Score!

47

‘There are some advantages to this job, if you get to meet Rupert Campbell-Black,’ said DC Miller in excitement. ‘He’s supposed to be the handsomest man in England.’

‘Only because he’s loaded and owns a bloody great mansion,’ snapped DS Fanshawe, slamming his foot on the accelerator as he turned into Rupert’s drive in the hope of smearing the rose-pink lipstick DC Miller was applying to her delectable mouth.

The beeches, forming a halo round Rupert’s lovely, pale gold Queen Anne house, were already turning. In the park below, beautiful horses with whisking tails had taken refuge from the heat under great bell-like trees. The rim of brown rush above the water’s edge showed how much the lake had dropped. A dozen cars were parked outside an open front door, but no-one answered the bell.

‘He’s not worried about burglars,’ said Debbie Miller.

Shuffling down a rose walk, ankle deep in petals, ducking to avoid spiky unpruned branches, they reached Rupert’s yard, which was immaculate but deserted except for a comely girl groom, who was reading a handsome chestnut colt his Daily Mail horoscope.

‘It’s Peppy Koala,’ said Debbie in awe. ‘Oh, can I stroke him?’

‘He’s almost as good-looking as you are.’ Fanshawe, who considered he had a way with the ladies, smiled at the girl groom. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked, waving his ID card.

‘Down at the graveyard. I’d wait until they come back.’

But Fanshawe was in a hurry, and paused only to take the serial number of the dark blue helicopter parked in a field behind the stables. Beyond a tennis court surrounded by a shaggy beech hedge, under the shade of a huge cedar, half an acre of grass was fenced off, before the land rolled into fields. For generations, the Campbell-Blacks had buried their best-loved animals here.

Grouped round a single grave were about a hundred people — estate-workers, grooms, gardeners, Rupert’s ancient housekeeper Mrs Bodkin and her husband — most of whom were in tears.

‘That’s Lord O’Hara, and his wife Maud in the big black hat,’ hissed Debbie, who scoured the tabloids every day. ‘They’re Rupert’s in-laws, and there’s Taggie’s elder brother, Patrick — isn’t he to die for? And his partner Cameron Cook, she makes films, and there’s Taggie’s sister Caitlin. She married Lord Baddingham’s son, Archie, and Billy Lloyd-Foxe, who show-jumped for England, and his wife Janey, Beattie Johnson’s great rival. Beattie’s already been digging up the dirt down at Valhalla. Next to her, that gorgeous boy who’s crying is Lysander Hawkley. Now this is interesting, he’s married to Rannaldini’s third wife, Kitty — she’s the round-faced one comforting him. And oh, look, there’s Ricky France-Lynch! Isn’t he gorgeous? And his wife Daisy, the pretty dark one, she paints. They must have driven over from Eldercombe.’

‘You ought to work for Hello!,’ said Fanshawe sourly. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

Edging forward, they caught sight of Tabitha, who looked as though she’d been struck by lightning. A big purple bruise on her left temple and cuts down her right cheek added the only colour to her deathly pale face. She seemed about to collapse, and was being supported by Rupert’s head groom, Dizzy. Next to them, with a face of granite, stood Rupert, holding Xavier and Bianca by the hand. In her other hand Bianca clutched a jam-jar full of harebells, scabious and meadowsweet, while Xavier held on to a carrier-bag and a Labrador as sleek and black as his face. A dozen other dogs milled round, snapping at flies and panting but unusually quiet, and on the other side of the fence, in silent sympathy, stood Rupert’s great horse, Penscombe Pride, Tiny the Shetland, and several red and white cows.

Taggie Campbell-Black, paler even than Tabitha, biting her lip to stop herself crying, held Gertrude, wrapped in an old orange and blue blanket, in her arms. Dropping a last kiss on her white forehead, she laid the little dog on her beanbag, already in the grave. On a wonky wooden cross, Taggie had written the words: ‘Gurtrude, are most preshous treshure, is berried hear.’

No-one had corrected her spelling.

Stepping forward, Xav dropped a packet of Kit-Kats and a box of Bonios into the grave beside Gertrude, then took his mother’s hand. Suddenly Bianca ran forward and knelt by the grave.

‘If you’re just pretending, Gertrude,’ she called out, in a shrill voice, ‘now’s the time to wake up.’

For a second, laughter rippled round. Then Declan O’Hara stepped forward. Known to cry on every possible occasion, today he was dry-eyed.

‘We all loved Gertrude.’ His deep, tender Irish brogue echoed round the fields. ‘She lived with us in London and the Priory opposite for eight years, and then with Rupert and Taggie for ten. But even this year she would struggle across the valley every morning for a Bonio and a bowl of milk. What we will remember is Gertrude’s kindness and her merriness, but none of us would have imagined that such a frail body contained a heart as stout as Beth Gelert.’

As Tab gave a sob, covering her face with her hand, Debbie noticed the dark bruises along the side and up the little fingers. She must have fought someone off like a wild cat. For a second, she swayed. As Rupert caught her, she buried her face in his shoulder.

‘Nothing in Gertrude’s life became her like the leaving it,’ intoned Declan. ‘She died as one—’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Declan, get on,’ snapped Rupert.

‘We will never forget you,’ Declan’s voice broke, ‘and on your grave, with shining eyes, may the Cotswold stars look down.’

There were flowers everywhere. Xavier picked up a trowel to help his father as, with gritted jaw, Rupert heaped powdery earth over Gertrude’s body. The moment he’d finished, muttering about organizing drinks, frantic not to break down, he belted back to the house.

‘Pity, with such a turn-out, it wasn’t video’d,’ Declan’s wife Maud was saying fretfully.

Slumped in despair, Taggie stood alone by the grave. But as she turned for home, Debbie and Fanshawe pounced. It was a while before she took in what they were saying.

‘Tab’s had a terrible shock over Gertrude,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t think she can talk to you.’

‘She was at Valhalla, yesterday,’ said Fanshawe, flashing his teeth. ‘We need to ask her her whereabouts. Uniformed police will be along to fingerprint her later,’ he added smoothly.

‘You’d better come in,’ said Taggie.

Tabitha was in an even worse state, shivering on the drawing-room sofa, gazing into space. Debbie noticed her ankles, criss-crossed with red weals.

‘I’ll ask the questions,’ hissed Fanshawe.

‘Great turn-out for a little dog,’ he began.

Tab looked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Wonder if you could tell us what you did yesterday from eight o’clock onwards?’

‘I worked my horse,’ said Tab, in a high, jerky voice.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ snarled Rupert, as he barged into the room.

‘Investigating the murder of Sir Roberto Rannaldini.’ Determined not to let nobs order him around, Fanshawe stood his ground. ‘We’re checking Mrs Lovell’s movements, in case she saw anything unusual.’

‘She didn’t,’ said Rupert coldly. ‘She came home because Gertrude died.’

‘Can we ask her a few questions?’

‘No, you fucking can’t.’ He turned to Tab. ‘You OK, darling?’

From next door could be heard voices and the popping of champagne corks.

‘Could we ask you a few questions, then?’ asked Debbie, smoothing her blonde bob. Rupert really was gorgeous.

‘If you want to, but you’d better be quick.’

‘I’ll do this one,’ hissed Debbie, as they followed Rupert into his office.

Debbie was very much into the non-confrontational, non-judgemental police interview. She was unfazed by the fact that Rupert was reading faxes, watching the first race runners in the paddock on Channel Four, and filling in entry forms. At least it meant he was relaxed.

‘I’d like you to shut your eyes, make your mind go blank, Mr Campbell-Black, and remember exactly what Tabitha said when she called you last night.’

‘I’ll shut my eyes if you both will,’ said Rupert, a shade more amiably.

‘OK,’ said Debbie. ‘What time did she ring?’

After a long pause, Fanshawe opened his eyes to see Rupert vanishing through a side door. ‘Mr Campbell-Black,’ he shouted, ‘you are impeding a police inquiry.’

‘And we are in the middle of a funeral.’

‘Only of a dog, sir.’

The fury on Rupert’s face made them both retreat.

‘We are investigating the murder of Mrs Lovell’s stepfather,’ protested Fanshawe.

‘Who was only a human,’ said Rupert contemptuously, ‘and a particularly loathsome one at that. Now get out.’

‘Arrogant shit,’ fumed Fanshawe as he belted down the drive.

‘How dare he talk to us like that. All those upper-class fuckers stick together. Same when Lord Lucan copped it, they close ranks and keep their traps shut.’

‘And just think how Gablecross will sneer when he hears we’ve been thrown out,’ sighed Debbie.