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.