Score! (81 page)

‘Oh, golly.’ Half inside the cupboard, Lucy realized she was still clinging on to Tristan’s parcel, and gave a sob.

‘“The heart that loves you will never be closed to you,”’ she stammered. ‘“Here are my important papers.” Oh, please, guard them with your life and see that Tristan, and no-one else, gets them. And if I’m arrested and he comes back,’ Lucy’s voice cracked again, ‘please take care of James. Production’s got my wages, that should keep him going for a bit.’

‘Don’t worry about anything.’ Taking the parcel, Rozzy leaned inside to kiss Lucy’s muddy, tearstained, quivering cheek. ‘Good luck, pet.’

Wriggling down through the hole, Lucy groaned as she landed on some rubble, wrenching her ankle.

‘Hush, someone’s coming.’ Rozzy picked up the floorboard. ‘See that sticking-out brick — no, to the right of it. If you press that, a door swings open to a secret passage down to the lake, but don’t use it unless you have to. I’ll put the police off the scent, then find Sergeant Gablecross, who’ll spring you the minute the coast’s clear. Never fear, Aunt Rozzy’s here!’

In slotted the floorboard above Lucy’s head, leaving her in total darkness. Then she heard the panel in Rannaldini’s study creaking shut and was overwhelmed with terror.

How could they think she was the murderer? Had she been wise to trust Rozzy, who must have had one hell of an
affaire
with Rannaldini to know all those things? Would Rozzy leave her boarded up for ever like the Canterville ghost? Would Aunt Hortense ever forgive her if Tristan’s papers fell into police hands? At least Tristan should soon pick up the note in his pigeon-hole. Oh, God, she mustn’t go to pieces.

Leaning against the wall, she regained her breath and steadied herself, then pressed the brick and sure enough a door creaked open. Feeling her way round the walls she found an opening, but it was only four feet high and very narrow. The air smelt damp and musty. She screamed as something wet, furry and cold scuttled over her foot. She would have stayed put rather than embark on the dark journey if she hadn’t heard the faintest whining.

‘James,’ she called out, not daring to shout, in case she could be heard in the study or out in the garden. There it was again, the faintest whimper.

‘Oh, my poor old boy.’

She crawled along, jagging her scratched, bleeding hands and knees even more on the rocks, giving little screams as icy water dripped on her head and slimy walls grazed her sides. She only kept going because of the whining and because, as the passage jinked and twisted, she would have got stuck if she’d tried to turn round.

Just as her eyes were getting accustomed to the dark, it lightened ahead. A clap of thunder rocked the tunnel like an earthquake, followed by another even more deafening. The whining grew more frantic.

‘Oh, please,’ she prayed out loud, ‘please don’t let James have broken anything. I’ll never be able to carry him back to safety. I’m coming, my angel!’ she cried.

She could hear rushing, pounding water. She must be near the lake. The roof was getting higher: soon she’d be able to walk. Then, as she took another turn, her blood froze to a thousand degrees below zero. Her hair shot on end. Her heart stopped as, like dreadful chloroform, she was asphyxiated by the stench of Maestro. Glancing ahead she saw the back of a black figure, terrifying in its utter stillness. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t cry out. Then she heard the snake-crawling swish of a cloak on the rocky floor, and in the dim light could make out the silvery hair, the cruel, arrogant profile, the burning eyes, the evil smile as he turned slowly towards her.

Oh God, was Rozzy in league with Rannaldini?

James gave another agonizing howl as though someone was torturing him.

‘No, Rannaldini,’ croaked Lucy. ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t hurt James. Oh, please, no,’ and hit the rocks with a dull thud as she fainted.

It was the last set-up of
Don Carlos
. Flocks of birds and a pink and yellow hot-air balloon were drifting up from the Bristol Channel. On the horizon an orange sun, striped with black stratus clouds, waited like a curled-up tiger to erupt over the horizon.

‘Tristan’s a cool customer,’ Grisel muttered to Simone. ‘If he’d had a suitable stand-in, he’d have reshot that ride-off straight away.’

Tristan was now calmly briefing Alpheus. ‘You don’t have to look heavily disapproving, just a flash of outrage because your son is suddenly attracting the best girls.’

‘Quiet, please,’ shouted Bernard, for the hundredth time, as an incredible tension spread through the crowd round camera and actor.

‘Mark it,’ shouted Bernard.

‘Scene two hundred and fifteen, take six,’ shouted the clapper-loader.

‘And action,’ shouted Tristan.

Happily, at that moment Alpheus caught sight of Little Cosmo, showing some photographs to a giggling Jessica, and had no difficulty looking outraged.

‘Cut,’ shouted Tristan in delight. ‘
Formidable
, Alpheus. Just check the gate.’

Simone pressed her stop-watch. Total silence fell. Two hundred yards away uniformed police could be seen examining the cordoned-off area in front of the far goal posts where Tab had had her fall.

The gate was clear.

‘Shall we say it now?’ went up the chorus.

‘
Oui
,’ said Tristan.

‘It’s a wrap,’ yelled everyone, whooping and cheering.

‘I wanted to say it.’ Simone’s dark Montigny eyes filled with tears.

‘
La fin, la fin
,’ said Griselda, blowing her nose noisily.

Solemnly Tristan shook hands with Bernard, Oscar, Valentin, Sylvestre, Ogborne, followed by the crew. Then they all posed for a last photograph, taken by Hype-along, already resplendent in a pink seersucker suit for the wrap party.

‘Have you heard from Lucy?’ Tristan asked Bernard yet again.

‘No, but I’m sure she’ll turn up later.’

Over at Rutminster police station, Gerald Portland was going ballistic. ‘How could twenty-four of you lose Lucy Latimer? What the fuck am I to tell the press? They’re all outside.’

After consultation, however, he decided to put a massive guard on George’s house and go ahead with the wrap party.

‘Try to contain people in the walled garden,’ he told his men. ‘If Latimer’s that obsessed with Montigny, she’ll roll up to kill again. We’ve got her handbag, her passport, her car keys, she can’t get far.’

Down the road at Rutminster General, Gablecross was striding up and down the foyer, muttering, ‘I’m not a fucking guard-dog.’ Charlie, his old running mate, would be turning in his grave. The hospital was swarming with press.

‘Come on, Tim, who’s done it?’ asked the
Mail on Sunday
.

‘Not at liberty to say.’

‘Rutminster Constabulary, and Sergeant Gablecross in particular, can’t even catch the clap,’ yelled Rupert, dummying past the waiting journalists and racing for the front door.

Seeing Karen joining in the laughter, Gablecross turned on her in fury. ‘And you can bugger off down to the station and flash your tits at Andy,’ he roared, ‘in case anything interesting’s come in with Lucy’s stuff.’

‘Stop putting me down. It’s not my fault I’m not Charlie,’ sobbed Karen, and sending a nurse and a trayful of medicines flying, she ran out into the street.

‘Anything interesting on Lucy Latimer?’ she asked five minutes later, allowing herself a languorous flutter of the eyelashes.

Andy, the exhibits officer, had in the past lost a lot of sleep over Karen. Making sure no-one was around, he muttered, so she had to draw close to hear him, that a rude letter from a bank manager had been found in Lucy’s handbag. ‘She’s very overdrawn, and the bastard seems relieved funds are coming in at the end of filming. We’ve also got some bank statements.’

‘What’s she been spending her money on?’ Karen brushed her breasts in the cream shirt against Andy’s arm.

‘Sends two hundred and fifty a month home to her parents,’ said Andy, consulting the statement. ‘Subscribes to a number of animal charities, but most of it seems to have gone to someone called Rozzy Pringle. She’s given her nearly three grand in the last two months.’

Karen whistled. Could Rozzy be blackmailing Lucy?

Parker’s department store in the high street was having an after-hours preview of new stock for account customers. Heading for Evening Gowns, Karen tried on a spangled horror in shocking pink.

‘That looks gorgeous,’ said the sales girl truthfully, who was used to Peggy Parker’s friends, who needed a shoehorn to get into a size twenty. ‘You part of the
Don Carlos
crew?’

Karen shook her head. ‘But I know a lot of them shop here.’

‘We had that Rozzy Pringle in last Thursday,’ said the girl wistfully. ‘Bought a floaty grey Belinda Belville dress.’

‘Are you sure it was
last
Thursday?’ squeaked Karen.

‘Quite sure. It was my afternoon off. I always miss the celebs.’

Karen was fighting for breath by the time she reached Gablecross, who was hovering outside Tabitha’s hospital room. ‘Sarge, you’ll never guess. Lucy’s given huge sums of money to Rozzy, and Rozzy bought her wrap-party dress on Thursday afternoon, the day she claimed to have been going to the doctor. She must have slashed her rainbow dress yesterday to avert suspicion.’

For a second, Gablecross digested this: Rozzy was such a lovely lady too. ‘Doesn’t make her a murderer,’ he said. ‘She needn’t have cut up her dress. Cancer makes people behave strangely — but good girl, well done.’

Blushing with pleasure, Karen peered into Tab’s room, where she could see a smooth, rakishly handsome man shaking Wolfie by the hand. ‘He’s nice.’

‘James Benson, the Campbell-Black and Rannaldini family doctor,’ said Gablecross. ‘Charges a fortune for being fazed by nothing.’

James Benson was smiling broadly as he came out.

‘Not much to worry about there,’ he told Gablecross, ‘although young Wolfgang must have had a harrowing afternoon. Never a dull moment with that family. I delivered that little tearaway nineteen years ago. Glad she’s found the right bloke at last.’

‘Wolfie’s a good lad,’ agreed Gablecross.

‘Very good. Needs a big family to cosset him and Tab needs guy-ropes.’

‘Could we have a word?’

James Benson looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got two patients to see, Tim, and I’m due out to dinner at nine.’

‘Won’t take long. This is my colleague, Detective Constable Needham.’

James Benson smiled in delight. ‘Oh, well, then I’m sure I can spare a few minutes.’

He led them into the Consultant’s office.

‘I wonder if we can find some sherry — it’s been a long day. How can I help you?’

‘D’you have a patient called Rosalind Pringle?’

James Benson stopped in his search. ‘Funny you should ask that. Rannaldini wanted to know the same thing, the Friday before he died. Came to see me about having his vasectomy reversed, said he’d heard I was treating her. Take a seat both of you,’ he went on, as he perched on the arm of a sofa. ‘Said I wished I had been, always thought Rozzy Pringle the most dishy lady, got all her LPs, used to hang round the stage door at Covent Garden when I was a student at the Middlesex. Funnily enough she’s exactly the same age as I am. Rannaldini’d heard a rumour she’d got throat cancer. I said I hoped not, tragedy to wreck that heavenly voice, but that I’d never treated her for that or anything else. Funny, I’d forgotten all about it, until you reminded me.’

‘You’ve been incredibly helpful, sir,’ said Gablecross. ‘If you’ll forgive us.’

‘That means not only was she bleeding Lucy white under false pretences,’ bleated Karen excitedly as they ran down the stairs, ‘but she could have sung Hermione’s last aria in the wood.’

‘Still circumstantial,’ panted Gablecross. ‘Not going to cancel out a DNA profile.’

But popping into the incident room at the station, they learnt that Rozzy’s local doctor had confirmed he had no knowledge of her having cancer.

‘Have they brought Lucy in yet?’ asked Karen.

‘She gave them the slip,’ sighed the Custody Officer.

Immediately the smile of satisfaction was wiped off Gablecross’s face.

‘The stupid fuckers!’

‘I thought you’d be pleased, knowing she’s your pin-up.’

‘You thought bloody wrong. She’d be safe in custody. If she’s on the loose, she’s in terrible danger. Come on Karen.’ Gablecross raced towards his car.

‘Ought we to tell Gerry Portland?’

‘Certainly not, we’re going to show him and Rupert Campbell-Black we can catch villains.’

But the tale of murder twists and turns. Wolfie, working a sixteen-hour day for the past three and a half months, was unused to so much happiness. He still couldn’t believe Tab was going to be OK and all his, at the same time. Every sound seemed to threaten the head that he loved. So he swore as his mobile rang.

It was Rozzy in tears.

‘Oh, Wolfie, they’re trying to arrest Lucy.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Killing your father and Beattie, and trying to kill Tab.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Wolfie appalled. ‘Look, Tab’s asleep, I’ll go into another room. We’re not supposed to use mobiles in intensive care, it buggers up the equipment. Get onto Rupert, he’ll vouch for Lucy’s innocence, so will Gablecross. He’s in the hospital somewhere, I’ll go and find him.’

But as Wolfie ran down the poorly lit and deserted corridor, Isa appeared from the Emergency Stairs at the other end, carrying a bunch of blood-red roses.

Having not been clocked by Gablecross and Karen as they rushed out of the front door, Isa had had no difficulty getting past the uniformed policemen guarding the lift. After all he was Tab’s husband and the champion jockey and had given them an excellent tip for Goodwood.

‘Hello, my darling,’ said Isa softly, as he catfooted into his wife’s room. ‘Time you and I had a little talk.’