The Dead Dog Day (3 page)

‘Don't worry, we've got about twenty minutes yet, but I want to do a run-through as soon as I can, so the faster you can get everyone out here, the better!'

The man nodded his big furry head, dropped the homemade protest placard he was holding, and stomped off awkwardly into the darkness, his chicken feet crunching across the frozen grass of the roundabout.

In her pocket, Cora's BlackBerry beeped again and, not for the first time, she marvelled at the ridiculousness of her job. After nearly three years on the show she had certainly covered her share of quirky stories, but some days were definitely more surreal than others. In today's bizarre, pre-dawn scene on the icy edge of Exmoor, Cora and her team would be broadcasting live with a group of protesters, who were trying to save the feral chickens that had roosted on a local roundabout for over a century but had now been deemed a traffic hazard by the local council.

‘Everything OK, Cora?' Nathan pushed his dark, floppy hair out of his eyes, zipped his Arctic-weight, navy fleece even further up under his chin, and started his daily fumble with the camera tripod.

‘Yep.' Cora stamped her feet. She was freezing, despite the thermal socks, long johns and long-sleeved vest she'd struggled into as usual in her hotel room earlier. There was no place for sexy undies in the wardrobe of morning TV reporters at this time of year, sadly. The male viewers who regularly wrote to Cora and her female colleagues extolling their virtues and asking for photos of them in their underwear would be sorely disappointed; Cora had often been tempted to send out photos of herself in her old faithful Marks & Spencer grey thermals, just for a giggle.

‘First hit 6.20, and then another one later, time TBC – you know what “Fun Fridays” are like!'

‘Fun Friday? More like Freeze the Crew's Balls Off Friday,' said a gloomy voice, as Rodney appeared, his mixer slung around his neck and his hands full of sound equipment.

‘Got your earpiece, Cora? Oh yeah, I see it.' Rodney adjusted his headphones. ‘Give us a voice level, eh?'

‘OK – I've been in a different town every single night since Sunday, I'm exhausted, and here I am, freezing cold at stupid o'clock on a roundabout in the middle of nowhere,' said Cora. ‘That OK, Rodders?'

‘Fine,' replied the soundman, pushing his little round glasses higher on his nose and adjusting a couple of knobs on his mixer.

Cora smiled at him, trying to ignore his trousers. Much as she loved Rodney, he did have spectacularly bad dress sense. Today he was wearing the most lurid yellow and green camouflage-patterned combats she had ever seen, their hideousness ‘enhanced' by bright red loops and tabs, making him look from a distance as though a mad knifeman had slashed him several times across the legs.

‘Well, if you're happy, Rodney, I'm happy.' Nathan appeared at Rodney's elbow and slapped him on the back. ‘We just seem to be missing a cable …'

‘I'm here, I'm here, don't panic.'

Scott appeared out of the darkness unrolling the long satellite cable behind him.

Nathan stopped blowing on his cold hands and winked at Cora and Rodney.

‘So, Scott – what are your plans for the weekend then? Doing any gardening?' he said, trying hard to conceal a smirk.

‘No, I sodding am not. It's bloody December. Bugger off!' But Scott was grinning as he dumped the end of the cable on the ground next to Nathan's tripod and marched off back to the warmth of the satellite truck.

Cora, Nathan, and Rodney looked at each other and sniggered, Cora feeling a little relieved. Scott had been grumpier than usual lately, so it was nice that he'd taken the joke so well today. They'd been riling him about gardening for months, ever since the summer when he'd been redoing the garden of his new family semi and decided he wanted to trail some pink clematis across the back wall. Unfortunately, he'd instead managed to ask an elderly garden centre assistant if she could provide him with some chlamydia.

Cora snorted again, and then suddenly pulled herself together as another disembodied voice boomed in her earpiece.

‘Morning, Cora – you're obviously having fun – everything OK there? We're going to be with you in just over twenty minutes.'

Cora recognised the slightly stressed Scottish tones of her friend. ‘Oh, it's you, Sam. Morning! Yes, we've been Scott-baiting again – you know, the clematis story? But everything's under control – all chickens present and correct. Talk to you in a bit!'

‘Thanks, Cora. And if you could stand by for possible extra hits through the morning that would be great – items dropping like flies today, Jeanette's going bonkers,' Sam replied, and disappeared.

Cora looked at her watch and gestured to Nathan and Rodney, who had also been listening to the exchange on their headsets.

‘Er – chickens, can you all gather round please? Nearly time to go on, so let's just make sure we all know what we're doing!'

‘Scott, you are a star,' said Cora gratefully as the engineer handed her a steaming mug of Earl Grey.

The first broadcast of the morning successfully out of the way, and the giant chickens temporarily back in their houses, the crew were thawing out in the satellite van.

Nathan stuffed a Jaffa Cake into his mouth and then sighed heavily, delicately spraying Rodney's glasses with crumbs.

He swallowed. ‘Ugh. A weekend of Christmas shopping to look forward to – can you believe it's only ten days away! I've done nothing!'

‘Mmmm, shopping for me too,' said Scott, ‘Elaine's spotted this clock she fancies. Edwardian. Inlaid mahogany, white enamel dial. Nice actually.'

Rodney surreptitiously picked up the sleeve of Nathan's discarded fleece and began to wipe his glasses.

‘I don't get your antique fetish, Scott, really I don't. Although I'd rather go antiquing with you than do what I've got to do later – bloody got to help bloody Jodie with the sound at her bloody nativity. BOR-ING!' he said, gloomily.

‘Oh, Rodders, it will be fun!' Cora tried to sound enthusiastic. Rodney's girlfriend ran a nursery, and the soundman was often roped in to help give the kids' shows a professional edge.

‘Yeah, right. You come then,' retorted Rodney.

Scott and Nathan tittered, and Cora smiled and shrugged. It wasn't that she actually disliked children – she adored several of her friends' offspring. It was just that when biological clocks were being handed out she, it seemed, was given a double dose of ambition instead. Child-free and happy, that was Cora, and she had always chosen boyfriends who felt the same way.

‘Well, Justin and I don't have plans really – we're staying at home, just the two of us. I want to snuggle up and not see
anybody
all weekend. It's been
mad
recently. What wouldn't I give for a nice easy studio job?'

‘One of these days I'll go to London and shoot that snobby Alice Lomas cow and then you can have her job at the news desk.'

Scott raised two fingers, pretending he was aiming a gun.

‘It's a doggy dog world, this TV game, after all …'

Nathan and Cora looked at each other and grinned.

‘Er – it's a dog
eat
dog world, not
doggy
dog,' Cora said.

‘Is it?' Scott sounded surprised. ‘Oh, well. You know what I mean.'

‘I do, and thank you. But I don't think murder is the answer, sadly. Especially as you're being hauled in front of Jeanette on Monday morning as it is.'

Scott's face darkened. ‘Thanks, Cora. I've been trying to forget about that. Old bitch. It's my second disciplinary too, shitting myself actually.'

Cora reached over and stroked his arm. ‘Sorry, sweetie, I shouldn't have mentioned it. It'll be fine, you'll see, she's not that bad, honestly …'

Her voice tailed off, as the three men looked at her sceptically.

‘She's exactly that bad,' Nathan said flatly. ‘None of us can stand the woman, Cora, no point in pretending otherwise. But chin up, Scott mate, it won't help to get in a state about it.'

‘MCR IN LONDON CALLING THE CREW IN DEVON! CAN YOU HEAR ME, DEVON?'

A voice suddenly boomed through the speakers next to Scott's chair, causing Rodney and Cora to jump so violently they both spilled their tea.

‘Bloody hell, now what?' Scott flicked the switch that allowed him to speak directly to the master control room in London.

‘Yes, MCR, we can hear you – problem?' he said into the microphone.

‘WE NEED YOU BACK UP AT 0710 – THE PRIME MINISTER WAS MEANT TO BE ON THE SOFA BUT HE'S GOT HELD UP SO WE'RE DOING THE CHICKENS AGAIN INSTEAD.' The technical director's voice echoed round the truck.

‘Oh, darn it!' Cora was frantically wiping tea off her jeans. ‘That gives me ten minutes to round up those blooming chicken people – they're all in their houses! Tell them it'll be tight, Scott, but we'll do it.'

She leapt out of the truck, pulling on her coat as she ran. Nathan and Rodney followed at a more leisurely pace. Ten whole minutes to get ready – no problem!

The watery sun was starting to melt the frost on the roundabout as Cora finally heard the show's closing credits and gratefully removed her earpiece. The boys whooped and began to pack their equipment neatly away in their cars, looking forward to their usual big cooked breakfast at the nearest café.

‘I'm going to be a party pooper today,' Cora said. ‘I want to get home.'

She slid into her car. ‘And I probably won't see you next week – I'm covering in London, remember? Don't miss me too much!'

‘OK – have a good one.' Nathan leaned into the car to give her a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

‘See ya!' Cora honked her horn and waved at Scott and Rodney as she eased off the grass verge and on to the road. The boys stopped winding the cable back on to the drum in the back of the truck and blew massive kisses, Rodney leaping in the air like a garish, multi-coloured salmon on a fishing line.

For what would be one of the last times today, Cora grinned inanely. Post-live hysteria, they called it. Everyone always felt a little giddy at this time of the morning, especially on a Friday. She turned Radio One up loud, and glanced at the clock as she pulled away. 9.10 a.m. If she managed to stay awake and do it all in one go, she should be home by midday.

‘Hooray!' She put her foot down, happily accelerating towards what was going to be a very bad day indeed.

In contrast, a rather satisfying day lay ahead for the person who would very soon end the life of Jeanette Kendrick. The plans, which had taken a long time to formulate, were all in place. Just the weekend to get through, and then the day would be here. The soon-to-be killer, casually tossing a roll of duct tape from hand to hand, wondered with a small smirk if Jeanette Kendrick liked Mondays. If so, she wouldn't be quite so keen on her next one.

4

In a luxurious apartment in central London, Benjamin Boland flicked his gargantuan plasma screen off and sank back into the stack of fine Egyptian cotton-covered pillows that adorned his queen-sized bed.

He'd been watching
Morning Live
a lot recently. It wasn't a bad little show actually, he thought.
He
wouldn't work on it of course – and he had been asked to, not so long ago. He'd turned Jeanette Kendrick down flat though. No way was
he
going to get out of bed at the crack of dawn, not while he was still getting primetime stuff to present – but still, it did make quite entertaining viewing. Some hot women too.

Relishing his lie-in, the TV star gazed out of the huge floor to ceiling window opposite. He loved this place, which was on the fifteenth floor of a new, ultra-modern high-rise on the South Bank, just down the road from TV Centre. Without stirring from his bed (newly acquired from the Versace home range), he could see the Thames snaking by below, the weak December sun glinting on its curves. Towering over the riverbank, the London Eye, the great Ferris wheel which gave sightseers an unparalleled view of the capital, was already slowly turning, its transparent pods dotted with the first tourists of the morning.

He ran his hands through his dark, curly hair, which was even more unruly then usual at this time of day, and turned to pull the duvet off the bed completely, looking with anticipation at the sleeping figure of the skinny blonde in red, ‘Mrs Santa' style lingerie sprawled next to him. She had bored him almost to tears with her conversation last night but then, most of them did nowadays. He vowed there and then to stop dating models. Well, maybe just over Christmas. Then, no more. Still … asleep, this one looked seriously sexy. Her long, wavy hair extensions draped softly over huge, quite obviously surgically enhanced breasts, the curls almost reaching the taut tanned stomach and firm little bottom below. Benjamin leaned over, slipped his fingers inside her bra cup, and gently tweaked her large, pink nipple. The blonde moaned softly and half opened her eyes, her dark lashes flaky with last night's mascara.

‘Well, good morning, big boy,' she said huskily. ‘You up already?' She reached out a scarlet-tipped finger and ran it gently up his leg.

Oh yes, thought Benjamin. I am very definitely up already …

A hundred and twenty miles away in the Gloucestershire flat he shared with Cora Baxter, Justin Dendy was packing. Feeling slightly nauseous, he moved slowly around the neat lounge, trying to ignore the glittering Christmas tree he had helped his excited girlfriend decorate last weekend. Picking up a CD here, a book there, he carried on until he had collected the last of his belongings. Returning to the bedroom, he tossed them into a large sports bag, zipped it closed and carried it out to the small pile of suitcases and boxes already stacked outside the front door.

With a final glance around the bright apartment he'd called home for the past ten months, Justin shut the door and locked it behind him.