Christmas!'

He turned and Cora stifled a giggle. There was a long rip in the reasonably normal-looking, dark green canvas jeans the soundman was wearing, revealing a far from normal pair of luminous yellow boxer shorts with a ghastly green mushroom and pepper print.

Nathan appeared in the doorway.

‘Oh for heaven's sake, Rodney, where do you even
buy
underwear like that?' he exploded. ‘I mean, is there some special secret shop somewhere, specialising in weird soundman clothes? Would you
look
at those pants! They look like a tea towel gone mental!'

Rodney looked offended. ‘These are my favourite pants,
actually
, Nathan. I don't comment on
your
underwear, do I?'

‘That's because I wear
normal
underwear that doesn't merit a comment. Jeez, if I came home in those Gareth would die laughing! Seriously …'

They were interrupted by the woman clanking in from the kitchen with a tea tray.

‘Oh – morning, gentlemen! Ronan, the camera crew are here too now! How exciting!'

The ginger child poked his head in again and stared. He had yet to utter a word.

The woman was still fluttering.

‘I made tea
and
coffee,' she announced proudly. ‘Toast on the way!'

She scuttled out, her maroon velour bottom wobbling, and Cora held up her hands as Nathan opened his mouth again.

‘OK, enough, Nath. Rodney, if you tie that fleece around your waist, the pants will be forgotten, right? Let's just drink our tea and get this show on the road.'

‘OK, OK.' Nathan submitted.

‘Alright. Three lumps in mine.'

‘Yeah, yeah, I know.'

Cora poured tea and, peace restored, the organised chaos that always preceded a broadcast got underway as the boys set up lights, connected up cables and generally turned the front room of a suburban semi into a mini TV studio. Cora, cup in hand, picked her way carefully through the equipment and lifted the net curtain at the window. Outside, the dish was locked in place. Good. At least Scott hadn't had any drama this morning. Reporter being mistaken for a hooker, crew locked in hotel … and this had been a relatively
quiet
morning. She smiled into the darkness and shook her head. If only the viewers knew what went on before a live broadcast. They just wouldn't believe it.

Later, as they packed up, Nathan pulled Cora aside.

‘There's something weird going on with Scott.'

Cora nodded. ‘I've been a bit worried about him, to be honest. He's been so grumpy, and distracted. And I don't think he had a great Christmas. I thought maybe him and Elaine were going through a rough patch or something? Do you know what's happening?'

‘I don't think it's Elaine. I don't know what it is for certain. But – see what you make of this. I called in last night on the way here to drop off that jacket I borrowed from him. And you know what the house is normally like – so packed with antiques you can barely get in the door?'

Cora smiled. ‘Sure do. I've never seen so many old bits of furniture and knick-knacks in one place. They could open a shop.'

Nathan shook his head. ‘Not any more. They're all gone. Apart from the compass you gave him for Christmas, and some little mirror in the downstairs loo, there's not one antique in the house. Not much of anything, in fact. Half the furniture is gone, and Elaine looked mortified. Tried to keep me on the doorstep, except I was desperate for a wee so she had to let me in. Muttered something about a change of style, trying minimalism, but I didn't buy it.'

Cora looked shocked. ‘But – why? He's obsessed with antiques, they both are. Why would they get rid of them all? Unless …'

Nathan nodded slowly. ‘Money? That's what I thought. I think our Scott has money troubles.
Big
money troubles. The question is – why?'

If Scott's ears weren't burning, they should have been, because at that very moment he was also being avidly discussed by a police murder investigation team.

‘Look, see here.' Gary paused the CCTV footage and everyone huddled closer around the TV monitor. He pressed play.

‘He gets into the lift, on the newsroom floor, and there's somebody else in there. Then two floors down, the other person gets out. And as soon as the doors close – look. He starts punching the wall. Once, twice, three, four times. What's all that about then?'

Adam Bradberry was watching closely. ‘He's very angry, that's pretty obvious. And we're sure about who he is?'

Gary nodded. ‘Yes, it's Scott Edson. An engineer who works mainly on outside broadcasts. Kendrick had called him in that day for a disciplinary hearing. Seven in the morning, odd timing but just her style from what I've heard. Fell asleep on the job and missed a broadcast apparently – and a second offence. One more strike and he'd have been out.'

Adam stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘So, no love lost for Ms Kendrick then. And not looking very happy here, is he? What time was this?'

Gary checked the timecode on the monitor. ‘7.40. He comes out of the lift and leaves the building. So yes, he was gone about twenty minutes before Kendrick was killed. Unless …'

‘Unless he came back in through one of those side doors, and took that temper out on Ms Kendrick instead of on the lift. I like your thinking, Gary. Let's have a chat with Mr Edson. Good work.'

‘Thanks sir. We'll head over there then. Nice to get this wrapped up before New Year, wouldn't it?'

It certainly would, thought Adam. It would be very nice indeed.

17

Tuesday 2
^nd
January

‘Hmmm – shall I bring the thong, or not?'

Benjamin Boland stepped back from the Louis Vuitton suitcase he was packing and held up a scrap of black fabric with a large front pouch and a miniscule back. He turned it this way and that, pondering for a moment, then decided against. He was off to Finland after all. Probably better to bring some slightly larger pants – keep the crown jewels warm …

He put the thong neatly back in his colour co-ordinated underwear drawer and selected several pairs of tight white Dolce & Gabbana boxer briefs instead. Folding them precisely, he added them to the case and then started to choose socks. He should have packed yesterday really, but he'd been so hung over after New Year's Eve. And then, just as he was starting to feel better, he'd been tempted out for a meal at Nobu with some of the boys, and then on to a lap-dancing club, so by the time he'd got in he was a little the worse for wear all over again. The car wouldn't be here to collect him till nine though, so he still had over an hour.