Score!

71

Back in Rutshire, as Gablecross and Karen were tied up full time with Tristan, other detectives took over their leads. Fanshawe had never been happy with Chloe’s alibi about jogging round Paradise in the dusk. She would also have more to lose than most, if Beattie had dumped about her in the Scorpion.

So, late on the afternoon of Saturday the fourteenth, Fanshawe and Debbie went over to Valhalla and found Chloe working out in the gym. She was wearing shorts and a pale blue sleeveless T-shirt. Fanshawe, having gone into a frenzy of hair-smoothing and tooth-licking, couldn’t keep his eyes off her glistening cleavage and her smooth buttocks, continually on display as she stretched and twisted at the bars.

‘Sunday was a sad day for me, Sergeant,’ she told him soulfully. ‘After a long affaire, Mikhail dropped me because his wife found out.’

‘Your mother phoned you from abroad at around nine thirty.’ Fanshawe frowned at his notes. ‘You were going to find out where she was staying.’

‘I completely forgot. I’ll do it tonight.’

‘Then you went for a jog round Paradise.’

‘I was depressed, the tennis had hardly been taxing.’ Shoving her fists into her armpits, Chloe rotated her elbows so her breasts thrust forward. ‘I jogged over the River Fleet up past Magpie Cottage. I wanted to see if Tab was in. She’d been terribly down since Tristan blew her out. How’s he bearing up, by the way?’

Such was Chloe’s egoism, it was the first time she’d thought of Tristan. At least, as he’d been arrested, this must only be a routine call.

‘We haven’t heard,’ said Debbie.

‘Poor Tristan,’ said Chloe lightly. ‘Anyway, Tab was out so I jogged back through Paradise. I like street-lights at that hour.’

She extended a smooth, brown foot under Fanshawe’s nose as though she was expecting him to kiss it.

‘Mr Brimscombe claims he saw you running from the tennis court into Hangman’s Wood,’ said Debbie, not without pleasure, ‘then coming out from a different, northerly direction five minutes later and disappearing into the north wing. He says you came out of the north wing fifteen minutes after that, smelling of perfume and toothpaste. An expert on floral scents, he thinks the perfume was the same he smelt earlier on Tabitha.’

The change in Chloe was phenomenal. Suddenly she was a snarling, cornered vixen. ‘Disgusting old lech! Brimscombe’s always spying on me.’

‘What was the name of your perfume?’

‘People are always giving me perfume,’ said Chloe hysterically. ‘I think it’s called Quercus.’

‘Why did you go into the wood?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Going to kill Rannaldini, were you? Traces of Quercus were found on his dressing-gown.’

‘I d-d-don’t believe it.’ Chloe clung to the bar for support.

‘The fingertip team found your lipstick, Fiery Fuchsia,’ persisted Fanshawe, ‘fifty yards from his watchtower.’

She’s guilty, guilty, guilty, thought Debbie in elation. She could smell Chloe’s sweat turning acid. For a second, Chloe’s eyes darted towards the door, then she slumped to the floor.

‘All right, you win. I went to Magpie Cottage to meet Isa Lovell.’

There, it was out. Fanshawe and Debbie both looked shocked.

‘I don’t feel guilty,’ said Chloe defiantly. ‘That marriage is fucked. Tab’s been lusting after Tristan all summer. It was Isa, not my mother, who rang at nine thirty to say Tab was taking some dog back to Penscombe and the coast was clear. I intended going straight to Magpie Cottage and darted into Hangman’s Wood to put on lipstick and scent, then I thought better of it. I hate being hot and sweaty so I made a detour through the wood where the tennis party couldn’t see me — they’re such horrendous gossips. Back at the house, I showered, brushed my teeth, changed into almost identical clothes, so people wouldn’t suspect anything, and jogged over to Isa’s.’

‘What time did you arrive?’

‘Around ten.’

‘See anything out of the ordinary?’

‘I was far too excited.’

‘What time did you leave?’ asked Debbie.

‘About eleven ten, I guess. Isa didn’t want me to jog home in the dark so he dropped me off half-way up the drive, then drove home to Warwickshire.’

So that puts her and Isa in the clear, calculated Fanshawe, in disappointment, unless they had got rid of Rannaldini together.

‘Oh, yes,’ Chloe smiled spitefully, ‘something significant did happen. Alpheus rolled up in a white suit in the middle, he was clutching white lilies like the Archangel Michael and started singing “La ci darem la mano” under our bedroom window. Isa poured a bottle of red over him and told him to fuck off. Such style.’

Despite repeated calls to the Home Secretary, it didn’t look as though Tristan would be bailed even after his court appearance on Monday. As everyone in the unit was hanging about on Sunday, having been forbidden to leave the country, Sexton, Oscar and Bernard decided to push on and film the polo scenes at George Hungerford’s. This had been kept from Tristan until Griselda rang the police station, late on Sunday morning, and chivvied the custody officer into asking Tristan if he wanted the ponies’ bandages to match the players’ shirts.

Tristan went berserk. ‘They cannot shoot polo without me.’

But when he tracked down Bernard, he was even more upset to discover Rupert, Lucy and Wolfie had all done a runner.

‘We cannot film without Lucy,’ he yelled. ‘Who will make up Granny and Mikhail? Who will disappear Baby’s double chin and Alpheus’s nose?’

‘Rozzy’s offered,’ said Bernard fondly.

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid.’

How could Lucy bugger off like that? raged Tristan. She had left him no message since the now torn-up sprig of honeysuckle. The final straw was Gablecross popping in, all dressed up for his silver-wedding lunch, to put him through the mangle again. Not only had he blocked Rupert’s application for bail, he announced bullyingly, but Interpol had broken into Tristan’s flat in Paris, found some very interesting material and were about to blow the safe.

‘W-h-a-a-a-t?’ howled Tristan, his fingers clamped round Gablecross’s neck once more. ‘You bastard!’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ screamed Karen, leaping forward to prise Tristan off. Feeling the shivering rigidity of his body, seeing the madness in his eyes, there was no doubt he was capable of murder.

‘When are you going to tell us the truth?’ asked a somewhat shaken Gablecross, straightening his unusually smart blue silk tie.

Tristan collapsed in his chair. Suddenly it came spilling out. ‘OK, I came back to Valhalla. I need my address book to call an actor, Colin Firth, to see if he was interested in playing Hercule. I parked the Aston in a field off the drive, I didn’t want to be pestered. I sweat like a peeg, so I had a shower.’

‘And changed back into your favourite peacock-blue shirt and jeans.’ Karen couldn’t contain her excitement.

‘Oui, and then I buggered off to Forest of Dean.’

‘Did you call Colin Firth?’

‘Non.’ And beyond that he wouldn’t budge.

‘He can bloody well appear in court tomorrow,’ said a furious Gablecross, as, armed with Hermione’s CD and Rozzy’s cards and presents, he set off to his anniversary party.

He had looked almost attractive, conceded Karen grudgingly, as she wandered round the incident room, gazing at the map of Valhalla, flipping through statements, looking for silly little details in the jigsaw puzzle. As a detective you had to keep pushing yourself beyond the point you were able or wanted to go, continually asking how, when, why?

Even in the group photograph of the unit, Tristan looked sad. There were enough tears in those haunted eyes to put out any funeral pyre. Why was he so sad?

Karen glanced through the Sundays, which had all led on Tristan’s arrest. Rannaldini’s fans were still streaming into Paradise. A lynch mob had tried to burn down Tristan’s caravan. Portland had put a uniformed man outside. The Scorpion had bussed down a lot of actors clutching more tulips in Cellophane, and photographed them weeping and pretending to be Beattie’s fans. Much was being made of Tristan’s cutting Hortense’s party, his rows with Rannaldini, his callous dumping of Tabitha, the raid on the Paris flat. Tristan’s family had all said, ‘Je ne dis rien’, but Alexandre, the judge, huffing and puffing with disapproval, was expected to fly over for the court hearing tomorrow.

In the Sunday Times there was a big piece by George Perry describing Tristan’s ever-flowering genius, and comparing Claudine Lauzerte with Garbo.

‘Oh, what a beautiful woman,’ sighed Karen, admiring Claudine’s huge, languorous eyes and the thick, dusky hair.

Madame Lauzerte, went on the piece, was currently filming in an adaptation of Rose Macaulay’s novel, The World Is My Wilderness, in Wales. Why should Tristan need an address book and clean clothes to drink brandy in a field? pondered Karen. Who was he gabbling in French to on the telephone when he came back after Rannaldini’s murder? The incident room was having difficulty in tracing the owner of the mobile as the number was unlisted. How could such a devastating man have had no suspicion of a relationship — except for a disastrous skirmish with Tabitha — for the past three years?

Karen picked up a telephone. ‘How would you like that drink?’

Ogborne, having read down the right side of the Heavenly Host menu all summer and chosen the most expensive food, was so fat he could only fit into tracksuit bottoms. Undaunted, he met Karen at the Old Bell in Rutminster during the break.

The willows trailing in the river Fleet were already turning yellow; holidaymakers were hanging over the bridge.

‘Shooting polo’s been a shambles,’ confided Ogborne. ‘Mikhail’s fallen off three times. All he’s interested in is getting his new crocus-yellow Range Rover resprayed before he goes back to Russia — I’m sure it’s nicked. Tab has been yelling non-stop. With no Tristan to smarm, charm and calm, and no Rupert, Lucy or Wolfie, we might as well have stayed at home. How’s Tristan? Bet he’s enjoying the peace. He’ll be auditioning for Hercule soon, so they can send potential leading ladies in with his caviare every day — can’t be bad.’

‘Is Claudine Lauzerte going to be in Hercule?’

‘I’m sure. If Tristan had had his way, she’d have played Elisabetta, but she’s even older than Dame Hermione.’

‘Did she give him that peacock-blue shirt and jeans he never takes off?’

‘Dunno,’ said Ogborne, going vague. ‘Secrets and Lies is on at the Odeon. Fancy going to see it this evening?’

‘I might. Did the crew give him a Lalique lighter covered in lilies at the end of the shoot?’

‘Naah,’ said Ogborne. ‘Bit upmarket for us.’

Karen thought she’d better offer some plums of gossip.

‘We’ll be getting the DNA results tomorrow or Tuesday, Tristan’s as well, if they pull their fingers out,’ she said. ‘Botanists in Forensic are frightfully excited. Among the plants shoved up Beattie’s vagina’, she lowered her voice as the couple at the next table stopped talking, ‘was a really rare white rock rose and an even rarer relation of the monkey orchid, the chimpanzee, which hasn’t been found in England for fifty years.’ She collapsed with laughter. ‘So there’s added pressure to locate their place of origin.’

‘Shouldn’t fink they needed any potting compost up Beattie’s snatch,’ grinned Ogborne.

‘What’s Claudine like?’

‘Well,’ Ogborne deliberated, ‘Valentin described her as a bourgeois ’ousewife whose face had been touched by the finger of God.’

‘Did anything happen between her and Tristan?’

‘I gotta go back to the set. You coming to that movie?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Ogborne glanced round furtively.

‘Tristan was giving Madame Vierge direction one day,’ he murmured. ‘She was in costume, long-sleeved purple dress, little lacy gloves. Tristan was squatting down, holdin’ her hands, talking intensely, as he often does with Hermione and Chloe, or even Baby and Mikhail, but I noticed his finger was caressing the gap between her sleeve and her glove.’

‘I’ll see you outside the Odeon at the start of the big film,’ said Karen.

She was not at all pleased when a call on her mobile asked her to whizz over to Penscombe to investigate the whereabouts of Rupert Campbell-Black. Interpol had had no success in finding him, so Gerald Portland wanted her and Gablecross to pump Taggie.

Neither of them talked on the drive. Karen’s head was full of Tristan and how to prove his innocence. Gablecross was feeling beleaguered. All his Brownie points over Hermione’s CD and Rozzy’s presents had been cancelled because he’d had to leave his silver-wedding lunch in the middle of the speeches. Nor would Margaret ever forgive him for snatching up the pink roses and silver foliage, sent by her sister and Australian brother-in-law, to hand over as a peace-offering to Taggie after his mauling of Tabitha last Thursday.

‘No-one’s got any right to live in such a big house,’ fumed Karen, as she pressed Rupert’s doorbell with unnecessary force. ‘This place would make a wonderful hospital.’

Xavier and a pack of dogs answered the door. For a second he and Karen gazed at each other. Then he said, ‘My mother can’t be disturbed, she’s crying. My sister Bianca is comforting her.’

What a beautiful child, thought Karen, wondering how he fitted into such a privileged white right-wing environment.

‘Why’s she crying?’ she asked.

‘Because her dog died. Shall I give her those flowers?’ Xav eyed the pink roses in Gablecross’s hand.

‘No, we’d like a word with her.’

‘She’s down at the graveyard,’ explained Xav. ‘I’ll take you, if you promise not to upset her. My father left me in charge.’

Karen’s disapproval evaporated when Xav introduced her to Peppy Koala on the way. She had won twenty-five pounds on him in the police sweepstake and bought a ribbed scarlet sweater, which she had worn to dramatic effect at the local disco.

‘When did your dog Gertrude die?’ asked Gablecross, admiring the handsome glossy chestnut.

‘Tab brought her home on Sunday night. I woke and looked out of the window. She had blood all over her dress. Daddy went off in the helicopter earlier.’

‘Did he?’ Gablecross stroked Peppy Koala’s sleek, arched neck only a little faster.

‘He took his gun because he was so angry.’

‘When did he get back?’

‘Before Tab. When she arrived with Gertrude, Daddy went out and hugged her. He hadn’t seen her for years. She cries a lot and looks past you. Gertrude’s funeral was the next day. Mummy won’t cry in front of Tab, but Tab’s gone to polo today. Daddy promised us Gertrude has gone to heaven, but Bianca’s worried Rannaldini’s gone there too and might hurt Gertrude again. But Daddy said Rannaldini would be sitting in a bonfire with demons sticking these into him.’ As he closed Peppy’s half-door, Xav tapped a pitchfork leaning against the wall. ‘Tab’s mother’s staying too. She’s a drip. Daddy hates her.’

‘Are you sure your father took the helicopter on Sunday night?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

‘Where’s he now?’

‘Abroad, to find out more about Tab’s boyfriend who’s in prison.’

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, thought Gablecross in jubilation.

They found Taggie planting heartsease and polyanthus round Gertrude’s grave. Bianca was helping her with a toy trowel. Both children were dispatched to the kitchen to organize cups of tea.

The moment Gablecross laid the roses beside Gertrude’s wonky cross, Taggie started to cry again.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She collapsed on to the grave of Rupert’s great Olympic horse, Revenge. ‘But Gertrude was with me the whole time before I married and when I lost the babies, and when Beattie Johnson dumped twice. I thought she’d be jealous when we adopted Bianca and Xav. We had to leave her for six weeks when we went to Bogotá, but beyond the odd sniff, she loved them, finished up the food they didn’t like. She always kept a biscuit hidden in her basket so she could rush out and eat it very slowly in front of the other dogs. I’m sorry.’

Taggie raised streaming eyes to Karen and Gablecross. ‘She was such a mascot. I live in such a lovely house, but it seems so empty without Gertrude. I feel our luck’s running out.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ protested Karen, putting an arm round Taggie’s shoulders. ‘You’ve got everything to live for. Those kids are so cute.’

‘It’s probably because Rupert’s first wife’s staying,’ confessed Taggie, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and covering her face with earth. ‘She keeps saying Gertrude “had a good innings”, like some stupid cricketer. Oh, God, I’m being a bitch. Lysander, Rupert’s assistant, has an incredibly clever, handsome headmaster father, who’s coming to supper tonight. He and Helen can quote poetry at each other.’

The afternoon sun peering through a lime tree showed up her dreadful pallor.

‘Mrs Campbell-Black,’ said Gablecross, feeling a louse, ‘I know this is distressing, but Beattie Johnson’s last call on Friday night was to your husband. According to Gordon Dillon on the Scorpion, she had some dirt on him and some other woman while you’ve been married.’

Taggie looked up in bewilderment, Karen in horror.

‘Your husband was overheard telling Beattie he’d bury her. He left the set at midnight. An hour and a half later she was dead. Have you any idea of his movements that night?’

Taggie almost fell off Revenge’s grave, frantically digging a hole in the still iron-hard earth with Bianca’s trowel.

‘He was so pleased George Hungerford had given Tab an alibi,’ she mumbled, ‘he rushed off to persuade him to get back with Flora.’

‘He hardly spent all night playing Cupid,’ said Gablecross sarcastically. ‘Are you worried your husband might have killed Rannaldini and Beattie?’

‘Of course he didn’t,’ gasped Taggie. ‘Oh, bugger.’ In her violence she had snapped the little trowel in two. ‘Oh, poor Bianca, of course he didn’t.’

A witness, went on Gablecross relentlessly, had seen Rupert taking a gun and leaving Penscombe by helicopter. A helicopter had also been seen landing at Valhalla and two men running into the wood near Rannaldini’s tower. Another witness had seen Rupert with a gun in his hand.

Taggie sat back on her heels, mouthing in horror.

‘He had plenty of motives.’ Gablecross ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Tab being raped by Rannaldini, Gertrude being killed, Rannaldini arranging for Tab to marry Lovell, Rannaldini trying to murder your stepson Marcus.’

‘Rannaldini did that?’ whispered an appalled Taggie.

‘And your husband had more than enough reason to kill Beattie. Where is he, anyway?’

‘Abroad,’ said Taggie numbly. ‘He didn’t leave a telephone number.’

‘Oh, come on, Mrs C-B. Your husband wouldn’t cross the lawn without leaving a phone number.’

‘How’s Tabitha?’ asked Karen.

Gablecross, like a hound tugged off the scent, kicked her ankle.

‘Better, I think.’ Grateful for the distraction, Taggie planted a polyanthus upside down. ‘Wolfgang’s been so wonderful to Tab. He keeps ringing to see if Helen’s OK. Helen’s convinced he fancies her, but I’m sure he’s only hoping to get Tab. Oh, help, I’ll be punished for being a bitch again.’

Gablecross returned to the attack. ‘What time did your husband leave the house last Sunday?’

‘I don’t remember, I was so upset about Gertrude.’ Taggie began to cry again.

As the stable clock struck five, Xav and Bianca came round the corner carrying a trayful of tea in which floated three cups and some melting chocolate biscuits. They’d been joined on the way by a beautiful young man and a Jack Russell, who was rough-housing noisily round the graves with Xav’s black Labrador.

‘How dare you bully my mother?’ said Xav in outrage.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ asked the beautiful young man in horror.

‘It’s all right.’ Taggie mopped her eyes on her T-shirt.

‘I’ll give you a pound each if you go and find my cigarettes,’ the young man told Bianca and Xav. ‘Now, what the hell’s going on?’ He turned furiously on Gablecross.

‘He thinks Rupert murdered Rannaldini and Beattie,’ sobbed Taggie.

‘Right.’ The young man squared his shoulders. ‘My name’s Lysander Hawkley. I’m Rupert’s assistant and it’s time I made a statement.’

‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ pleaded Taggie.

‘I was with Rupert last Sunday,’ went on Lysander, ‘when Tab rang and said Rannaldini’d raped her. We took the helicopter. Rannaldini, incidentally, is the most evil person in the world.’

‘How d’you know, sir?’

‘He was married to my wife Kitty for five years, nearly destroyed her. I had to give her a lot of therapy when we were first married,’ Lysander added solemnly. ‘Anyway, Rupert swore he was going to kill Rannaldini, and I wanted part of the action. We landed in the park just after ten thirty. We couldn’t find Tab, but about ten minutes later we stumbled on Rannaldini lying on his back in the middle of the wood. It was a bit dark for sunbathing.’

‘How did he look?’

‘Not well. He’d been strangled.’

‘Was he dead?’

‘Very, so Rupert emptied his gun into him.’

‘What kind of gun?’

‘A.38. He bought it in Bogotá when he adopted Xav and Bianca. It’s got a silencer on it, and it sounds like a wet fart. If I’d had a gun I’d have done the same thing. As it was I kicked Rannaldini very hard in the ribs. We didn’t hang about. We’d already tried to find Tab but the telephone box was redder inside than out. Rupert was going bananas with worry, then Taggie rang him to say someone with a Yorkshire accent was bringing Tab home.’

‘And you’re prepared to sign a statement that’s what happened? You’re not just making this up because Rupert’s your boss?’

‘No. I’m far too stupid to do that.’

Over on George’s polo field, they were coming to the end of a long, shambolic day. Valentin had just filmed Baby hitting a ball around and being drooled over by Chloe and a lot of groupies. The sun was setting; they were waiting for the gate. Baby had moved away from the others under the shade of a huge sycamore tree and was sharing a Kit-Kat with his weary chestnut mare. Anything to do with horses reminded him agonizingly of Isa. They had not spoken since the night of Rannaldini’s murder, but would have to soon, about the future of Baby’s three racehorses.

At least a couple in the next-door room at Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons had come forward and confirmed that they had heard Baby singing on the balcony between ten and eleven on the night of Rannaldini’s murder.

‘We thought, Oh, my God,’ they had said. ‘Then, once he opened his mouth, we sat back and enjoyed it. Is he going to be the next Domingo?’

So Baby had an alibi. On the other hand, the police had found the bottle of Quercus he had left behind in his bathroom at Le Manoir so he wasn’t altogether in the clear.

‘You know Isa?’ A voice interrupted Baby’s thoughts. It was Chloe, who’d been in a strange, excited mood all day.

‘He’s my trainer.’

‘I was with him the night Rannaldini was murdered. We’ve been having an affaire.’

‘You what?’ Baby’s pony, picking up the sudden tension, tossed up her head and pulled away.

‘I confessed it to Fanshawe, who has such a divinely uppity bum in that grey tracksuit,’ went on Chloe. ‘I felt awful shopping Isa but I needed an alibi. The police know I was in the wood earlier because I dropped a lipstick, and they’ve found the scent Isa gave me, called Quercus, on Rannaldini’s dressing-gown. Baby?’

Seeing his horrified face, Chloe launched mockingly into Eboli’s lines:

‘Oh, heavens, what thought makes you blench stock still,

Your word freezing on your lips?

What ghost rises in between us?’

Then, when Baby still seemed incapable of speech, she asked plaintively, ‘Will Tab go berserk, and d’you think Isa’ll back me up?’

Baby reached up a hand to scratch his restless pony behind the ears. ‘Good girl,’ he murmured affectionately, ‘which is more than can be said for you, Chloe. You’re a whore.’

‘That’s unkind,’ pouted Chloe. ‘I have to have a man in my life.’

‘Have someone’s husband, you mean.’

‘Tab was keen enough to get her long claws into Tristan.’

‘Tab was lonely and neglected.’

‘You’ve never stuck up for her before. Loosen up, Baby. What will Rupert do?’

‘Give you a medal. He loathes Isa. Isa, on the other hand, will go apeshit.’

‘Isa’s bats about me,’ said Chloe defensively, then leapt back as, for a terrifying second, she thought Baby was going to hit her with his stick.

‘“Bat” is the operative word,’ said Baby harshly. ‘Isa’s a bloodsucker. He’s got a perfectly good mistress, called Martie, bankrolling him in Oz. He didn’t break up with her when he married Tab, who turned out to be not rich enough because Rannaldini wouldn’t help out. I bet Isa suggested you buy some horses for him to train.’

Then, ignoring bellows from Bernard that the gate wasn’t clear, Baby vaulted on to his pony and galloped off in the direction of Valhalla.

It took Chloe some hours to trace the ex-directory number of Jake Lovell’s yard.

Having gone to bed early, Isa was woken not by the news of a sick horse, which he would have understood, but by Chloe in hysterics.

‘Who the hell’s Martie?’ she screamed.

‘My business partner.’

‘A bit more than that.’

‘Well — it’s all over anyway. Who told you about her?’

‘Baby. I told him about us.’

Isa sat bolt upright. ‘You what?’

‘The police found my lipstick near Rannaldini’s body and Quercus on his dressing-gown. I needed an alibi.’

‘Well, I’m not giving you one, you stupid bitch. Anyone who kisses and tells deserves all they get.’ And Isa hung up.