Score!

The iron has entered into that young man’s soul, decided Gablecross. He’s not only madly in love with Tabitha Lovell but lying through his extremely good teeth. Glancing at the screen again, he noticed how colourless the famous people appeared beside Rannaldini. You couldn’t fail to respond to the flashing whiteness of the smile, the hypnotic eyes, the undeniable magnetism.

‘Could you come and identify the body, sir?’

‘Certainly,’ said Wolfie, emptying the rest of his cup of coffee into the wastepaper basket.

They found the forensic team sifting through the ashes, videoing evidence, scattering grey aluminium powder on the remnants of the watchtower, in the forlorn hope of finding fingerprints. The pathologist, who’d just arrived, was examining Rannaldini’s body. Only when the sheet was drawn back did Wolfie’s composure crumble.

The strikingly handsome Rannaldini now looked like his Spitting Image puppet: a grotesque satyr, swollen almost beyond recognition, blood and saliva dripping from his nose and tongue, lips pulled back in a hideous leer. ‘How horrified Papa would have been to be videoed without Lucy here to brush his hair,’ said Wolfie, starting to laugh, then finding he couldn’t stop.

‘It’s all right, lad.’ Gablecross put a hand on his shoulders.

Alpheus’s dressing-gown had fallen open to show the muscular legs. Wolfie noticed the starchy white residue on his father’s thighs, the bite on the ankle, and the huge erection stiffening as rigor mortis set in.

‘Probably been dead for no more than two hours,’ said the pathologist, replacing the sheet.

Gablecross glanced at his watch. ‘About half ten, then.’

Blood had blackened the grass, washing away the earth, laying bare the Cotswold stone underneath. Wolfie wondered if someone had mistaken his father for Alpheus. Gripped again with terror that Tab might have killed him, Wolfie lurched away, retching into the brambles. As he returned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he said defiantly, ‘I don’t care how many people slag him off. He was my father and a great man.’

41

While Gablecross interviewed Helen and Wolfie, Ogborne had joined the mob swarming all over Valhalla, as they filmed, photographed and gabbled into tape-machines, describing everything they could see in the darkness.

Armed with Valentin’s lightweight video camera, Ogborne had turned up the brim of Hermione’s sunhat like a sou’wester. He was delighted to catch Alpheus leaving in a police car to collect his clothes, combing his rich auburn locks for the television cameras.

‘Where are you from?’ asked a BBC cameraman.

‘Bourbon Television,’ said Ogborne.

‘Never heard of it. Where’re they based?’

‘Paris,’ said Ogborne, who was now filming the paparazzi, who, like puppies fighting for their mother’s teats, were jostling each other to get a close-up of Wolfie, returning stony-faced from identifying the body.

‘News travels fast.’

‘Director’s a Frog, so’s most of the crew,’ explained Ogborne. ‘Huge story for us.’

‘We’re trying to sign up the mistress,’ said a reporter from the Mirror.

‘Which one?’ asked Ogborne. ‘He had lots.’

‘The big one.’

‘Hermione?’

‘That’s it. Know where she hangs out?’

‘What’s it worf?’

When two hundred readies had been thrust into Ogborne’s hand, he pointed to River House.

‘She’s very greedy,’ he called after the departing reporter. Why in hell hadn’t he become a cameraman before?

‘Great hat,’ said the man from the BBC.

‘They’re all the rage in Paris,’ said Ogborne. ‘You can have it for fifty quid if you like.’

Thoroughly overexcited by so many hunky young police officers talking softly into their mobiles and flashing their torches, Clive sought refuge in an ivy-clad ruin near the graveyard to ring Beattie Johnson.

‘Rannaldini’s been murdered. How much are you going to pay me for the memoirs and the photos?’

‘We’ve already been offered them.’ Beattie, like Rannaldini, adored giving pain.

‘Shit. By who?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know? We’ll go with the cheaper. Talk to you in the morning.’

Possibly a million smackers the poorer, Clive switched off his mobile and froze as he saw a torch approaching like a will-o’-the-wisp from Hangman’s Wood. Beside him, Tabloid started growling and whimpering. Putting a hand down to quiet the dog, Clive felt the rigid bumps of his hackles. Then his own hair shot on end as he realized that the violet-tinged light was too big for any torch, and that it wasn’t attached to any policeman.

Bobbing past him, it went straight through a yew hedge to disappear among the dark holm oaks of the graveyard. Clive couldn’t breathe. He felt icy sweat trickle down his ribs under his leather jacket. Even if Rannaldini’s body was destined for months in the morgue, the violet light was trying to guide him to the graveyard to join Valhalla’s dead. The wind was getting up. Feeling, for once, in need of company, Clive raced towards the house.