‘Still circumstantial,’ panted Gablecross. ‘Not going to cancel out a DNA profile.’
But popping into the incident room at the station, they learnt that Rozzy’s local doctor had confirmed he had no knowledge of her having cancer.
‘Have they brought Lucy in yet?’ asked Karen.
‘She gave them the slip,’ sighed the Custody Officer.
Immediately the smile of satisfaction was wiped off Gablecross’s face.
‘The stupid fuckers!’
‘I thought you’d be pleased, knowing she’s your pin-up.’
‘You thought bloody wrong. She’d be safe in custody. If she’s on the loose, she’s in terrible danger. Come on Karen.’ Gablecross raced towards his car.
‘Ought we to tell Gerry Portland?’
‘Certainly not, we’re going to show him and Rupert Campbell-Black we can catch villains.’
But the tale of murder twists and turns. Wolfie, working a sixteen-hour day for the past three and a half months, was unused to so much happiness. He still couldn’t believe Tab was going to be OK and all his, at the same time. Every sound seemed to threaten the head that he loved. So he swore as his mobile rang.
It was Rozzy in tears.
‘Oh, Wolfie, they’re trying to arrest Lucy.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Killing your father and Beattie, and trying to kill Tab.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Wolfie appalled. ‘Look, Tab’s asleep, I’ll go into another room. We’re not supposed to use mobiles in intensive care, it buggers up the equipment. Get onto Rupert, he’ll vouch for Lucy’s innocence, so will Gablecross. He’s in the hospital somewhere, I’ll go and find him.’
But as Wolfie ran down the poorly lit and deserted corridor, Isa appeared from the Emergency Stairs at the other end, carrying a bunch of blood-red roses.
Having not been clocked by Gablecross and Karen as they rushed out of the front door, Isa had had no difficulty getting past the uniformed policemen guarding the lift. After all he was Tab’s husband and the champion jockey and had given them an excellent tip for Goodwood.
‘Hello, my darling,’ said Isa softly, as he catfooted into his wife’s room. ‘Time you and I had a little talk.’
81
News either travels faster round a film crew than the fleetest greyhound or it never leaves the starting gates. No-one, even two hours into the wrap party, was aware that Lucy was now prime suspect and still evading a massive murder hunt. But they knew Tab’s fall had not been accidental, and the presence of policemen everywhere, frisking still arriving guests, taking their cars apart, murmuring into radio mikes, added to the general edginess. Guests had spilled out into the walled garden, where the scarlet and orange rambler roses clashed less gaudily by night. Beyond lay shadowy shrubberies, but there was no incentive to escape into the bushes with someone who might be the killer. The revellers clung close to the house in the light cast by George’s big golden windows, discussed in lowered voices who might have tried to bump off Tab, and leapt if someone touched them accidentally.
Maria had excelled herself with a huge cold turkey and salads, laid on a side table in George’s big drawing room. But everyone was too hot and jumpy to eat — as to fear of the murder was added fear of tomorrow, when they would no longer be a close-knit community. How would they cope without Lucy to listen to their problems or Sylvestre to mend their hair-dryers or Hermione to bitch about? So they all kept busy filling their Filofaxes with names and addresses they probably wouldn’t be able to put faces to in a week or two.
‘Do drop in at Cherrylands, if you’re ever in Surrey,’ Pushy kept telling everyone.
Revellers even fell on the suntanned neck of Granny’s ex-boyfriend, Giuseppe, when he had the temerity to roll up with Serena Westwood, who was flashing a large ruby engagement ring.
‘What is the French for arsenic and strychnine?’ murmured Granny, who pointedly ignored them both.
‘Arsenic and strychnine,’ said Oscar, waking up to slot another Gauloise into his jade cigarette holder. ‘Malevolence is universal.’
‘The point of a wrap party’, announced Ogborne, who was motoring down his second bottle of Moët, ‘is to make your number with the director and producer so they’ll employ you again, then get rat-arsed and pull as many women as possible.’
‘I’ve pulled them all anyway,’ said Sylvestre.
‘You never pulled Simone,’ taunted Valentin.
‘Unsimple Simone.’ Sylvestre glanced across the room. ‘She looks pretty in that flowered dress. Maybe tonight is the night.’
‘I’m saving myself for my beautiful wife,’ said Valentin. ‘The only woman approaching her is Tabitha, and Rupert and lucky Wolfgang will put the biggest guard round her tonight.’
Oscar had fallen asleep again on the sofa, his head in Jessica’s lap. Tristan’s boys were very happy. They had worked hard and been well paid. Tomorrow they would go home to even better food, August in the country, then start work on Hercule in a few weeks.
Only Bernard was sad. After tonight he wouldn’t see Rozzy. He had had an original La Scala poster of Don Carlos, with Callas singing Elisabetta, framed for her as a wrap present. She was blow-drying her hair when he dropped it off. The hot blast swept the tendrils off her face, emphasizing the good bones but also the wrinkles on which one could play noughts and crosses. I would love her when she grew old, he thought despairingly.
Knowing singers love singing, George had booked a trio from the Rutminster Symphony Orchestra. Installed at the end of the big drawing room with a crate of red, they were now accompanying Alpheus. ‘“Some enchanted evening,”’ he sang, crinkling his eyes at Serena. He’d missed out on her during the recording but had always thought her very lovely.
‘It isn’t enchanted at all,’ said Pushy fretfully. ‘No Wolfie, no Mikhail, no Rupert or any of his tasty polo friends, and George, although perfectly gracious, would clearly far rather be alone with Flora. And none of those hunky PCs are allowed to dance with us, and where on earth are Sexton and Tristan?’
‘They’ve got an awful lot of loose finishes to tie up,’ explained Simone.
‘It’s called “supervising the winding-up of production”,’ said Flora who, as the thunder grew more ominous, was trying to get a tranquillizer down a panting, shuddering Trevor, ‘which, in Sexton’s case, is probably a euphemism for pleasuring Dame Hermione.’
‘And it’s no party without Lucy,’ said Jessica indignantly, looking at the mountain of presents piling up for her on the table. ‘I got her a little silver lurcher brooch from Past Times. I did want to see her open it.’
‘I got her a little eighteenth-century drawing of a greyhound,’ pouted Meredith. ‘I wanted to see her open it too.’
‘Why the hell did Tristan fire her? Here he is at last,’ said Jessica, wriggling out from under Oscar’s head. ‘I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.’
‘You won’t have much left, then,’ snapped Chloe, who was feeling utterly miserable. She was thirty-six. There was no man in her life. And she had not merely lonely hotel bedrooms but also a solitary Fulham flat to look forward to. How could Isa have dumped her?
The only bright spot, she told Flora, was four performances of Salome in Vienna.
‘Brilliant casting,’ said Flora enthusiastically, ‘it’s so rare to have a Salome whose veils people really want to come off.’
‘Chloe’s an old hand at taking off clothes,’ drawled Baby, who was missing Isa, jolted by Tab’s fall and extremely drunk. ‘Is there a goat in Salome? Has anyone seen Chloe’s video? It’s called No Kidding.’