‘All right, all right, Mr Campbell-Black, that’s entirely up to the Police Promotions Board. I don’t care if you do go over my head.
‘Jesus, that bastard gets on my wick,’ said Swallow, as he returned very red in the face. ‘Now where were we?’
Gablecross was so tired he didn’t at first take in that, in their roundabout way, both Swallow and Portland were congratulating him.
‘You saved our bacon,’ admitted Portland. ‘Not sure how much longer we could have gone on spending tax-payers’ money.’
‘You’ve done well, Tim. Better go home and put on a clean shirt before the press conference,’ said Swallow. ‘And I think DC Needham’s going to be every bit as good as Charlie.’
It must be tiredness and the fact that the Chief Constable had never called him Tim before but, for a hideous moment, Gablecross thought he was going to cry.
‘I absolutely agree, sir,’ he muttered.
Tristan came round to find his room full of flowers and sunlight. His shoulder throbbed, but he could move his arm, and the diamorphine was keeping any pain at bay. Sergeant Gablecross was his first visitor, carrying a bunch of purple chrysanthemums and a brown parcel.
‘Where’s Lucy?’ demanded Tristan. ‘Is she all right? I want to see her.’
‘She’s being debriefed,’ said Gablecross carefully. ‘She’s very anxious you should read this.’ He put the packet on the bedside table. ‘She handed it over to Rozzy for safe-keeping when she was arrested. Rozzy was intending to burn it. We’ll need it as evidence later. The sister said I mustn’t stay long. We’ll take a statement when you’re feeling stronger.’
How beautiful the boy was, he thought enviously. Even when he was running a temperature, the dark hair falling over the white forehead and the flush on the hollowed cheeks reminded you of black trees and snow warmed by a winter sunset.
Tristan, slumped back on his pillows, was constantly reminded of the horror of Lucy’s inert frozen body. ‘Are you sure she’s OK, or as OK as she can be? Is James really dead?’
‘We think so. Rupert’s going to advertise, so are we.’
‘I must get her a puppy.’ Tristan turned fretfully to the package. ‘“Private and Confidential”. I suppose that means everyone at Rutminster Police Station’s had a look.’
As soon as Gablecross had left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, Tristan opened the package.
The enclosed letter was headed ‘Hôtel de Ville, St Malo’, dated 16 July, and smelt faintly of the disturbing, overtly sexy scent Lucy had worn the morning he’d sacked her. Tristan shuddered at the memory.
Dear Tristan [what kind, generous handwriting Lucy had!]
I hope I bring you tidings of very great joy, but the facts are so overwhelming I thought you’d prefer to take them in when you’re on your own. Although Wolfie and I can answer any questions as best we can later.
Your aunt Hortense swore to your dad she would never tell the truth, but in the end was persuaded that promises should occasionally be broken.
You truly are a Montigny, Tristan, and Étienne was speaking the truth on his deathbed rambling on about your father being your grandfather. The problem was, Rannaldini got the wrong grandad. Étienne was your grandfather, Laurent your father.
Tristan slumped back against the pillows, reeling from the shock. He read on incredulously:
So in a way Étienne was Philip II and Laurent Posa, a soldier of noble lineage who hated staying idle, so he stirred up trouble in Chad, and got blown up for trying to right wrongs. On the other hand, he was also Carlos because he fell madly in love with your mum. She was just back froma disastrous honeymoon with Étienne, where she’d found she couldn’t bear him near her. Laurent came home all suntanned and handsome. She fell madly in love with him and fell pregnant with you, while Étienne was away painting in Australia.
The paper was shaking so violently, he could hardly read, let alone turn the page.
When Laurent died, all his things were sent back. Love-letters from Delphine, plans for naming the baby Tristan, if it was a boy, plans they would run away together the moment he came out of the army, how Laurent wanted tobe there when Delphine broke the news to Étienne because he knew what a temper his father had.
The extraordinary thing is that Don Carlos must be in your genes, because Étienne’s humiliation and heartbreak must have been so like Philip’s. You can now understand his animosity and harshness towards you. How would Philip have reacted, if he’d been left to bring up Elisabetta’s and Carlos’s orphaned son?
All the letters and photos are here for you and, perhapsmost important, a self-portrait painted by Étienne the year you were born, just after he found out about Laurent being your father. I think it must be the saddest, most beautiful and humane painting he ever did. Hortense said he wanted you to have it after his death, so perhaps you could understand and forgive him.
The words swam before Tristan’s eyes. The whole thing was too enormous for him to take in. His hands were trembling so much and he was so weak, it was a struggle to open the envelope. Letters and photos cascaded all over the bed. There was Delphine, Christ, she was sweet — not at all like the tawdry temptress of The Snake Charmer, and so pretty, despite the ghastly high-heeled boots, square fringe and pastel lipstick of the sixties. There was Laurent, so dashing in his uniform, the ideal Monsieur Droit, and the letters so passionate they burnt the page.
Tristan felt rage welling inside him, as he examined the little pencil drawing of himself as a newborn baby. There was pride in every centimetre. ‘Tristan Laurent Blaize, a beautiful boy. One hour old,’ Étienne had written on the back.
The self-portrait was in bubble wrap. It was small, fifteen inches by twelve, but an undoubted masterpiece. The tears glittered like Rutshire streams as they flowed down Étienne’s wrinkles; all the hurt pride and pain was contained in the narrow eyes and the clenched mouth.
‘Papa, Papa,’ cried Tristan.
Étienne was still his father, and at last he understood everything. What an absolute shit Laurent must have been. If only he could ring Étienne beyond the grave to tell him how much he loved him.
He lay for a long time listening to the wood pigeons cooing and the distant rumble of traffic. But only when he glanced up at the red plastic bag of blood dripping strength and vitality back into his body, did he realize the full implications. He was a Montigny, of the blood, if on the wrong side of the blanket. He was nothing to do with Maxim. He could marry and have children with whom he chose.
Giddy with happiness, he glanced at the bottom of Lucy’s letter. ‘With all my love’, she had written.
There was a knock at the door. Ignoring the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, Wolfie walked in. He was grey with fatigue, but it would have been impossible to find anyone looking happier.
‘How’s Tab?’ asked Tristan.
‘Seriously wonderful,’ sighed Wolfie. ‘Oh, Tristan, I am so lucky.’ Then, with typical lack of ego, ‘But how are you feeling? I hear you saved Lucy’s life.’
‘You and Lucy give me back mine,’ said Tristan, pointing to the letters and photographs strewn over the bed.
Wolfie picked up Étienne’s self-portrait. Taking it to the window he whistled. ‘I didn’t see that. Christ, it’s powerful — Christ-like in a way, carrying that weight of suffering in one face.’
‘I can’t take it in. Tell me what happened.’
‘Lucy did it. She put up with a hell of a lot of stick from Aunt Hortense and eventually won her over. We were summoned back as we were leaving and allowed to go into Laurent’s room — which reminds me, I must find out what’s happened to Papa’s Gulf.’