by Jilly Cooper
Gablecross gave her an old-fashioned look.
‘Did you see anything unusual on your way to the Pearly Gates?’ he asked Janice.
‘Only Tristan de Montigny screeching down the drive in that fuck-off car, nearly running me down. Here’s Isa! Please don’t tell him I’ve been gossiping – I might want a reference.’
Gablecross had long hero-worshipped Jake Lovell, as a show-jumper then a trainer, and no jockey had captured the public’s imagination more than his son. Other riders feared Isa, whispering of the risks he took, how he slithered through gaps of which no-one else was capable, how he hurtled past uttering gypsy curses, turning dark evil eyes on the opposition until it melted away.
But as he got out of a second-hand Merc, chewing gum and dressed in patched black jeans and a nettle-green shirt, dark glasses hiding the evil eyes, he looked harmless enough. About five foot eight, the same height as Rannaldini but half the width, he stood watching them, as narrow and dark as a cypress at noon.
Having taken in Karen’s beauty, he ignored her, addressing all his remarks to Gablecross, who immediately softened him up by congratulating him on winning the Grand Annual in Australia last week. Gablecross then displayed so much knowledge about The Prince’s form last winter that Isa took him over to be introduced.
Having ruffled The Prince’s mane and scratched him behind his ears, Isa removed his muzzle before giving him a Polo. But as Gablecross approached, his equine hero darted huge teeth at him with a furious squeal.
‘Shurrup.’ Isa cuffed The Prince affectionately on his black nose. In his soft Birmingham accent, he confirmed Janice’s statement that he’d dropped in on Sunday night to check the horses and his wife, who he hadn’t seen since his return from Australia in June.
‘Long time to leave such a beautiful young woman,’ chided Karen.
‘Times are hard for jump jockeys,’ snapped Isa. ‘You go where the work is.’
At first he flatly denied taking any calls at the yard.
‘We have evidence’, Gablecross flipped back through Karen’s notebook, ‘that your mobile rang around nine thirty, and you cancelled an arrangement to meet someone because the coast wasn’t clear.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Isa was feeling The Prince’s legs for swelling. He had a bad habit of galloping round on this hard ground. ‘People seem to know more about my life than I do.’
‘Who were you talking to?’
There was a pause.
‘I don’t remember, my mobile rings all day – probably my father, and me telling him Rannaldini was at home and we couldn’t remove a horse.’
‘Which horse?’
‘Sparkling – that grey on the left. Rannaldini had a bee in his bonnet the horse wasn’t doing well enough, wanted to give it a blood transfusion before its next race in the autumn. Sometimes it peps them up, more often it wrecks them.’
‘Can we have your father’s number, so we can check on the time?’ said Karen.
Creating a convenient diversion The Prince lunged at Karen’s notebook, sending her scuttling across the yard.
‘He’s ex-directory. I’ll get him to call you.’
‘How was Mrs Lovell when you got back?’ asked Gablecross idly.
‘I missed her. She left a message on my machine saying she was going back to Penscombe because Rannaldini’d found her stepmother’s dog and she’d be back around midnight.’
‘Have you got the tape?’
‘Yes, but the message will have been wiped by now.’
‘You must have been disappointed.’
Isa didn’t answer. His hands tested The Prince’s back.
‘Your cleaner’, Karen peered at her notebook, ‘said there was evidence that Mrs Lovell had been, er, dolling herself up, make-up unscrewed, powder spilt on the dressing-table, place reeking of perfume, new dress, packaging and labels on the floor,’ Karen was taunting Isa now, ‘and, more unusual, the bed was made.’
‘First time since we were married,’ said Isa.
‘Why d’you think she made it?’
‘Turning over a new leaf, perhaps. She wasn’t domesticated.’ He took another piece of green chewing-gum out of his hip pocket.
‘Or expecting someone else? What did you do while you were at the cottage?’
‘Opened a can of Diet Coke, ate a chicken leg, fed Sharon, read my mail and the racing pages of the Sundays – there was a good piece on the Grand Annual in the Sunday Express.’
He bolted The Prince’s door and moved on to the grey, Sparkling, who greeted him with evident pleasure.
‘I also picked up my washing,’ he added bitchily, ‘which my wife hadn’t touched since before I left for Oz, and took it home to my mother.’
He had been spending most of his time over at Jake’s yard because of his father’s deteriorating strength.
‘He can’t look after thirty horses on his own. Baby’s horses are here,’ he pointed to a bay, and two chestnuts down the row, ‘but I’m thinking of taking them back to Warwickshire. The grass is better there.’
‘Friend of Baby’s, are you?’
‘I find horses and ride for him.’
‘No idea who he might have been meeting at Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons on Sunday night?’
‘None,’ said Isa flatly. ‘Our relationship is strictly business.’
‘How did you get on with Rannaldini?’
‘He was an owner. They’re always easier when you win for them.’
‘Did you argue a lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone see you leave Magpie Cottage on Sunday?’
‘No, but I was back in Warwickshire by midnight.’
‘So you had plenty of time to murder Rannaldini.’
‘Why take out my most important owner?’
‘Because he was intending to take all his horses away.’
‘He wasn’t. If you’ve been on this case since Sunday, Sergeant, you must realize Rannaldini was a control freak who tested everyone.’
‘Who owns his horses now he’s dead?’
‘Imagine it’s his son Wolfgang, not my greatest fan. He’s got a stupid public-school crush on Tab, so that wouldn’t be a motive to kill his father, would it?’
‘Did you know his last will cut out both your mother-in-law and Tab, so you don’t stand to gain a penny?’
‘So I was much better off with him alive, wasn’t I?’
‘Did you know your wife’s claiming that Rannaldini raped her on Sunday night, and there are traces of lipstick, perfume and powder on his dressing-gown and his body?’
Isa’s face was expressionless, but Sparkling jumped away with a snort of pain, as his fingers tightened on her foreleg.
‘I didn’t. Rannaldini always had the hots for her.’
‘People said she’d never looked more beautiful or excited as she ran towards the watch-tower. Odd she should tart up like that to pick up a dog.’
‘She had opened a new perfume called Quercus,’ added Karen.
‘I gave it to her,’ said Isa roughly. ‘She knew I was coming round. Has it entered your thick heads that she was tarting up for me, when the loss of her parents’ dog put everything out of her head?’
‘Did she tell you Rannaldini’d raped her?’ asked Gablecross, then swore as they heard Janice calling from the tack room.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ she smirked. ‘But it’s Cecilia Rannaldini returning your call.’
For once, Isa had the grace to blush.
‘Why’s he talking to her?’ hissed Karen.
Gablecross shrugged.
‘Presumably, as the chief inheritor of Rannaldini’s estate, she’s his new boss.’
‘Quite capable of murdering anyone,’ fumed Karen as they left the yard. ‘I wonder if that was his chewing-gum found near the body?’
Late on Wednesday afternoon, PC Brown and PC Jones rolled up at Lucy’s caravan. Tracking down the relevant cast and crew had been a nightmare.
‘Miss Lucy Latimer?’
How nice to see a smiling face, thought PC Jones.
‘We’ve come to give you a DNA test. We’ll need identification.’
‘That’s fine. Thank God, I’ve just found my passport. I’ve been searching all day. Would you like a cup of tea? This is James, he won’t bite.’ She pointed to a shaggy red dog taking up most of the available seating.
‘Very nice lady,’ said PC Brown, as they ticked Lucy’s name off their list twenty minutes later. ‘Sergeant Gablecross said she was a cracker.’
‘Bit long in the tooth,’ said PC Jones, who was all of nineteen. ‘Never really fancied older birds, unless they look like Claudine Lauzerte or Joanna Lumley.’
By the time Lucy had finished making up the cast that night, she was really feeling her age, and her back was killing her.
‘I’ll have to go and see James Benson,’ she groaned.
‘Let me give you a massage in the break,’ said Rozzy, ‘might save you the money.’
Lucy stretched on the table, stripped to the waist, breathing in oil of rosemary, almost falling asleep as Rozzy’s wonderful healing fingers crept round the back of her neck, unknotting the muscles. Next moment she jumped out of her skin, as James let out a furious growl, hackles up, long teeth bared. Something loomed in the window. Was it Rozzy’s shadowy reflection? Then Lucy screamed as a lens crashed against the glass, and she saw the blurred outline of a cameraman. James continued to bark his head off.
A second later Hype-along barged in through the caravan door, and had used up half a roll of film before Lucy could grab a towel.
‘Now I know what you girlies get up to.’
‘You bastard,’ yelled Lucy.
‘Don’t do that to us,’ chided Rozzy. ‘Thank God we’ve got a guard dog. Good boy, Jamesie.’ She held out a hand, but James was still growling and barking.
‘You frightened him,’ said Lucy indignantly. ‘I’ve got a bad back.’
‘And a gorgeous front.’
‘Gimme that role of film.’
‘Naaah, nice for my scrapbook.’
Hype-along sat down in Lucy’s make-up chair and, picking up a powder brush, pretended to mop his brow. ‘Give us a drink.’
As Lucy got a bottle of white out of the fridge, he swung round to face them with shining eyes.
‘Latest gossip is that Rannaldini had the whole of Valhalla wired up like Fort Knox, and the police have the memoirs, and steam is coming out of Glamour Pants Portland’s very clean ears.’
Oh, God, thought Lucy numbly, that’s how they knew about Rozzy’s cancer. Had Gablecross and Karen already known about Maxim being Tristan’s father? Were they flying kites when they interviewed her?
‘Now, you’re not to spread naughty gossip,’ chided Rozzy, taking the dangerously tilting bottle from Lucy, ‘or I’ll water your flowered tie.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ said Hype-along. ‘This is the best fuckin’ publicity I’ve ever had on a film. If Don Carlos doesn’t earn out in its first weekend, I’m a flying Dutchman.’
Having interviewed so many people in one day and left poor Karen to type up their statements for tomorrow’s meeting, Gablecross felt too hyped up to go home and hung around the set, watching, listening and once again failing to nail either Rupert or Tristan, who were still bitching at each other.
For the fourth night running, therefore, guiltily aware that he hadn’t rung in, Gablecross drove through Eldercombe village long after midnight. After the splendours of Valhalla and the pretty cottages along Paradise High Street, with their front gardens full of phlox and standard roses, his house on the Greenview estate seemed humiliatingly poky.
Bought on a mortgage back in the seventies, a Hungerford house had been every young couple’s dream. Newly painted in pastel colours, with friendly neighbours and the morning sun streaming into a modern kitchen, it had had a genuinely green view across Eldercombe valley to Ricky France-Lynch’s house floating in woods like a grey battleship.
But in no time at all developer George Hungerford had started slapping more and more houses around them, blocking out any view, filling the estate with less friendly neighbours, where children took drugs, heaved bricks through windows and resented having a cop living so near.
The value of Gablecross’s house had plummeted and a move to a larger one, where the children could have rooms of their own and surrounded by fields, was only looking possible with the added boost of Margaret’s income as deputy head.
Tim was proud of his wife’s achievement, but he wished the name of the headmaster, Brian Chambers, a smiling leftie with a brown beard who drove a P-reg Volvo Estate, fell off her tongue a little less often. Chambers and Margaret shared a love of opera and swapped CDs. Tim knew he was getting a taste of his own medicine for spending so much time over the years with comely women witnesses. He knew Margaret longed to hear about the goings-on at Valhalla, how she would have given anything to meet Hermione, Chloe, Alpheus and Granville Hastings, but he was still resentful of Brian.
Gablecross thought the pack at Valhalla were crackers and he needed to mull over them with his wife. He hadn’t sussed Tristan de Montigny or Mikhail at all. Finding her awake last night, he had asked her if she’d ever heard of Baby Spinosissimo, but at the first ‘Brian thinks he’s remarkable’, he felt himself shutting up like a clam, and the signed CD from Hermione had stayed in the glove compartment.
Difficult crimes always pushed away the rest of Gablecross’s life. Over the years, Margaret had learnt to cope with the defensive walls, the pensive silences and the dawn homecomings. Her first pay packet had been spent on a microwave.
Expecting earache, Gablecross was amazed to be greeted by an empty house. Going into the kitchen, he found a tomato salad, a French stick, a quarter of Dutch cheese still in its Cellophane wrapping, and a Tesco’s lasagne awaiting him. Against the lasagne was propped a note: ‘Five minutes in the microwave, gone to a staff meeting.’
No doubt tucked up in some bar, or worse, with Brian Chambers, thought Gablecross savagely. He ignored the lasagne, making do with a pickled onion, a slice of ancient pork pie and the Rutminster Echo, whose first four pages were given over to the murder and, infuriatingly, included excellent photographs of Gerald Portland and fucking Fanshawe, grinning beside Gloria Prescott.
Tomorrow, he must go and see Tabitha, and try to pin down Tristan. He put aside the paper, and tried seriously to work out who might have killed Rannaldini, but he couldn’t concentrate with Margaret still out. It was only when he went into the lounge half an hour later for a large Scotch to calm his rage that he found his wife fast asleep on the sofa, the Independent open at the murder.
Fetching the duvet from their bed, he laid it over her. He mustn’t forget their wedding anniversary on Sunday.
The great excitements of Thursday’s Inner Cabinet meeting were, first, that Bob Harefield had been in the air flying to Adelaide on Sunday night when both Hermione and Meredith claimed to have been telephoning him and, second, Mikhail’s two-litre Smirnoff bottle contained traces of H20 but absolutely no alcohol.
‘So the bugger was pretending to be drunk the whole time,’ chuntered Gerald Portland.
Mikhail had also pretended to pass out under the weeping ash for four hours until an Evening Standard reporter tripped over him but, in the meanwhile, could have been quite sober enough to nip into the wood and strangle Rannaldini and, although his English wasn’t good enough to understand the memoirs, he could have burnt down the watch-tower after making off with the Montigny and the Picasso.
Mikhail, who also flatly refused to admit he had nicked Gablecross’s initialled Parker pen, even when he was caught signing autographs with it in Paradise on Thursday morning, was without contrition.
‘I ’ate Rannaldini,’ he said, dragging Karen and Gablecross into the Heavenly Host for a late breakfast. ‘Whoever kill heem is an ’ero. Eef people think me drunk they leave me alone. After Rannaldini take my Lara, I do not sleep for twice nights. Of cour
se I drop off under whipping ash.’
‘Why was your vodka bottle lying near Rannaldini?’ said Gablecross sternly. ‘I suppose it sleepwalked.’
Karen, who was deboning Mikhail’s kipper, got the giggles.
‘You realize you have no alibi.’
‘I have no vife either. Vot is life without her? She says I am piss artist, next day I go on vagon.’
‘So why was your bottle . . . ?’ began Gablecross.
‘I go to votch-tower to kill Rannaldini for making me cockhold, but forest fire stop me getting hands on heem. I hope fire does my vork. And now, perhaps, someone will believe I only spend five minutes with screeching beetch Chloe on Sunday night and that I saw Tristan in Valhalla around nine thirty.’
Suspicion, in fact, was hardening on Tristan, who was flatly refusing to have a DNA test.
To stop Rupert throwing his weight around and demoralizing Tristan even further, Sexton had arranged for him to see a rough cut of the film so far, which Rupert had reluctantly adored. He loved Sharon eating Alpheus’s slippers, he loved the hunting and all Tab’s horses. He cried buckets when Posa died and, after a long silence at the end, said in a disappointed voice, ‘Isn’t there any more? Montigny’s a shit,’ he added, as an afterthought, ‘but an extremely clever one. I even forgot they were singing and he’s made Valhalla look almost as good as Penscombe.’
Being tone-deaf, however, and unable to appreciate Alpheus’s heavenly deep voice, Rupert thought he was the weak link:
‘More like the chairman of the local Rotary Club than a king.’
In fact, poor Alpheus had just arrived back from a masterly Boris in Vienna, where he had taken twelve curtain calls. Why wasn’t he treated with more reverence at Valhalla? He’d only popped back, anyway, for a tiny scene praying in the chapel before his coronation, and intended to push off and sing in New York on Friday and Saturday, returning in time for the polo shoot on Monday. But Sexton, on Rupert’s orders, refused to let him go.
‘You’ve been overpaid for these extra days, Alphie, so stay ’ere in case we need you.’