by Jilly Cooper
‘I’ll find her.’ Rozzy patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry.’
Rupert managed to catch the five fifty news on a hospital television. That pompous ass Gerald Portland was giving a press conference at Rutminster police station. He was flaunting a purple spotted tie with a purple striped shirt and kept smoothing his chestnut hair for the cameras.
‘We are treating this incident as attempted murder,’ he was telling the rugger scrum of reporters. ‘But happily I can confirm that Tabitha Lovell is no longer in a life-threatening condition.’
After that, Portland’s emergency meeting of the Inner Cabinet was most embarrassingly interrupted by an apoplectic telephone call from Rupert. ‘I merely said she was no longer in a life-threatening condition, Mr Campbell-Black.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid. The person who’s just tried to kill her for a second time has already killed two people and tried to bump off half a dozen more, and is still on the loose. If that isn’t fucking threatening her life, I don’t know what is. All you overpaid cretins do is waste tax-payers’ money chasing the wrong people.’
‘We are about to make an arrest,’ said Portland huffily.
‘Well, until the killer’s behind bars, I want a dozen men guarding Tab at the hospital – and while you’re on, never, never, never wear spots with stripes.’
‘Bastard!’ Portland slammed down the telephone.
But nothing could dent his euphoria. The DNA testing had at last produced a match.
‘Who is it, Guv?’ begged DC Lightfoot in excitement.
Gerry Portland turned to Gablecross, not without a certain satisfaction. ‘I’m afraid it’s your girlfriend Lucy Latimer, Tim.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Karen indignantly.
‘She never had a cast-iron alibi,’ went on Portland. ‘She was allegedly walking that dog when both Rannaldini and Beattie copped it, and her DNA profile showed up in Rannaldini’s saliva and in the bite on Beattie’s shoulder. She was carrying Tabitha’s saddle when Tristan fired her – that probably pushed her over the top. And her fingerprints and fibres from Tab’s stirrup leather were found all over the penknife on her key-ring, which Kevin and Debbie’, Portland grinned at Fanshawe and Debbie, ‘unearthed from a bin-bag outside Wardrobe. Latimer must have been frantic to get rid of it.’
‘The murderer must have stolen her keys,’ snapped Gablecross, who had only recently come off the telephone to Wolfie. ‘Why should Lucy want to kill Tab when she’d just come back from France, where she’d specially gone to clear Tristan’s name so he could marry Tab?’
‘Very subtle,’ said Fanshawe nastily. ‘After such altruism, no-one would suspect her of murdering Tab. Then she could have Tristan for herself. Her total, total obsession is behind the whole thing. You and Karen were the first people to suss how crazy she was about him.’
‘Then why did she kill Rannaldini?’ demanded Karen.
‘Because he was going to tell the world Maxim was Tristan’s father,’ explained Gerald Portland. ‘She killed Beattie for the same reason. Rannaldini had humiliated her by making a pass at her – it’s in his memoirs. Psychopaths can’t stand being belittled, and Rannaldini was also threatening to tell Tristan she was crazy about him. She tried to kill Tab because she couldn’t bear her to have Tristan.’
‘Doesn’t add up,’ muttered Gablecross.
‘’Fraid it does,’ said Fanshawe patronizingly. ‘Everyone Tristan favoured got warned off. Granville’s patchwork quilt, Flora’s fox, poor Rozzy’s dress cut to ribbons, putting petrol in the water cans, all the work of a mad person.’
‘What about the adder in Lucy’s make-up box?’ pleaded Karen.
‘A plant – made her look like a victim, same as showing Tim the burn from the poisoned champagne on her tablecloth. She’s diabolically clever, like all psychos. She failed twice with Tab, but she’ll strike again.’
‘I swear she hasn’t done it.’
‘The DNA’s conclusive, Tim. It’s always the quiet ones,’ said Portland, not unkindly. ‘Latimer spent so much time making other people beautiful, but they got the clapping. For the first time in her life, she’s got a bigger audience than they ever will.’
Then he turned briskly to Fanshawe and Debbie. ‘Go and pull her in. Well done, both of you.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Gablecross dully.
‘Searching the Valhalla woods for her dog, but we’ve got tails on her and she keeps ringing to check if he has been handed in. Next time we’ll nail her. You and Karen better go and keep an eye on Tabitha at Rutminster General, Tim. We don’t want any slip-ups.’
The ultimate put-down, thought Gablecross savagely, the hound demoted to guard-dog.
Lucy had been searching for hours, shouting herself hoarse, running herself into a state of collapse. To add to her frustration, her mobile wouldn’t work in the wood so she had to keep returning to the house or the Paradise–Cheltenham road to ring the police and the local dog sanctuaries.
Purplish-black clouds were massing on the horizon and the wind had risen, tangling her hair. After yesterday’s downpour, the woodland floor was impossibly slippery, her legs were lacerated by bramble cables and nettles, her face and arms scratched, her knees bruised and bleeding where she had continually fallen over. But she felt no pain except desolation.
‘James, James.’ Her voice echoed mockingly back at her. The hot heavy air carried every sound except a joyful bark. To the clay shoots banging away in anticipation of 12 August was added a rumble of thunder. Untranquillized, James would bolt half-way to London. Returning to the road once more, she punched out the number of Rutminster police station.
‘It’s Lucy Latimer again, ringing about James, a big red shaggy lurcher. He slipped his collar so he hasn’t got a name tag.’
‘Who did you say?’
‘Lucy Latimer.’
She could hear a hand thudding over the receiver, then a man’s voice, calm but quivering with excitement. ‘Where are you, Lucy?’
‘To the north of Hangman’s Wood.’
‘Come back to the big house.’ Then, after a pause, ‘We’ve got good news for you.’
‘Oh, my God! He’s red and shaggy.’
‘That’s the one. Meet us at your caravan, Lucy.’
Crying with relief, her loafers squelching in sympathy, Lucy ran all the way. Oh, please, please, please, let it be James. An extraordinary garish light was gilding the wheatfields, turning the Valhalla lawns a Day-glo emerald. Silver streams were hurtling down the valley into an ever-rising lake. Outside her caravan beside the love-in-a-mist, a bowl of food she’d left to tempt James was so heaving with maggots she nearly threw up. She was about to chuck it out when, glancing into her caravan, she saw that her suitcase had been opened, her drawers up-ended and her bag emptied on the table.
Tristan’s papers, she thought in horror. Leaping up the steps, unzipping the bench-seat cushion, she sighed with relief. The parcel was still there. She must lock it safely in her make-up box, but where were her keys? Normally they hung on a hook beside her nieces’ photographs.
‘Lucy Latimer,’ yelled a voice.
‘James, where is he?’ croaked Lucy as, still clutching Tristan’s parcel, she bounded down the steps.
DC Miller had never confronted a murderer before. This one certainly looked crazy: muddy and bloodstained, with scratches on her arms and legs, a torn dress, hair like an electrocuted bird’s nest and frantically heaving breasts.
‘Oh, please, give me back my dog,’ gasped Lucy.
Then police were fanning round her, and Lucy caught a glimpse of handcuffs, or was it a gun in Fanshawe’s hand?
‘Lucy Latimer,’ he said triumphantly, ‘we are arresting you for the murders of Roberto Rannaldini and Beatrice Johnson, and the attempted murder of Tabitha Lovell.’
‘Wha-a-a-t?’ whispered Lucy. ‘You tricked me. You haven’t got James at all. Bastards!’ Her voice rose to a scream.
Seeing a
gap to the left, she shot through it. Terror gave her feet wings – she had not run for Cumbrian Schoolgirls for nothing. She also knew Valhalla better than any of the police. Racing across the facilities unit, jumping box hedges, running towards the car park, for a second she left whistles and baying Alsatians behind, then went slap into Rozzy.
‘Darling, whatever’s the matter? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘The police! They think I’m the murderer,’ sobbed Lucy. ‘Oh, Rozzy, help me, I didn’t do it.’
‘Of course you didn’t. How ridiculous!’
‘I can’t let them arrest me until I’ve found James.’ Lucy took off across the grass again.
‘You certainly can’t. Funnily enough, I keep hearing squeaking. I just wonder if the old boy’s got himself shut in somewhere. Clive’s back. He might have been poking around, and left a door open.’
‘Oh my God, Clive stole Gertrude! He might steal James!’
‘I can’t keep up with you,’ gasped Rozzy. ‘I’ve got a stitch. I know where you can hide.’ She tugged Lucy behind a yew peacock as a cursing, sweating Fanshawe pounded past.
Grabbing Lucy’s hand, Rozzy led her through iron gates across the east courtyard in through the back door along endless dark passages, then up shiny polished dark stairs into Rannaldini’s study, which had a musty, neglected smell. There were no fan photographs stacked on the big oak desk now, no-one to encourage Don Juan, astride the lady of the manor, in the Étienne de Montigny on the right of the fireplace.
Rozzy went straight to the left of the painting and started to tap the panelling.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Lucy, through desperately chattering teeth. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn but outside she could hear shouting.
‘Looking for the priest-hole. I’ll find it in a second.’
‘Please hurry,’ begged Lucy.
‘Rannaldini showed me,’ Rozzy gave an almost coy giggle, ‘when we once had a little fling, and Cecilia, his then wife, came home unexpectedly, but he swore me to secrecy. Now how does it work?’
‘Pur-lease,’ beseeched Lucy. The raised voices and excited barking were getting nearer.
‘Got it.’ Suddenly, with an arthritic creak, the panel swung back to reveal a big dark cupboard.
‘I don’t want you to be done for aiding and abetting,’ gibbered Lucy. ‘Oh, Rozzy, you do believe I’m innocent? I adore Tab.’
‘I know you do.’ Dropping to her knees, Rozzy reached inside the cupboard and removed the floorboard. ‘Get inside, quickly. What’s that you’re clutching?’
‘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.’
