Score! (76 page)

How dare Rozzy ponce up his caravan! All the books and magazines had been straightened. All the notes secured under a paperweight. The floor was hoovered, even the windows cleaned, so everyone could see when he was there. He wanted to scream.

‘It’s very kind, Rozzy.’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’ She added playfully, ‘I’ve made you a sort of brunch. I know how strong you like your coffee. Sit down and relax. I’ve made you an omelette and Mrs Brimscombe picked me these with the dew on them this morning.’

‘Rozzy, please.’ Tristan opened his mouth in protest, and Rozzy popped a raspberry into it.

‘Anyway,’ she added, as the rattle of rain on the roof increased, ‘you can’t film at the moment.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘I’m not taking “
non
” for an answer.’ Rozzy got a couple of croissants out of the microwave, and dropped one on his side plate.

For a second, Tristan was tempted to pour out his problems. But Rozzy had enough troubles of her own.

Having cut him a slice of omelette, primrose yellow and oozing herbs and butter, she poured him coffee and orange juice, and shoved the butter plate against his side plate. As she reached behind him to get the pepper-pot out of the cupboard, he felt her breasts brush against him and had to steel himself not to flinch. Rozzy put a hand on his shoulder.

‘You’re so tense, I’ll give you a massage later.’

Suddenly the caravan seemed tiny. James, sulking on the sofa, was no chaperon. Next moment Rozzy’s hand had clenched on his shoulder as the rain rattle on the roof was augmented by a rat-tat-tat on the door.

‘I am
not
going to let people hassle you,’ hissed Rozzy.

‘Hi, chaps, that looks scrummy.’ Griselda’s green and purple striped turban came round the door.

‘I’m trying to persuade Tristan to eat,’ said Rozzy evenly.

‘Don’t force the poor boy. Nice to have you back.’ Griselda added to Tristan, ‘We’ve got a problem. Alpheus’s white suit has been nicked for the second time. I’ve ordered another from Paris because he won’t wear a blazer. But if you could wait to shoot his little scene until midday, by which time Lucy should be back to fix his face. I wondered if we could ask her and Wolfie to make a detour through Paris to pick up his new suit.’

There was another knock. It was Bernard this time, wanting a word with Rozzy.

‘I do hope they’ve had a nice jaunt,’ said Griselda, slapping unsalted butter and strawberry jam on a croissant, as Rozzy ran down the caravan steps to the shelter of Bernard’s yellow striped umbrella.

‘Wolfie’s such a smashing chap,’ went on Griselda, with her mouth full, ‘and had such a bad time with his father copping it, and Lucy’s such a lovely girl, but lonely in a way.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Wolfie and Lucy went off in the Gulf on Saturday morning. Makes a jolly good passion wagon. Always thought they fancied each other.’

‘Don’t talk such fucking rubbish!’ yelled Tristan, walking out of the caravan, slamming the door behind him.

Jumping off the sofa, James tried to follow him, scraping his long claws against the caravan door and whining.

‘Hum,’ said Griselda, helping herself to a slice of cold omelette. ‘Tristan seems to miss Lucy almost more than you do, old boy.’

Half-way across the field, Tristan found he was still clutching one of Rozzy’s rose-patterned cups. Next moment Alpheus had descended from one side, Mikhail from another, Pushy from still another.

‘Tabitha has been so rude to me,’ they shouted in unison.

‘I wish I cared,’ snarled Tristan.

After two and a half days of Gablecross’s interrogation, he could cope with scenes only if he were making them. He’d been so worried that finding out about Claudine was going to break Lucy’s heart, and now she’d buggered off with Wolfie and clearly couldn’t give a stuff.

‘“What news from the court in France, that lovely country of elegant ways?”’ sang Chloe to his departing back, and everyone giggled.

Then Tristan watched Saturday night’s rushes, which he thought were quite awful and said so. Oscar and Valentin, who’d worked very hard and been rather proud of their efforts, looked utterly deflated.

‘What has got into our boy?’ sighed Oscar. ‘The
flics
obviously put him through it.’

They had all been ecstatic about Tristan’s release, but instead of acknowledging their cards and welcome-home banner, he’d just stalked in and criticized everything.

‘I’m not working with that fucker any more,’ said the crew and cast in unison.

Two things relieved the impasse. The rain stopped, and Bernard frogmarched Tristan into his now empty caravan and bawled him out.

‘You’re behaving like a spoilt child. Everyone’s jumpy. You’re meant to reassure them — and as for bullying poor Rozzy,’ Bernard went an even deeper shade of burgundy red, ‘when she spent so long mucking out your caravan and praying for your release in the chapel.’

After that Tristan settled down, forgot his problems, and filmed mêlées, skirmishes, and Baby exchanging sizzling eye-meets with groupies and chucking down his stick in fury when Philip ordered him off the field.

It was still gloomy and overcast, however, and the only patches of sky blue were the opposition’s shirts, which must have been specially chosen by Griselda to bring out the colour of Tab’s furiously flashing eyes. Riding wonderfully wildly and as fiercely as the men, a blue toggle holding back her hair and showing off her glorious jawline and cheekbones, she seemed to be goading Tristan to watch only her.

But Tristan found his eyes drawn to the ponies, glossy black, dark brown, silver-grey, gleaming bay and chestnut, so polished and rippling with fitness. They were so helpful, so responsive, so neat and athletic, so gallant and outwardly unfazed, despite being sworn at and clouted round their delicate heads and legs by sticks and balls. They reminded him of Lucy.

When rain stopped play again, he locked himself in Bernard’s caravan and watched a rough cut. Gradually his confidence came back. Tomorrow they had only to film Baby careering down the field, shoving his pony against Tab’s, pushing her off the line of the ball to score the winning goal. This would be followed by Alpheus in his splendid white suit summoning Carlos inside for an already-filmed pep talk: a light day’s shooting, which should be over by two, giving them time to tie up any loose ends before the wrap party in the evening.

Tristan felt an almost Christ-like elation that here were the makings of a great film, which even Rannaldini would have been proud of. The old monster looked divine on the rostrum, thanks to Lucy’s make-up. She really did deserve an Oscar. And darling Rozzy had been wonderful in her crying scene with Hermione. Christ, he’d been a shit to her after all she’d been through. He’d better go and apologize.

The film had been so dark, particularly in the last terrible scene, that he was amazed to come out to a watery orange sunset, dancing midges and house-martins swooping on insects. People were gossiping outside their tents and caravans. But as he paddled across the drenched field towards Wardrobe, he heard a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a dreadful howling.

Racing through the puddles, his heart thumping, he leapt the four steps up to the Wardrobe caravan. Steeling himself for more unimaginable horrors, he found James shuddering in the far corner, and Rozzy crouched on the floor keening. In the first crazed second, he thought that she had knocked over Lucy’s blue bowl of pot-pourri. Then, drawing nearer, he saw the petals were tiny pieces of silk, as though someone had shredded the rainbow.

‘Oh, my God,’ groaned Griselda, behind him. ‘It’s her wrap-party dress. She’s spent months making it from fragments of silk.’

It had literally been cut to ribbons.

‘Why should anyone hate me so much?’ wept Rozzy.

‘They don’t. They love you.’ Pulling her to her feet Tristan took her in his arms, stroking her hair, feeling her tears drenching the jersey she had given him.

A hovering, desperately concerned Bernard produced a brandy, which triggered off a terrible fit of coughing, reminding Tristan once again how ill she was.

‘Don’t cry,
chérie
, I’ll buy you another dress.’

Within seconds, relieved that something at last had happened, twenty police, led by Fanshawe and Debbie, had surrounded the caravan. They were disappointed the crime was going to be hard to date.

‘I hung the dress in the back of the cupboard, when I came back after Glyn’s birthday party exactly a week ago,’ gasped Rozzy, between sobs.

Debbie took her hand. ‘Who knew it was there?’

‘Lucy, Grisel, Simone, I don’t know.’

As the shredded fragments were shoved into a plastic bag for Forensic, Debbie gathered up a handful. ‘Silk isn’t torn or severed, looks as if it’s been chopped up by big pinking shears.’

And Tristan shivered, as he remembered the speed with which Lucy often cut up James’s liver with a big pair of scissors, claiming he hated it in lumps. Oh, God, it couldn’t have been Lucy.

Two policemen were left to guard Wardrobe. Everyone else drifted away, leaving Rozzy with Tristan whose hand she still clutched. To make a break, he crossed the caravan to comfort James, who only betrayed his upset by a frantically shuddering body.

‘You still haven’t eaten,’ gulped Rozzy. ‘Let me make you supper.’

Feeling an absolute rat, but unable to cope with her dark anguish, Tristan pleaded exhaustion.

‘I’ll collapse if I don’t crash out. I’ve got to hold the centre tomorrow. Your dress being cut to bits is bound to freak everyone out, then there’s the wrap party. Forgive me,’ he said, as her tears started to flow again. ‘I’ll buy you dinner next week, and please go and get yourself a new dress tomorrow.’

Reaching in his back pocket, he gave her three hundred pounds, then a hug. Outside he found his hovering, desperately worried first assistant director.

‘Try and comfort her,’ he begged, then his mind careered off. ‘In case Lucy doesn’t get back in time to make up Granny, can you ask Berman’s to put a monk’s black robes with a pointed hood in a taxi first thing?’

‘What d’you think to that?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Ugly,’ said Debbie. ‘Such a nice lady. Who’d deprive her of a lovely dress when she’s got so little?’

‘Might be someone with an ancient grievance because she had such a beautiful voice. We should recheck those ladies who might have been singing in the wood. Chloe, Gloria, Hermione, even Flora, and all the soprano extras.’

Debbie sighed, then said, ‘She was evidently in Tristan’s caravan for twenty minutes this morning. He was so sweet to her tonight. Could it be the murderer not being able to bear him being nice to anyone?’

Back in his caravan, soaked to the skin, Tristan realized he was out of whisky, which would not have happened if that little traitor Wolfie had been here. Nor would a pile of post, rising almost to the ceiling, have been left unopened. Without Wolfie and Lucy, he felt totally defenceless, particularly when there was a knock on the door, and a reporter from the
Scorpion
barged in, brandishing a bottle of champagne to celebrate his release. Having seen the first edition of the
Mail
, she wondered if they could have a word about Claudine Lauzerte.

‘Madame Lauzerte’s been having her gâteau and eating it, according to her maid, who’s dumped in the
Express
, and who is very much on your side, Tristan.’

‘Fuck off,’ howled Tristan, as she held out her tape-recorder.

After that the reporters descended like a pack of wolves. Tristan thought they would rip him to pieces. Fortunately George’s heavies were even better at manhandling the press than bribing planning officers or kneecapping little old sitting tenants, and had soon escorted Tristan to the safety of George’s drawing room.

‘Stay the night,’ said Flora, handing him a quadruple Bell’s. ‘Most of the unit seem to be. They’re too scared to go back to Valhalla.’

Tristan didn’t need any persuading. He went straight to bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Alpheus was sweating. His American agent had been unable to produce any record of calling him on the night of Rannaldini’s murder, and both Chloe and Isa had seen and heard him singing outside Magpie Cottage. On Monday morning, therefore, he had had the humiliation of giving a disapproving DC Smithson and a smirking DC Lightfoot a revised version of his movements on the night of Sunday the eighth. He had indeed jogged home from the tennis but, on seeing a light in Magpie Cottage, had decided to call on Tabitha.

Having showered and changed into the first white suit, he had nipped into River House to pick Tab a posy from Hermione’s ‘well-stocked garden’.

What he did not reveal was that as he was breaking off Hermione’s lilies, he had been transfixed by the sight of his co-star, re-enacting their great shove-and-grunt scene in the summerhouse with another, and stayed and watched them for a minute or two. Burning with lust, he had set out for Magpie Cottage, and told Smithson and Lightfoot, who should have stopped grinning like a jackass, that he had indeed sung a favourite aria under Tab’s window, and received a bottle of red wine over his white suit. ‘I couldn’t see who had thrown it.’ Alpheus was damned if he was going to give Isa and Chloe an alibi.

He also admitted that next morning he had bagged up the wine-soaked suit and given it to the dustmen. Unfortunately, charred fragments of the second, gulls’ egg and grass stained, white suit, together with white rock rose and chimpanzee orchids, identical to the ones used by Beattie to plug herself, were found in the garden at Jasmine Cottage. Suspicion was therefore heavily on Alpheus.

Alpheus’s day had not improved. He was furious about his Shirley Temple curls and Rupert not allowing him to play polo.

If the third white suit didn’t arrive in time, he would be forced to wear some tacky blazer, and Tab had been so rude. He was furious with himself for still fancying the brat rotten. Even worse, the DNA tests were due back tomorrow, which would certainly identify his semen, and Lord knows what else, inside Beattie.