Score!

‘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?’