Score! (46 page)

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.

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
Carlos
contract promised to release me by 8 July. I wanted him to pacify the record company and negotiate a few days’ vacation with my wife before I start
Don Giovanni
.’

‘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
Macbeth
.

‘Enjoying it?’

‘Suits my mood,’ shivered Flora.

‘“And wither’d murder”’ she read out, ‘“… thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.” Can’t imagine anyone withered or ghostly being strong enough to murder Rannaldini.’

‘Rage and adrenalin’, pronounced Gablecross, ‘give the smallest, frailest person strength.’

‘That puts little Meredith in the frame,’ said Flora. ‘He’s never forgiven Rannaldini for calling his
auto da fe
set suburban.’

‘Fond of him, were you?’

‘Rannaldini? No, I loathed him. He seduced me when I was sixteen, then dumped me. But it’s still a shock.’

‘What were you doing between nine thirty and eleven thirty last night?’

‘Getting pissed, mostly. Then I went home to feed the cat. My parents live next door — you can see the stone angels through the trees. I hadn’t realized how dark it was so I skirted the rose gardens, the maze and the stables and ran past our pond on the right.’

‘Who saw you at home?’

‘Only the cat, who’s not great on alibis.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual on the way?’

‘Like Hermione praising another singer?’ Flora topped up her glass. ‘Sorry, silly joke. I heard her singing Elisabetta’s last duet. Might have been a CD or a tape. There were lights on in River House and Magpie Cottage, I heard sheep bleating — they always bleat when anyone comes through Hangman’s Wood, hoping it’s the shepherd with their hay. The grass is so poor.’

‘Live at home, do you?’ asked Gablecross, who knew the answer.

‘No, I live with George Hungerford — at least, I did until recently. I was going to marry him.’ She accepted one of Gablecross’s cigarettes with a shaking hand.

‘I’ll pay you back. That lipstick really suits you,’ she added to Karen, who put it down hastily and picked up her notebook.

Flora dolefully relayed the drama of George landing his helicopter in the middle of her snogging scene with Pushy.

‘He went ballistic, I told him to fuck off,’ she said, finally and sadly.

‘So George has landed his helicopter here before?’ said Gablecross quickly. ‘Didn’t you notice one landing last night around ten thirty and someone running towards the watch-tower?’

Flora’s eyes flickered in horror. ‘It couldn’t have been George,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure he’s in Germany.’ She kept fiddling with her mobile to make sure it was switched on.

‘How did you get back to Valhalla?’

‘I drove. It was dark by then. It gets very creepy — funny things have been happening recently.’

Topping up her drink, she listed Granny’s patchwork quilt, the adder in Lucy’s make-up box, slug pellets in James’s water-bowl, Tab nearly burning to death in the
auto da fe
.

‘Why didn’t anyone call the police?’

‘We were so desperate to finish the film — the budget was spiralling like Rannaldini’s staircase — that we avoided anything that might hold it up. Oh, I forgot. Foxie’, she waved her puppet fox, ‘was cut to pieces. I was so lucky, Rozzy Pringle spent hours sewing him together, like surgeons in casualty labouring through the night.’

Taking Foxie from her, Gablecross examined the joins.

‘Can I borrow him?’

‘No!’ Flora snatched him back. ‘I need the luck.’

Outside a huge rainbow reared up on the other side of Paradise.

‘It’s stopped raining. Let’s go for a walk.’

Hearing the word, Trevor ran yapping out of the caravan. Flora followed him, carrying her glass and Foxie. The fingertip team, who’d been struggling through Hangman’s Wood all day, were drenched, pricked, lacerated and stung. Handlers patrolled the edge of the trees.

‘Aren’t they sweet?’ sighed Flora, as their Alsatians strained at their choke-chains barking at Trevor, who yapped back, dancing just out of reach. ‘Think of those brave pointed noses sniffing out clues.’

‘We use dogs more to intimidate the public,’ confessed Gablecross. ‘Not very reliable at finding things.’

‘I did a dog-evading course once,’ volunteered Karen. ‘I hid in a badger set, covered myself with twigs, and a bloody great Dobermann came up, peed on me, then passed on.’

‘Pissed on.’ Flora started to laugh, then shuddered.

‘Look, there’s Clive, no doubt flogging his story, which must be horrendously steamy, to that disgusting crone, Eulalia Harrison from the
Sentinel
. When did Rannaldini actually die?’

‘Hard to be accurate. Bodies cool very slowly on a hot night.’

‘What happens if you don’t find a body at once?’ asked Flora, as they splashed through puddles the colour of weak tea.

‘Flesh gets eaten by foxes and badgers.’

‘Now I know why you didn’t want any lunch,’ Flora told Foxie petulantly.

‘The eyes go first,’ added Gablecross. ‘Crows peck them out.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Flora started to tremble. ‘Rannaldini had wonderful eyes, conductor’s eyes. He could transform an orchestra just glaring at them.’

She leapt as her mobile rang.

‘George!’ she gasped in ecstasy, then slumped. ‘Viking, how kind, if you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble. I’m too pissed to drive, I’ll get a taxi.’

‘That’s one of my exes, Viking O’Neill,’ she told Gablecross listlessly. ‘I’m going to stay with him and his wife for a few days.’

‘Just leave us the phone number and address.’

The chapel clock struck seven thirty. The deluge had swept cypress twigs on the paths into long brown snakes. The rainbow was fading. As they moved through the yew rooms of Rannaldini’s garden, the rain had dusted and polished the nude nymphs lurking in every corner. There would be no-one to fondle them now.

‘What happened when you got back to Valhalla?’ asked Karen.

‘I saw the watch-tower on fire, and thought of Tabloid trapped in his kennel. So I left Trev in the car on the edge of the drive and hurtled through Hangman’s Wood.’

‘Risky under the circs, whole place ablaze.’

‘I got to know Tabloid well, when I was sleeping with Rannaldini.’

‘You didn’t notice anyone in the woods?’

‘Only firemen and Clive — God knows what he was doing. There was a disgusting smell of burning feathers, probably Rannaldini’s mattress going up. Safety regulations weren’t his forte.’

‘Could you describe his tower for us?’

‘Well, the top floor was all bed, with an appallingly narcissistic mural round the walls of an audience in evening dress, cheering him on to intenser orgasm. The next floor down was all dark blue jacuzzi, the next was a red-wallpapered pouncing chamber, full of low sofas and bowls of exotic fruit on marble tables, and a Picasso on the wall.’

‘You don’t know where he kept his safe?’

‘Nope.’