‘You’re in danger,’ he mumbled, dickering as to whether to grab the bag. ‘Lucy’ll take out anyone I love.’
‘Lucy’s taken care of.’ Rozzy smiled beatifically, and Tristan found himself looking into the eyes of true madness, as Rozzy went into hysterical laughter. ‘We needn’t worry about Lucy any more.’
To stop her laughter, Tristan kissed her again, on and on as, in frenzied rage, he grabbed her arms forcing them behind her back, gripping her tighter and tighter, until the pain in his shoulder became unbearable.
‘Let me go, darling.’ Rozzy was laughing and struggling.
Christ, she was strong, as she bucked and writhed against him. He was going to black out, he couldn’t hold on any longer.
Then, mercifully, he was aware of shadowy figures approaching and seizing her. But Rozzy had wriggled out of their grasp.
‘Bastard! You double-crossed me!’ She was ranting, screaming, foaming at the mouth, lunging forward to plunge her teeth into Tristan’s chest, trying to knee him in the groin and claw his face, as Rupert and Gablecross dragged her off. It took all their strength to yank her arms back, so Karen could clip on the handcuffs. ‘Gotcha!’ yelled Gablecross.
As Rozzy’s bag fell to the floor, Karen leapt forward and up-ended it. Out fell gun, mobile, mask and wig. Karen pounced on a huge set of keys, glinting in the torchlight.
‘Which one belongs to the torture chamber, Rozzy?’ she asked gently.
‘I’m not telling you,’ giggled Rozzy. ‘You’re too late. The randy bitch’ll be dead by now.’
She went into more crazed laughter, which turned into a howl of agony as Rupert seized her arm. ‘I’ll break it unless you tell us.’
‘I can take pain, you bastard, aaaaaaah!’ screamed Rozzy. ‘It’s the purple Yale. Christ, let me go!’
‘And to open the inside door?’ With no compunction, Rupert applied more pressure.
‘Ouch! Oh, no!’ Rozzy’s head fell forward. ‘It’s the steel one splashed with blue paint,’ she whispered.
Rupert raced down the passage to where Clive and Bernard were trying to break down the door. Uniformed police were pouring down the stairs. Everyone was yelling instructions.
Tristan stumbled after Rupert, his shirt totally red now.
Rupert fumbled with the key. ‘Give me some light, for Christ’s sake.’
Four torch beams found the keyhole.
The door swung open, and a blast of icy wind from the lake slapped them in the face. All they could see in the dim light was churning rising water.
‘We’re too late,’ thought Karen in despair.
Reaching past her, Clive pressed the button. As Tristan jumped down into the pit, turning the water red with his blood, the manacles sprang back and he groped and found Lucy and with his last ounce of strength dragged her to the surface.
How white and still and dreadfully cold she was.
‘Oh, please don’t die,’ he groaned.
Next moment Rupert, Karen and Clive were in the water helping him lift her on to the bed.
Trying to remember his first aid, Tristan dragged himself up beside her, fighting to stop his lips trembling as he put them on her frozen ones. Oh, God, that the first kiss he gave her should be the last. He tried to breathe in, then collapsed, covering her torn pink dress with blood.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Rupert, gently shoving Tristan out of the way. ‘You’ve lost too much blood.’
‘Get the fucking paramedics!’ shouted Gablecross.
They all watched, frantically willing and praying, as Rupert breathed in and out.
‘Come on, Lucy, don’t give up on us,’ pleaded Karen.
But after a minute or two, Rupert stopped and for a moment rested his head on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘I think it’s too late.’
‘Let me have a go.’ Tristan lurched forward, slumped against Lucy, his arms round her. ‘Lucy darling, don’t leave me, I love you.’
Suddenly she gave a shudder and a gulp, then water gushed out of her mouth, as the paramedics stormed in.
‘She’s going to be OK, lad.’ Gablecross patted Tristan’s hand as he was lifted on to a stretcher. ‘We’d better get you both to hospital. Of the two of you I’d say you were in the worst shape.’
‘Well done.’ Briefly Rupert squeezed Tristan’s thigh. ‘Was Sarah Bernhardt one of your relations?’
‘Probably,’ said Tristan, and passed out.
‘Rosalind Pringle,’ said Gablecross, ‘I am arresting you for the murders of Roberto Rannaldini and Beatrice Johnson, and the attempted murders of Lucy Latimer, Tabitha Lovell and Tristan de Montigny.’ But as he reeled off the names, he had an eerie feeling that the murderer had vanished, and he’d never be able to get a conviction on this discreet, gently smiling, suddenly old lady, who kept nodding and saying, ‘Where’s Tristan? I mustn’t be late — he’s taking me to tea with Aunt Hortense.’
84
It was six in the morning when Gablecross received a summons from on high. He had just spent two hours debriefing Lucy and steeled himself now for a mega-bollocking and probably the sack. A couple of hounds catching the fox on their own may be very clever, but it doesn’t endear the Master, the whips, the horses and particularly the rest of the pack to them.
‘Your behaviour has been utterly reprehensible,’ thundered Chief Constable Swallow.
‘Tim-Going-Out-On-A-Fucking-Limb again,’ shouted Gerald Portland. ‘Why didn’t you and DC Needham keep in touch?’
‘There wasn’t time, Guv’nor, and you mustn’t blame DC Needham. I chewed her out for not being as good as Charlie but she did brilliantly. She discovered Rozzy had been taking vast sums off Lucy for private treatment for non-existent cancer. Then we found Rozzy’s cache — that was a piece of work. There DC Needham discovered some photographs cut to shreds. When she pieced them together, she found they were three passport photographs of Rozzy Pringle. She’d used the fourth on Lucy Latimer’s passport, so her DNA profile on Rannaldini and Beattie would show up as Lucy’s.
‘She confesses most of it on this tape.’ Gablecross chucked it down on the table. Then, seeing both Portland and Swallow still looking boot-faced and knowing their weakness for a title, he added, ‘It was on Lady Griselda’s machine. Karen’s still debriefing Lucy. We wanted to get in touch, sir, but at the end we were only playing with minutes.’
‘How’s Rozzy Pringle?’
‘Dagenham.’
‘What?’
‘Two stops up from Barking.’
‘You ought to be fired and probably prosecuted,’ said Portland, after Swallow had bustled off importantly into the next room to take a telephone call. ‘You left Tabitha Lovell unprotected at Rutminster General. You risked the lives of Tristan de Montigny and Rupert Campbell-Black — no bad thing in itself, admittedly — not to mention that little toad Clive.’
‘He did brilliantly,’ protested Gablecross, ‘performed like a trooper. Pity we can’t recruit him.’
‘How’s Montigny?’
‘Only a flesh wound, bullet lodged in the muscle. They’re operating now. Rozzy Pringle was so bats about him that he was the only one who could lure her out. He did fantastically too.’
‘And Lucy Latimer?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about her,’ said Gablecross. ‘She’s outwardly OK. In shock, of course, she had a terrible experience, devastated as well that her dog was killed. We don’t want the defence to nobble her, and if the press get onto her the whole case will collapse. She’s desperate to get away. I said we might be able to arrange a safe-house for her abroad until after the trial.’
In the next room they could hear Swallow’s voice rising.