‘No, you fucking can’t.’ He turned to Tab. ‘You OK, darling?’
From next door could be heard voices and the popping of champagne corks.
‘Could we ask you a few questions, then?’ asked Debbie, smoothing her blonde bob. Rupert really was gorgeous.
‘If you want to, but you’d better be quick.’
‘I’ll do this one,’ hissed Debbie, as they followed Rupert into his office.
Debbie was very much into the non-confrontational, non-judgemental police interview. She was unfazed by the fact that Rupert was reading faxes, watching the first race runners in the paddock on Channel Four, and filling in entry forms. At least it meant he was relaxed.
‘I’d like you to shut your eyes, make your mind go blank, Mr Campbell-Black, and remember exactly what Tabitha said when she called you last night.’
‘I’ll shut my eyes if you both will,’ said Rupert, a shade more amiably.
‘OK,’ said Debbie. ‘What time did she ring?’
After a long pause, Fanshawe opened his eyes to see Rupert vanishing through a side door. ‘Mr Campbell- Black,’ he shouted, ‘you are impeding a police inquiry.’
‘And we are in the middle of a funeral.’
‘Only of a dog, sir.’
The fury on Rupert’s face made them both retreat.
‘We are investigating the murder of Mrs Lovell’s stepfather,’ protested Fanshawe.
‘Who was
‘Arrogant shit,’ fumed Fanshawe as he belted down the drive.
‘How dare he talk to us like that. All those upper-class fuckers stick together. Same when Lord Lucan copped it, they close ranks and keep their traps shut.’
‘And just think how Gablecross will sneer when he hears we’ve been thrown out,’ sighed Debbie.
48
DS Gablecross was a deep thinker. He rose early, like the sun, moved slowly round examining everything from a different angle, before setting in the west, sleeping on things before he came to a decision. Reassured by his lazy smile and deep, West Country drawl, few people realized the bitterness and frustration simmering beneath the surface.
In the middle eighties, the world had seemed at his feet. A loving wife had looked after him, his three children hero-worshipped him. Working on hunches, playing suspects against each other, he and his running mate, Charlie, had been the most dazzlingly successful villain-catchers in the West Country. Charlie had not been above knocking suspects about. Like a foxhound, he was the kindest animal in the world until he got on to the scent of a quarry.
But then Gablecross’s life had changed. His wife, Margaret, had returned to teaching, the implication being that as he was more interested in catching villains than angling for promotion, they could no longer support three children on a sergeant’s salary. She had swiftly risen to deputy headmistress of the local comprehensive. She was so conscientious that Gablecross often returned after midnight to find her asleep over reports or exam papers. He had preferred the old days: being greeted by charred steak and kidney and Margaret feigning sleep through gritted teeth upstairs. His children had also become teenagers, questioning his every attitude, and regarding policemen at best as fascist pigs who persecuted blacks, gays, women and teenagers.
Worst of all, last Christmas Charlie had been shot in a drugs raid. His killer had been the brother of a young black guy who had committed suicide after Charlie had forced a confession out of him and banged him up for five years.
But if Gablecross’s world had been turned upside down, so had the law. As a result of the 1984 Act, hunches suddenly had to be justified and everything backed up with forensic or tape-recorded evidence. Supposed to make it easier to prove guilt, this gradually took the personality out of investigation and only the safety players prevailed. As a result, Gablecross’s battle-scarred contemporaries had taken early retirement or dull jobs in security. But being a hunter was the only thing Gablecross knew.
Surrounded by the fresh-faced young turks of the inquiry team, he felt old, edgy, almost a figure of fun. Particularly, as if to rub salt in the wound of Charlie’s death, the dandified ego-maniac Gerald Portland had teamed him up with the only black on the inquiry team, Karen Needham.
Karen, who had watched every instalment of
Karen, like Debbie Miller, was messianically into the peace interview. You made witnesses and suspects feel you were fascinated in them and what they had done. You utterly understood their trespasses, whether they had abused a tiny child or bashed up an old lady. Faced with her sweet smile and big kind eyes, everyone sang to the rooftops.
All the young turks told Gablecross he was a lucky sod to be paired with someone so pretty and clever. But Gablecross, who liked women, felt he was being sexist if he told Karen she looked beautiful, and racist if he complained about her slow driving and the even slower way she took down evidence in her clear round hand. Otherwise she had only one drawback: she couldn’t contain her laughter, even during interviews, over the absurdities of life.
Chief Inspector Portland was crazy about her. In his most paranoid moments Gablecross imagined their pillow-talk.
‘Who would you like to work with, Karen?’
‘I’d like to zap that arrogant, geriatric, racist, homophobic pinko-basher Tim Gablecross.’
Gablecross found Portland hell to deal with. One of a breed known as ‘butterflies’, the handsome Chief Inspector had moved from station to station, upping his status and his salary, ironing out his accent. He had a rich wife, children at private day schools, their photographs prominently displayed on his desk, and an old house outside Rutminster, much modernized and crammed with inglenooks. Portland had been so busy going on courses he had never had time to be a policeman. Although he was a good manager and, out of laziness, able to delegate, he didn’t want anyone stealing his limelight. He would have preferred a team composed entirely of keen, deferential youngsters, but to crack this murder and cover himself with glory he needed Gablecross’s local knowledge and his genius at nosing out a killer.
Despite a shower, Gablecross felt crumpled and sweaty when he rolled up for the first early-morning briefing on Tuesday. Portland, on the other hand, his chestnut hair matching his smooth brown face, looked as sleek and shining as a new conker. Having hung his coat, with the Cardin label, on the back of his chair, loosened his tie and rolled up his very white shirtsleeves to show off suntanned arms, he smiled briskly at Gablecross.
‘Lady Chisledon phoned to complain you didn’t have enough identification, Tim, when you popped in yesterday. Said the photo on your ID card makes you look more villainous than any of your suspects. Suggest you get a more flattering one and stop frightening the witnesses.’
Sitting and standing around Portland’s office, laughing deferentially, were the Inner Cabinet. They consisted of two boffins from the incident room, where a Home Office computer was gathering all data on the murder, two reps from the uniformed house-to-house task force, and twelve plain-clothes officers in teams of two. These included Gablecross and Karen, Gablecross’s bitter rival, the fit, flat-stomached Kevin Fanshawe and Debbie Miller, who’d fallen foul of Rupert yesterday, the blushing DC Lightfoot, who’d been traumatized by the Valhalla orgy, and the aggressive DC Smithson, who was, above all, present and politically correct, sir.
From now on the Cabinet would meet every morning to absorb what had happened the day before. Gerry Portland’s job was to read autopsy reports, printouts and statements, corroborate all the evidence and give each
