kitchen.
‘Can I get you a drink or a cup of coffee?’ he asked Gablecross.
‘I’m fine.’ Gablecross could see Wolfie wrenching his thoughts into order, he could smell his sweat and see the gooseflesh on his bare legs and arms. ‘I’d like a few words with you, sir.’
‘Let me just find someone to look after my stepmother,’ and Wolfie had bolted.
The kitchen was empty but, to his horror, so was the answering-machine. Who could have whipped the tape? Sprinting down the passage, he put his head round the Blue Living Room door.
‘Wolfie!’ shouted everyone.
They were all drunk. Who could he trust?
‘Lucy,’ he pleaded, ‘could you look after Helen for me, and ring Mrs Brimscombe and ask her to come and help her to bed?’
‘I’m ever so sorry, Wolfie.’ Lucy jumped to her feet.
‘Perhaps we should ring James Benson,’ suggested Meredith.
‘He’ll be out at some smart dinner party,’ said Griselda.
‘I’ll come and check how she is the moment the police have finished with me,’ Wolfie promised Lucy.
‘I’m going to fetch you a sweater first,’ said Lucy.
Gablecross interviewed Wolfie in the kitchen. The boy was now making coffee and wearing a red V-necked jersey, which he loathed because his stepmother Cecilia Rannaldini had given it to him for Christmas.
As if there were never any question that he wouldn’t, Wolfie said that he and Simone had won the tournament. Returning to organize supper, he’d found a message from Tabitha, his stepsister, on the machine.
‘D’you know where the tape is?’
‘Must be still in the machine,’ lied Wolfie. ‘Tab went home because her parents’ dog had disappeared. She’s living in one of my father’s cottages. As I had a second key, she asked me to fetch her dog and take it back to Penscombe.’
Gablecross admired a screen covered in hundreds of photographs of Rannaldini with the famous.
‘Couldn’t Mrs Lovell’s husband have taken the dog?’
‘He’s away.’
‘Rather inconsiderate of Mrs Lovell to expect you to drive over a hundred miles in the middle of a tennis party.’
‘She was distraught about her parents’ dog,’ said Wolfie quickly. ‘It was a very old family pet.’
‘Did you see anyone when you first returned to the house?’
‘I heard Miss Bussage in her office, and my stepmother’s wireless.’
‘Did you hear anything unusual?’
‘Only Hermione singing in the rushes as I walked back to the house. Sound carries much further on thundery nights. Although…’ Wolfie wrinkled his forehead, perplexed ‘… I don’t remember the bit she was singing being filmed on Friday.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Around half ten, I think.’
Switching the kettle on to boil for the fourth time, he made two cups of coffee.
‘Why didn’t Mrs Lovell take the dog with her in the first place?’
‘Sharon’s on heat. Tab’s father has a pack of dogs. Tab hadn’t seen him for two years. Probably didn’t want to rock the boat.’
‘Could a more major crisis have made her rush home?’ asked Gablecross.
‘A dog going missing is a major crisis in that family,’ said Wolfie coldly.
‘How long did you stay at Penscombe?’
‘Only to hand Sharon over.’ Wolfie was treading carefully now. ‘Someone had just brought Gertrude — their missing dog — back. She’d been run over so I didn’t stop.’
As he handed Gablecross the sugar and a biscuit tin, he could only think of Tab’s tearful, choked words when she rang to thank him on his way back to Valhalla.
‘Please, don’t tell anyone Rannaldini raped me. It would kill Mummy.’ He had wanted to drive straight back to Penscombe to comfort her.
‘Very attractive young lady, Mrs Lovell.’ Gablecross helped himself to a chocolate biscuit. ‘Did that cause any tension between your father and stepmother?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Wolfie.
‘It still seems excessive to abandon your guests and drive all that way in the middle of a party.’
‘My guests’, said Wolfie dismissively, ‘have been freeloading here all summer. I felt they could fend for themselves.’
The iron has entered into that young man’s soul, decided Gablecross. He’s not only madly in love with Tabitha Lovell but lying through his extremely good teeth. Glancing at the screen again, he noticed how colourless the famous people appeared beside Rannaldini. You couldn’t fail to respond to the flashing whiteness of the smile, the hypnotic eyes, the undeniable magnetism.
‘Could you come and identify the body, sir?’
‘Certainly,’ said Wolfie, emptying the rest of his cup of coffee into the wastepaper basket.
They found the forensic team sifting through the ashes, videoing evidence, scattering grey aluminium powder on the remnants of the watchtower, in the forlorn hope of finding fingerprints. The pathologist, who’d just arrived, was examining Rannaldini’s body. Only when the sheet was drawn back did Wolfie’s composure crumble.
The strikingly handsome Rannaldini now looked like his
‘It’s all right, lad.’ Gablecross put a hand on his shoulders.
Alpheus’s dressing-gown had fallen open to show the muscular legs. Wolfie noticed the starchy white residue on his father’s thighs, the bite on the ankle, and the huge erection stiffening as rigor mortis set in.
‘Probably been dead for no more than two hours,’ said the pathologist, replacing the sheet.
Gablecross glanced at his watch. ‘About half ten, then.’
Blood had blackened the grass, washing away the earth, laying bare the Cotswold stone underneath. Wolfie wondered if someone had mistaken his father for Alpheus. Gripped again with terror that Tab might have killed him, Wolfie lurched away, retching into the brambles. As he returned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he said defiantly, ‘I don’t care how many people slag him off. He was my father and a great man.’
41
While Gablecross interviewed Helen and Wolfie, Ogborne had joined the mob swarming all over Valhalla, as they filmed, photographed and gabbled into tape-machines, describing everything they could see in the darkness.
Armed with Valentin’s lightweight video camera, Ogborne had turned up the brim of Hermione’s sunhat like a sou’wester. He was delighted to catch Alpheus leaving in a police car to collect his clothes, combing his rich auburn locks for the television cameras.
‘Where are you from?’ asked a BBC cameraman.
‘Bourbon Television,’ said Ogborne.
‘Never heard of it. Where’re they based?’
‘Paris,’ said Ogborne, who was now filming the paparazzi, who, like puppies fighting for their mother’s teats, were jostling each other to get a close-up of Wolfie, returning stony-faced from identifying the body.
‘News travels fast.’
‘Director’s a Frog, so’s most of the crew,’ explained Ogborne. ‘Huge story for us.’
