Score!

40

Detective Sergeant Gablecross found Helen in a terrible state, mindlessly tidying her little study, straightening straight objects, looking around with huge, darting eyes, her grey face such a contrast to the lilacs and honeysuckles blooming so luxuriantly on her beautiful silk dress.

Gablecross felt desperately sorry for her, but with murder it was his duty to zap her and start scribbling straight away. ‘I’m afraid we’ve found your husband’s body in the wood, Lady Rannaldini.’

‘What?’ Helen went utterly still, except for her darting eyes. ‘Oh, my God, you don’t mean he was caught in the fire? How terrible! They say you suffocate first,’ she pleaded.

‘No, no, Sir Roberto died from strangulation and gunshot wounds.’

‘It wasn’t an accident?’

Gablecross could have sworn it was relief that flickered over her face. There was a long pause which he let her fill.

‘Is everything in his watchtower destroyed?’

‘I guess so.’

‘All his precious compositions,’ whispered Helen, a muscle jumping in her freckled cheek. ‘His life’s work gone! I can’t bear it.’

‘What were your husband’s movements today?’

‘He went to his watchtower mid-afternoon.’ She was twisting her very loose wedding ring round and round. ‘Earlier I saw him walking round the garden with Flora Seymour, who looked very upset. He also rowed with Rozzy Pringle and Alpheus Shaw — I heard them both shouting, I don’t know what about. Artistic people shout all the time.’

A red glass paperweight trembled like a raspberry jelly as she straightened it.

‘Then some very important rushes arrived of my husband conducting the first and last scenes in the film, and Mr Brimscombe, our gardener, and Clive, my husband’s bodyguard, carried this machine out to his tower so he could watch them. My husband was very particular about how he looked on the rostrum.’

‘Did he have anything to eat?’

‘He had a late lunch of caviare with blinis and sour cream, and some peaches from our conservatory, taken out to the watchtower around four.’

‘Who would have prepared that?’

‘Mrs Brimscombe. Clive would have taken it out. Rannaldini didn’t like people…’ she paused ‘… people he didn’t want, to visit his tower. Are you sure he suffocated first, Officer?’

‘What did you do this evening?’

‘I got my clothes ready for London. I’ve got several committee meetings and a dinner in aid of the Red Cross tomorrow. Rannaldini’s letting me have the helicopter,’ she added proudly. ‘Then, at nine thirty, I listened to a play on Radio Three about Puccini, by Declan O’Hara’s son, Patrick. D’you know his work? It’s excellent. Did you know Puccini didn’t finish Turandot?’

Like a tap whose washer had gone. Gablecross knew she’d give him the whole plot, but he let her run on, captivated by her slight American accent.

‘Toscanini conducted the première but only as far as Puccini had written.’ Helen’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Toscanini knew my husband, and rated him very highly as a conductor.’

‘Did you leave your room while you were listening to the play?’

‘The phone rang in the kitchen around ten past ten. But the machine had picked it up by the time I got there, so I left it. The calls are always for my husband.’

‘That was the only time you left the room?’

‘Yes, but I missed the end of the play, which was maddening.’

‘Did you have any supper?’

‘Mrs Brimscombe’s so dear, she tried to tempt me with an omelette but I’m afraid I chucked it down the john. It was so hot and I had a headache.’

‘You didn’t feel like joining the tennis party?’

‘I popped down earlier with Eulalia Harrison, a charming journalist from the Sentinel, who was actually interested in hearing my views for a change.’

For a second her bitterness at always playing second fiddle showed through.

‘But I didn’t stay. Frankly, Officer,’ she started to shake again, ‘I feel like Clarissa Eden. The crew and the cast have been flowing through this place as if it was the Suez Canal for three and a half months. I want my house back.’

‘Having seen that lot,’ said Gablecross drily, ‘I’d feel more like Mrs Noah, frantic for a first glimpse of Mount Ararat.’ He was touched by the gratitude that swept her face.

‘Oh, you do understand. And now Rannaldini’s not going to be here to revel in those big rooms, which have been revamped like Buckingham Palace. This is about the only place that hasn’t been Meredithed.’ She glanced bitterly round the exquisite little study. ‘They do say you suffocate before the flames burn you.’

She was shuddering so violently she had dislodged a false eyelash, a funny thing to wear to listen to the radio on Sunday night, thought Gablecross.

‘I keep expecting him to burst in, Officer. He was so dynamic.’

‘We’d like you to hand over the clothes you wore today.’

‘I haven’t changed out of this dress.’

‘That’s fine. Could you let us have it when you go to bed? I’d also like…’ he consulted his notebook ‘… to speak to your son Wolfgang, and your daughter Tabitha.’

It was as if he had mentioned people she’d forgotten existed. In a state of grief and shock, people invariably look for others to blame. ‘Why aren’t they here?’ exploded Helen.

‘Any idea where they might be?’

‘Wolfie was organizing the tennis. How dare he disappear when he should be here for me? Tab’s just as thoughtless. My son Marcus is quite different.’ She picked up a silver-framed photograph of a beautiful boy seated at a piano. ‘He won the Appleton, you know. Marcus would never abandon me at a time like this.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might have killed your husband?’

Gablecross let an unbearably long pause elapse, until Helen said in a low voice, ‘Tristan de Montigny tried to kill him on Friday night. Hermione, Chloe and Gloria Prescott were all furious they hadn’t got a particular part. Particularly Gloria who everyone nicknamed Pushy. My husband’s been so kind to her, lending her the limo and the helicopter. She took so much for granted.

‘He had that terrible row with Alpheus this morning, and one with Mikhail, and Hermione too. He felt she hadn’t sung her part very well. But my husband fights with everyone.’

A moth was banging like a muffled funeral drum against the window.

‘He can’t bear music to be any less beautiful than he hears it in his head.’

Her mobile rang. Helen snatched it up.

‘Rannaldini? It’s the Scorpion,’ she whispered in terror.

Gablecross seized the mobile. ‘Piss off,’ he roared.

Next moment, two photographers had rammed their lenses against the window. ‘Look this way, Helen.’

‘Bugger off,’ bellowed Gablecross, yanking the dove-grey curtains across their faces.

From now on, the media would move into Paradise waving their cheque-books, like flies round a cowpat, eyes in their backsides, making the work of the police ten times more difficult.

Turning back to Helen, Gablecross caught a glimpse of a photograph, pushed to the back of a shelf, of Rannaldini smiling down at a ravishing girl. She was the spitting image of Rupert Campbell-Black. It must be Helen’s daughter.

‘How did your husband get on with Tabitha?’

Images of the photographs in Rannaldini’s watchtower swam before Helen’s eyes, with a naked, scornful Tabitha on the top. As she burst into tears, there was an impatient knock and a tall young man in a dark blue polo shirt and tennis shorts barged in. With his dark blue eyes, gold hair and thighs as strong, smooth and brown as its onyx pillars, the drawing room, leading out on to the terrace, might have been decorated to compliment his handsomeness, but he looked much too large in here. Wolfie disliked Helen intensely for neglecting Tab, but he hated to see anyone in distress.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘I’m sorry, we’ve found your father’s body, sir.’

The colour drained out of Wolfie’s suntanned face.

‘He had a heart-attack?’

‘I’m afraid he’s been murdered.’

The boy took it wonderfully calmly. Was it something he’d half expected, even longed for? It must have been a terrible burden to have had Rannaldini as a father.

Wolfie turned to Helen.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Crossing the room, he hugged her awkwardly, patting her shoulder until her sobs subsided. In reality he was playing for time, his mind racing.

‘How did he die?’ he asked, still with his back to Gablecross.

‘He was strangled and shot.’

Wolfie felt a lurch of fear. Had Tabitha killed him? ‘What time did he die?’

‘We don’t know. The pathologist hasn’t arrived yet.’

The police mustn’t find out his father had raped Tab. He must remove that tape from the machine in the kitchen.

‘Can I get you a drink or a cup of coffee?’ he asked Gablecross.

‘I’m fine.’ Gablecross could see Wolfie wrenching his thoughts into order, he could smell his sweat and see the gooseflesh on his bare legs and arms. ‘I’d like a few words with you, sir.’

‘Let me just find someone to look after my stepmother,’ and Wolfie had bolted.

The kitchen was empty but, to his horror, so was the answering-machine. Who could have whipped the tape? Sprinting down the passage, he put his head round the Blue Living Room door.

‘Wolfie!’ shouted everyone.

They were all drunk. Who could he trust?

‘Lucy,’ he pleaded, ‘could you look after Helen for me, and ring Mrs Brimscombe and ask her to come and help her to bed?’

‘I’m ever so sorry, Wolfie.’ Lucy jumped to her feet.

‘Perhaps we should ring James Benson,’ suggested Meredith.

‘He’ll be out at some smart dinner party,’ said Griselda.

‘I’ll come and check how she is the moment the police have finished with me,’ Wolfie promised Lucy.

‘I’m going to fetch you a sweater first,’ said Lucy.

Gablecross interviewed Wolfie in the kitchen. The boy was now making coffee and wearing a red V-necked jersey, which he loathed because his stepmother Cecilia Rannaldini had given it to him for Christmas.

As if there were never any question that he wouldn’t, Wolfie said that he and Simone had won the tournament. Returning to organize supper, he’d found a message from Tabitha, his stepsister, on the machine.

‘D’you know where the tape is?’

‘Must be still in the machine,’ lied Wolfie. ‘Tab went home because her parents’ dog had disappeared. She’s living in one of my father’s cottages. As I had a second key, she asked me to fetch her dog and take it back to Penscombe.’

Gablecross admired a screen covered in hundreds of photographs of Rannaldini with the famous.

‘Couldn’t Mrs Lovell’s husband have taken the dog?’

‘He’s away.’

‘Rather inconsiderate of Mrs Lovell to expect you to drive over a hundred miles in the middle of a tennis party.’

‘She was distraught about her parents’ dog,’ said Wolfie quickly. ‘It was a very old family pet.’

‘Did you see anyone when you first returned to the house?’

‘I heard Miss Bussage in her office, and my stepmother’s wireless.’

‘Did you hear anything unusual?’

‘Only Hermione singing in the rushes as I walked back to the house. Sound carries much further on thundery nights. Although…’ Wolfie wrinkled his forehead, perplexed ‘… I don’t remember the bit she was singing being filmed on Friday.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Around half ten, I think.’

Switching the kettle on to boil for the fourth time, he made two cups of coffee.

‘Why didn’t Mrs Lovell take the dog with her in the first place?’

‘Sharon’s on heat. Tab’s father has a pack of dogs. Tab hadn’t seen him for two years. Probably didn’t want to rock the boat.’

‘Could a more major crisis have made her rush home?’ asked Gablecross.

‘A dog going missing is a major crisis in that family,’ said Wolfie coldly.

‘How long did you stay at Penscombe?’

‘Only to hand Sharon over.’ Wolfie was treading carefully now. ‘Someone had just brought Gertrude — their missing dog — back. She’d been run over so I didn’t stop.’

As he handed Gablecross the sugar and a biscuit tin, he could only think of Tab’s tearful, choked words when she rang to thank him on his way back to Valhalla.

‘Please, don’t tell anyone Rannaldini raped me. It would kill Mummy.’ He had wanted to drive straight back to Penscombe to comfort her.

‘Very attractive young lady, Mrs Lovell.’ Gablecross helped himself to a chocolate biscuit. ‘Did that cause any tension between your father and stepmother?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Wolfie.

‘It still seems excessive to abandon your guests and drive all that way in the middle of a party.’

‘My guests’, said Wolfie dismissively, ‘have been freeloading here all summer. I felt they could fend for themselves.’

The iron has entered into that young man’s soul, decided Gablecross. He’s not only madly in love with Tabitha Lovell but lying through his extremely good teeth. Glancing at the screen again, he noticed how colourless the famous people appeared beside Rannaldini. You couldn’t fail to respond to the flashing whiteness of the smile, the hypnotic eyes, the undeniable magnetism.

‘Could you come and identify the body, sir?’

‘Certainly,’ said Wolfie, emptying the rest of his cup of coffee into the wastepaper basket.

They found the forensic team sifting through the ashes, videoing evidence, scattering grey aluminium powder on the remnants of the watchtower, in the forlorn hope of finding fingerprints. The pathologist, who’d just arrived, was examining Rannaldini’s body. Only when the sheet was drawn back did Wolfie’s composure crumble.

The strikingly handsome Rannaldini now looked like his Spitting Image puppet: a grotesque satyr, swollen almost beyond recognition, blood and saliva dripping from his nose and tongue, lips pulled back in a hideous leer. ‘How horrified Papa would have been to be videoed without Lucy here to brush his hair,’ said Wolfie, starting to laugh, then finding he couldn’t stop.

‘It’s all right, lad.’ Gablecross put a hand on his shoulders.

Alpheus’s dressing-gown had fallen open to show the muscular legs. Wolfie noticed the starchy white residue on his father’s thighs, the bite on the ankle, and the huge erection stiffening as rigor mortis set in.

‘Probably been dead for no more than two hours,’ said the pathologist, replacing the sheet.

Gablecross glanced at his watch. ‘About half ten, then.’

Blood had blackened the grass, washing away the earth, laying bare the Cotswold stone underneath. Wolfie wondered if someone had mistaken his father for Alpheus. Gripped again with terror that Tab might have killed him, Wolfie lurched away, retching into the brambles. As he returned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he said defiantly, ‘I don’t care how many people slag him off. He was my father and a great man.’