Score!

Meanwhile every radio station was playing Rannaldini’s music. Howie had been on to American Bravo and instigated a massive re-press of all his records. BBC TV had already announced they would be rerunning Rannaldini’s masterpiece, Don Giovanni, starring Hermione Harefield and Cecilia Rannaldini tomorrow evening in conjunction with Radio 3. News programmes worldwide led on the murder, showing clips of the Don Carlos press conference with Rannaldini and Tristan swearing eternal brotherhood and, to Ogborne’s delight, of Alpheus rearranging the police car driving-mirror in order to comb his hair before facing the media.

By nine, uniformed police were trooping in in raincoats to start a fingertip search through a drenched Hangman’s Wood. Others were going along the high street and up the drives of the big houses dotting the valley, asking people if they’d seen anything even more extraordinary than usual last night.

As cast and crew woke from fitful sleep to clutch their hangovers, euphoria that the fiend was no more was tempered by fear that his killer was still at large. This was heightened by excitement, particularly among the women, as news leaked out that Rupert Campbell-Black would be pumping in millions to save the film, and henceforth acting as executive producer.

At midday Oscar had arrived from Paris with Valentin and three crates of rouge, which might now last until the end of the shoot.

‘No doubt Peppy Koala will be telling me where to put my lights,’ he grumbled, and, adding that he hoped Rupert’s temper was better than his daughter’s, bore Valentin off to lunch at the Heavenly Host. There he was incensed to find every table taken by the media, who were equally incensed to be banished outside Valhalla’s main gates. The vast crowd there included journalists and photographers jabbering away in every language under the sun, a fleet of television vans, arc-lights, satellite dishes, mobile canteens, a bar and Portaloos, as everyone rampaged through Paradise frantic for stories.

Hype-along, wielding even more mobiles than Sexton, and unusually sombre in a black armband, flowered tie and flared pale blue suit, told the cast and crew that the police would prefer them not to talk to the media.

‘Unless they offer you at least a hundred grand,’ shouted Baby, who’d just spent a lucrative hour on the telephone to the Sydney Morning Herald.

Lucy had been woken within seconds of finally falling asleep by James squeaking excitedly and Rozzy banging on the door, distressed not to be able to find Hermione’s cloak.

‘And why’s the place swarming with police?’

‘Rannaldini’s been murdered.’

‘Don’t make stupid jokes.’

‘It’s true, Rozzy.’

Rozzy was furious that Lucy hadn’t rung her before.

‘I suppose I’m not important enough.’

‘Oh, Rozzy.’ Groggily, Lucy switched on the kettle. ‘You had a migraine, we didn’t want to disturb you.’

Rozzy was really upset — ‘Rannaldini was a genius’ — and wanted to know all the details. ‘How’s Tristan taken it?’ she asked finally.

‘I don’t think he’s back,’ said Lucy.

Should she tell Rozzy about Jessica’s sighting and Simone’s account of Tristan cutting Aunt Hortense’s party? Rozzy got so upset if she were left out.

All day the rain poured down on fans, who poured, weeping, into Paradise to leave flowers wrapped in Cellophane at Valhalla’s gates.

‘Maestro, take me with you to heaven,’ said one card. Many fans also made pilgrimages of condolence to Dame Hermione’s gates. Alpheus, dropping off a large bunch of salmon-pink gladioli that the Paradise garden centre were selling off cheap after the weekend, was displeased to see the vast number of young people among the crowds. Rannaldini’s popularity had clearly not been on the wane.

Outraged that someone had nicked all her lilies in the night, Hermione arrived, veiled and smothered in black, with her arms full of yellow roses covered in greenfly. As she knelt in prayer for at least five minutes for the benefit of the world’s press, she was filled with fury that Rozzy had already left a beautiful bunch of lilies in their own vase of water.

As the day progressed and the rain continued to gush out of Valhalla’s gargoyles, to the worry that they wouldn’t be able to film outside was added the fear that Tristan had done a runner.

‘We can’t stop production. This picture’s costing thousands of pounds a day,’ Sexton told Gablecross and the couples of plain-clothes men and women who’d arrived to question everyone on the unit.

‘Understood,’ said Gablecross. ‘You carry on. Where are you planning to shoot?’

‘If the rain stops, on the terrace, then in the maze.’

‘OK, I’ll move my team in. No-one must go near Hangman’s Wood — the area’s cordoned off anyway. We’ll draw people out as we need them. We also need to fingerprint everyone.’

Gablecross was paired with the most ravishing black girl, wearing a white, tightly belted trenchcoat, whom he introduced as DC Karen Needham.