The inhabitants of Lucy’s caravan were clutching their sides, when Hermione was interrupted by an impatient clicking on the line, and a shrill voice saying, ‘Get off the fucking line, Mum. I gotta ring Ladbrokes.’
Little Cosmo, who had smashed his mobile in a fit of temper that morning, wished to use his mother’s telephone. To accompanying squawks, John Dunne could be heard saying firmly, ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost Dame Hermione.’
Miss Bussage enjoyed the journey to her sister’s house. If, as promised, she had become the fifth Lady Rannaldini, she would have travelled always in a limo, although she would have preferred that leering scoundrel Clive to have worn his chauffeur’s cap.
She had no regrets. Valhalla without Rannaldini would have been like lemon and black pepper without oysters. Anyway, whichever newspaper eventually bought the memoirs would give her enough to live on comfortably for the rest of her life.
When she arrived, she couldn’t resist getting out the floppy disks and the photographs so she and her sister could have a gloat together. Only when she tried to print out the disks did she find they’d been switched for blanks and the dirty pictures all replaced with a pile of Rannaldini’s fan photographs. Her howl of rage could have woken Rannaldini in his chill chamber in Rutminster Mortuary eighty miles away.
44
With all the rescheduling, Gablecross and Needham were anxious to interview the released singers before they dispersed. They caught Alpheus by the pool, bronzed and glistening from his daily twenty lengths.
What a hunk, thought Karen, feeling herself blush as Alpheus’s wet hand held hers a fraction longer than necessary as he crinkled his eyes at her. ‘I don’t know if policewomen are getting younger, but they’re sure getting more beautiful.’
‘You sure keep in shape.’
‘There’s no excuse for singers to gain weight,’ said Alpheus, lovingly drying his rippling muscles.
‘What were you doing between nine thirty p.m. and eleven thirty yesterday?’ asked Gablecross sharply.
‘Finishing off a tennis match.’
‘I bet you play real good,’ said Karen admiringly.
‘I used to be rated in the top fifty.’
As he vigorously rubbed his hair, Alpheus was frantic to sculpt his waves with a blow-dryer, but didn’t want to appear a cissy in front of Karen.
‘I can only give you a few minutes, Officer,’ he said. ‘I’ve shifted a recording to Milan tomorrow and Lady Rannaldini is kindly lending me the Gulf.’
‘Why did you throw the game?’ asked Gablecross.
‘I had a delightful but not very strong partner, and my mind was on other things.’
‘According to our information, you left around nine thirty and didn’t stay to watch the finals.’
‘I didn’t want to catch cold.’
‘In ninety degrees?’
‘To be truthful,’ Alpheus pulled a face, ‘I was choked about not winning. Singers are overly competitive.’
After that, he said, he had swum his twenty lengths in the dusk. ‘Then I jogged back to Jasmine Cottage, showered, changed, then called my agent Christopher Shepherd of Shepherd Denston. My
‘What time did you ring him?’
‘Around ten thirty, I guess, but it won’t show on the phone bill. My agent and I have a code. I let the phone ring four times so he knows it’s me and calls me back. He takes twenty per cent of my earnings so he can pay for a few calls.’
‘May we have your agent’s number?’
Karen had studied body language. Alpheus was clearly nervous, the way he kept fiddling with his hair.
‘How did you get on with Rannaldini?’ she asked.
‘Between great artists there is a bond,’ said Alpheus firmly.
‘You were overheard having an argument on Saturday morning.’
‘Of course we fought — artists do. I was angry he had favoured Granville Hastings, not a great voice, on the tape. Rannaldini wanted to justify his decision to employ him. All conductors do this. My powerful instrument can stand it,’ said Alpheus pompously. God, if he didn’t get to a blow-dryer soon, he’d have an Afro.
‘Is it true you were close to your tennis partner, Gloria Prescott?’
‘It is the duty of the established singer to encourage talent,’ said Alpheus. ‘It’s even more gratifying when a fine voice belongs to a charming young woman.’ He winked at Karen.
‘We’ve had information you argued with Rannaldini about her, and about the attention Rannaldini was paying to your wife.’
‘Rumour, rumour. If you say good morning round here people think you’re in a relationship. Little minds have little else to do than fabricate stories about the famous.’
‘Why did you move into Dame Hermione’s cottage?’
‘To spend quality time with my wife. We’re big animal people. Mr Bones, our German shepherd, pines without her. We can’t bring him here because of your goddam quarantine laws so Cheryl never visits for more than a week.’ That should endear me to a traditionally dog-loving English cop, thought Alpheus sourly. ‘When Cheryl is here, we like to be alone,’ he went on, ‘and, frankly, not having been to an English public school like you, Officer,’ Alpheus crinkled his eyes again — let’s flatter the square-faced bastard, ‘I found the dormitory atmosphere at Valhalla claustrophobic, so Dame Hermione, a good friend, lent us Jasmine Cottage. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ Alpheus smothered himself in a white towelling bathrobe.
‘Have you any idea who might have killed Rannaldini?’
‘Must be an outside job. No-one involved in this movie would want Rannaldini off the credits.’
‘You wore a pink and purple dressing-gown to play Philip.’
‘Sing Philip,’ said Alpheus fussily.
‘D’you know where it is?’
‘In Wardrobe, I guess.’
‘Rannaldini was wearing it when he was murdered,’ said Gablecross.
Clearly this jolted Alpheus: his wedding-ring glittered and quivered as his shaking hand moved through his hair. Had Cheryl taken the dressing-gown from the back of the wardrobe at Jasmine Cottage, he wondered, and given it to Rannaldini, who’d always coveted it?
‘D’you think someone could have mistaken Rannaldini for you?’
‘I have no enemies,’ said Alpheus coldly.
‘Alpheus Shaw claims to have no enemies,’ said Gablecross.
‘Nor has he many friends,’ said Flora. ‘But I mustn’t speak ill of the alive, in case you take it down in evidence against me.’
They found her slumped in Lucy’s caravan, watched beadily by Foxie, her puppet mascot, and Trevor the terrier. She was three-quarters down a bottle of white and was reading a small, leatherbound book in bad light. She looked wretched, deathly pale and red-eyed.
‘I suppose you’re not allowed drink. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘We’ve had about a gallon each,’ said Gablecross sitting down opposite her. Karen edged wide-eyed towards Lucy’s make-up table.
Tipping the spine of Flora’s book, Gablecross saw it was
‘Enjoying it?’
‘Suits my mood,’ shivered Flora.
