by Jilly Cooper
‘Why didn’t you scream for help?’
‘Rannaldini had his hand over my mouth, I saw the black hairs like bristles on crackling.’ Tab started to shudder again, her face beaded with sweat.
‘You’re quite safe,’ soothed Karen. ‘Sergeant Gablecross and I are here. Ann-Marie’s in the kitchen, look, the nice old gardener’s outside.’
To Tab, Mr Bodkin seemed miles away, merging into the heat-haze shimmering on the gravel and the smoky-blue trees beyond.
‘I tried to bite him, my teeth clashed on his wedding-ring – the wedding-ring my mother gave him, for God’s sake.’
‘Tell me what he did to you.’ Karen was stroking Tab’s hair. ‘It’s quite OK to be frightened.’
Tab described the rape quite dispassionately, breaking down only when she came to Gertrude. ‘He hit her with a bust, then threw her against the carved chest. Bastard!’ Her voice rose to a scream.
‘It’s OK to be angry.’
‘I pushed him against a table and snatched up Gertrude, who was pouring blood, and stumbled down the stairs into the wood.’
‘What happened to your glass?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It was found by his body.’ Gablecross was on the warpath again. ‘Sure you didn’t kill him because you were so angry?’
‘No.’
‘Or lie in wait once you found Gertrude was dead, and kill him when he came out looking for you?’
‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you run back to the tennis court where all your friends were?’
‘I lost my bearings. I was so terrified he’d come after me, I just wanted to get away.’
‘How’d you get home?’
‘I was waiting by the telephone box. I heard someone singing and footsteps. I thought it was Rannaldini. I ran into the road and a big car coming from Paradise screeched to a halt. I begged the driver to give me a lift. He wanted to take me to Casualty in Rutminster, I asked him to drop me on the road to Cotchester but he swung his car round and took me the whole way home.’
Tab didn’t remember anything about the car or the man except that he was kind.
‘He wrapped a rug round me and Gertrude – she was bleeding all over the car. He turned the heating up so high he was pouring with sweat by the time we got home.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Old, at least forty.’
Karen suppressed a smile as Gablecross winced.
‘No-one you recognized?’
‘No, and he wouldn’t come in. I thanked him for saving me, and he said, in this funny accent, “I’ve got to thank you for saving me from something much bigger,” and drove off.’
‘Did you notice this picture in the watch-tower?’ Gablecross held out a photograph of The Snake Charmer.
‘Yuk,’ said Tab. ‘It was on the wall in the sitting room.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite. Rannaldini pointed it out, saying wasn’t he handsome in those days. I told him he looked better now. I wasn’t leading him on. It was true. He looked like an Italian waiter when he was young.’
Tab took a slug of her now tepid vodka. Maybe the worst was over. Karen got up and prowled round the room. Gablecross renewed the attack.
‘Why did you really kiss Rannaldini?’ he asked. ‘Did you lure him on to rape you so you had an excuse to strangle him in self-defence?’
‘For the hundredth time, I kissed him because I was so grateful he’d found Gertrude. What crucifies me is the thought of her terrible last hours, kidnapped, totally confused and terrified because she was deaf and blind, and then murdered.’
‘All very touching,’ said Gablecross sarcastically. ‘I think you fancied your stepdad something rotten and if, as you allege, this was the first time, how the hell d’you explain these?’ Like a straight flush, he triumphantly splayed the photographs in front of her.
For a minute, Tab was speechless as the colour swept her face, merging with the blotches until it was all the same ugly red, as she gazed down at her own lascivious beauty, the half-closed eyes, the curling tongue, the thrust-forward breasts, the pink lips glistening between the long slender white thighs.
‘The full split beaver,’ said Gablecross roughly.
‘My father had a dog called Beaver,’ said Tab slowly. Then she flipped. ‘How absolutely gross.’
She struggled to her feet to grab the photographs then, finding her legs wouldn’t support her, collapsed back on the sofa.
‘It’s a trick, my head on someone else’s body.’
‘But in your own bedrooms at Valhalla and at Magpie Cottage,’ said Gablecross. ‘We checked out the background. You have been a busy girl.’
‘I have not!’ Tab’s scream was so raw that Sharon, who’d been trembling and swallowing throughout the interview, crept under the sofa. Her bone was black with buzzing flies now. Gablecross chucked it out of the window.
‘I never took off my clothes for Rannaldini,’ whispered Tab. ‘God, how revolting.’ A horrible thought struck her. Perhaps Isa had taken them and given them to Rannaldini, perhaps Rannaldini had hidden in the cupboard, perhaps Clive . . . ? ‘Oh, Christ, I swear I never knew they were being taken. Where did you find them?’
‘Taking pride of place in Rannaldini’s memoirs. Are you sure you didn’t catch a glimpse of them on Sunday night and burn down the watch-tower?’
‘No, this is the first time.’ God in heaven, why couldn’t this sweating, red-faced thug leave her alone?
Karen was flipping through the little cards that had come with the flowers. ‘Did you ring anyone else after the rape?’
‘No, only Wolfie and Daddy.’
‘Not Tristan de Montigny to tell him what had happened?’
‘Why ever should I? He was in France.’
‘Tristan threatened to kill Rannaldini on Friday. He was seen in Valhalla at the time of the murder.’
Tab started in horror, the colour deserting her face, leaving a grey wasteland.
‘If you’d tipped Tristan off Rannaldini had raped you,’ accused Gablecross, ‘you could have pushed him over the edge. Perhaps he heard your message on Wolfie’s machine.’
‘No.’ Clapping her hands over her ears, Tab frantically shook her head. ‘No, no, no!’
‘Wolfgang threatened to kill his dad after he heard that tape,’ taunted Gablecross. ‘Hope you weren’t telling porkies. Might ’ave encouraged that young man, even your father, to kill Rannaldini, or did you tell your husband?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Hello, I’m back. Lovely basket of fruit arrived for you, Tab, darling.’
As a slender, very tall girl walked in, Gablecross leapt guiltily to his feet. This must be Rupert’s wife, Taggie. She looked hardly older than her stepdaughter. Unfortunately he was too late to stop Sharon wriggling out from under her chair. Frantically searching around for a present, she snatched Tabitha’s photographs off the table, and proudly bore them over to Taggie.
‘Drop, Sharon, for God’s sake!’ Tab stumbled forward, snatching the photographs, then crumpling to the floor, sobbing hysterically. ‘They think I killed Rannaldini, that I led him on to rape me. Please don’t look at those pictures.’
Seldom had Karen witnessed such fury; a tigress protecting her cub.
‘How dare you b-b-bully her after all she’s been through, you horrible, horrible beast!’ yelled Taggie.
Even Gablecross stepped back.
‘You’re right, he is a beast,’ agreed Karen. Together she and Taggie lifted a weeping Tab to her feet. For a second, she froze, rigid with revulsion, then collapsed weeping in Taggie’s arms.
‘I didn’t want anyone to know about the rape. I wouldn’t have blurted it out to Dad or Wolfie. I was just so devastated about Gertrude.’
‘I know, darling.’
‘I feel so awful about Mummy. She’s had such a terrible time with the press over the years. Imagine the f-f-field day Beattie Johnson’s going to have when she finds out Rannaldini rape
d me, particularly if the police say I led him on, and what will the Lovells say? Jake hates me, and Isa’s never forgiven me because of Peppy Koala. Oh, Taggie, I’ve made such a mess of my life.’
‘You haven’t.’ Taggie tugged the red scarf from her dark hair, holding it for Tab to blow her nose on, as if she’d been Bianca.
‘You’re good, brave and beautiful.’
‘Like a beautiful car that doesn’t work,’ wailed Tab. ‘I loved Lysander, Isa and Tristan so much. Why didn’t any of them love me? Because I’m bad luck, that’s why, and I don’t want to bring any more to Mummy. I love her so much too, but she’s never rung to see if I’m OK. I expect the police have already told her I pulled her husband. What’s she going to think when she sees those pictures?’
What would you think if you knew your sainted mother had grassed about your beloved father’s gun? wondered Gablecross bitterly.
‘What will she say when it all comes out?’ mumbled Tab.
‘Perhaps it can be hushed up?’ Taggie turned beseechingly to Karen.
‘Tabitha’s been very co-operative,’ said Karen, who was feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself.
Taggie turned back to Tab. ‘Look, why don’t we ask Mummy to stay for a bit?’ Her far too kind heart was already sinking as she made the offer.
But a tiny spark had ignited Tab’s face.
‘Could we? Oh, Taggie, you are kind. I hate her rattling about in that creepy house, stalked by Rannaldini’s ghost.’
‘And you must open your lovely basket of fruit,’ said Karen. ‘Mangoes and persimmons. Someone wants you to start eating again.’ She handed Tab the tiny envelope.
They were from Wolfie.
‘Perhaps he might drop Mummy off,’ sniffed Tab. ‘I’d love to see Wolfie again.’
Gablecross was profoundly depressed. Karen had bawled him out for bullying Tab, Rupert Campbell-Black had lodged a ferocious complaint with the Chief Constable, Gerry Portland was threatening to take him off the case altogether, and he had absolutely no idea who had killed Rannaldini.
It was nearly dark. Walking towards the Valhalla car park he nearly had a fit as he saw a young boy sobbing in Rupert’s arms. Then he realized it was Flora, back for a brief appearance as Elisabetta’s bodyguard, who’d just been subjected to another short back and sides for the sake of continuity.
‘George is a ghastly bore and a pleb, darling,’ Rupert was saying, ‘and far too old for you.’
‘You’re older than Taggie, and you’re happy,’ wept Flora.
‘We’re not talking about me and I’m certainly not a pleb. George is so insanely jealous, no-one as gorgeous as you stands a chance. If he’s kneecapped old biddies in the past, he’s quite capable of doing you a mischief and putting a contract on Rannaldini.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ sobbed Flora. ‘I love him so much.’
Passing Wardrobe, Gablecross saw Rozzy Pringle getting dress shirts ready for the extras in the ball scene. Looking at the big hot iron in her hand, the scissors and pinking shears hanging from the walls and the safety-pins and needles spilling out of boxes, he thought there were plenty of murder weapons here.
‘Sergeant Gablecross,’ called Rozzy, blushing slightly, ‘you’ve been working so hard, I thought you might have forgotten your wedding anniversary on Sunday so I got a card and wrapped up some presents.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Gablecross spoke roughly to hide the lump in his throat. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘It’s a present – or presents.’ She laughed. ‘You’ve been so sweet to us.’
‘Not what Rupert Campbell-Black thinks.’
‘He’s a brute.’
‘You’ve saved my bacon. I had forgotten,’ said Gablecross gratefully, as he scribbled, ‘All my love, Tim,’ in a Happy Anniversary card. ‘Thanks so much. Every man should have a woman like you.’
‘I wish my husband thought so,’ sighed Rozzy.
It was a highwayman’s night, with racing black clouds and the stars making only cameo appearances, except for blazing Jupiter, still pursuing a glittering yellow half-grapefruit of a moon.
Gablecross couldn’t wait to get home to Margaret. He needed to run his latest suspicions past her and have a moan about Karen getting on his nerves. Approaching the Greenview estate, passing the waiters wearily closing up the Chinese restaurant, he reached in the glove compartment for Hermione’s CD, saw Brian Chambers’s blue Volvo coming the other way, and nearly drove into a wall. Passing his house he saw Margaret in the kitchen in her dressing-gown. She didn’t look glammed up. Maybe they’d just had sex, or she knew Brian well enough not to bother too much. Swinging the car round, Gablecross drove over to Rutminster Hall.
He knew, having got away with a solo raid on Clive, and having received a warning from Portland this afternoon, he was putting his career on the line. But, like a junkie needing a fix, he had to follow his hunch. If George Hungerford had experienced a quarter of the murderous rage he himself had just felt towards Brian Chambers . . . And he was not taking Karen. A tough, uncommunicative businessman would never open up in front of a woman.
Rutminster Hall lay on the other side of town, as far as possible from the Greenview estate. George wouldn’t spoil his own rolling hillside with eczema rashes of little houses, thought Gablecross savagely. No lights were on, but music was pouring so loudly out of the speakers that George didn’t hear the car coming up the drive. Only people who lived in magnificent parks could get away with playing music that loudly. Only when Gablecross banged the car door did George come racing round the side of the house.
‘Flora!’ For a second he seemed to disintegrate with disappointment, then seeing Gablecross’s ID card, he brusquely invited him in.
‘I haven’t got long.’ It was a lie; he had all eternity to long for Flora.
Gablecross knew George was a mate of the Chief Constable, so he’d better tread carefully. He was also aware that George was a major player in the world property market who had often sailed too close to the wind, but who had shown a softer side as managing director of the Rutminster Symphony Orchestra, where he had fallen in love with its youngest player, Flora Seymour.
This was the man who had ruined Gablecross’s view and made the value of his house plummet, but he couldn’t hate him because George looked so desolate. Thin, unshaven, black beneath the eyes, he hadn’t slept since his row with Flora, and was now, like Citizen Kane, dying of loneliness inside his vast ugly castle.
They sat on the terrace, George with an untouched whisky, Gablecross with a Perrier. Below them lay new-mown hay like a choppy pale grey sea. Through a gap in the trees, as if mocking them, stood a moonlit temple of Flora.
‘Nice place.’
‘Morgue without Flora.’
When asked what he had been up to on Sunday, George claimed he had stayed in to watch a video of the orchestra’s recent tour of Switzerland. They had played Britten’s piano concerto and Glazunov Three. His staff had Sunday night off, so there were no witnesses.
‘A helicopter landed in Valhalla.’
‘Wasn’t mine. Never left its hangar.’
It was no secret, said Gablecross, that George had hated Rannaldini, and had intended to slap a bypass or even a motorway through his land.
‘Bastard hated me back. Tried to take over my orchestra, furious that Flora preferred me. Should never have let her get into his clutches. Look what happened! Rannaldini cut her hair, forced her into a man’s suit and onto some dyke. No wonder she ricocheted into the arms of that Aussie poofter. Rannaldini set the whole thing up.’
George knew the world was swarming with gays, that it was cool for girls to get into passionate friendships with them. Flora had adored Campbell-Black’s son, Marcus. Gays understood women, were more sympathetic. He knew he was hamfisted. Shyness made him inarticulate.
‘In theory,’ he confessed, ‘I shouldn’t deprive the world of such a beautiful voice. In practice, I want her home where I can look after he
r.’
‘Same with my wife,’ agreed Gablecross. ‘All I can say is there’s a very, very unhappy young lady at Valhalla.’
‘I’ve been preoccupied,’ admitted George. ‘I owed forty million to German banks.’
Gablecross agreed it made his two-hundred-pound overdraft seem rather paltry.
‘I’m out of the woods now, but I wasn’t nice to live with. I even grumbled about her little dog – miss him like hell, he’s so clever. If I came down to breakfast in a tie, he knew I was going to the office and there was no point in getting his lead for a walk.’
‘This is Don Carlos, isn’t it?’ said Gablecross, recognizing the music as Philip launched into his great soliloquy.
George nodded. He’d got hooked on it when he was helping Flora learn her part and had identified increasingly with Philip.
But having found a jewel, would he kill someone who’d pushed her into infidelity? wondered Gablecross.
‘I’ll have that drink after all,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you call her?’
George said he’d been going to ring her on Sunday when a courier had arrived with an envelope: ‘Photographs – Do Not Bend.’ Heart – Do Not Break.
Inside had been pictures of an ecstatic Flora on the lawn at Angels’ Reach with a ridiculously handsome youth with no double chin, beer gut, or grey hairs.
‘Shouldn’t deprive her of happiness with someone younger.’
‘Baby’s a charmer but he’s very queer,’ said Gablecross gently.
‘“If you have betrayed me,”’ Philip II’s voice reverberated round the park, ‘“by Almighty God, tremble, I shall have blood.”’
‘What were you really up to on Sunday night?’ asked Gablecross.
‘I stayed at home.’
‘Come off it, Mr Hungerford. You were seen driving through Paradise around ten twenty-five.’
George looked down at the temple of Flora, no longer floodlit, as the moon crept behind a cloud.
