Score!

‘But all that is nothing’, Mikhail unhooked Gablecross’s Parker pen from his breast pocket to sign the bill, ‘vizout my Lara. Vot price crocus-yellow Range Rover I just buy if there is no Lara to drive round steppes?’

He would be back on Wednesday or Thursday, he assured Gablecross, when they could talk more. ‘OK, Mr Wolfgang,’ he added, as Wolfie appeared at his shoulder. ‘I come and am quite sober.’ He belched loudly. ‘I am off to murder Eboli. Votch my knife slide into that bitch.’ Then he burst into earth-shattering song, ‘“Vot has he said? Unhappy woman, tremble,”’ as he strode off.

Gablecross turned to a grinning Karen. ‘Nice straight bloke.’ He liked men who loved their wives. ‘Goodlooking, too. Now where the hell did I put my pen?’

Overhead Jupiter danced a stately gavotte with a newish moon. Below the rows escalated.

‘The beetch keeked me on front legs,’ roared Mikhail.

‘I’m not having him brandishing that knife at me,’ screamed Chloe.

A white rose in a plant pot flew out of the maze, narrowly missing Gablecross’s head.

‘Don’t worry,’ said a soft, sweet voice, ‘they’re only psyching themselves up to sing. Come and have a nice cup of tea. My name’s Rozzy Pringle.’

The Tristan-worshipper, thought Karen.

Back in Make Up, which was deserted because Lucy was on the set, Karen saw that Rozzy had a lovely face but so criss-crossed with lines it was as though some Victorian beauty was peering through a lattice window.

Since her trip home for Glyn’s birthday, Rozzy had abandoned her short, becoming curls and regressed to her seventies style of straight hair falling to below her collarbones with a straggly fringe. Her pale pink lips, and big dark-ringed eyes were seventies too, as were the flat shoes, and the bra-less figure in the calf-length floral shift. Gablecross thought she looked like a hippie Deborah Kerr. His wife, Margaret, was a huge fan of Rozzy.

‘It was my husband Glyn’s fiftieth birthday yesterday,’ she confided. Switching on the kettle, she took some slices of chocolate cake from a polythene bag. ‘So I’ve brought back some of his cake. We’ve been married twenty years — it seems like yesterday. How long have you been married, Officer?’

Gablecross clapped his head with his palm. ‘You must remind me,’ he begged Karen. ‘It’s our twentieth anniversary on Sunday. Murder inquiries take over, you forget everything.’

‘Have you got kids?’ Karen asked Rozzy.

‘I’d so love to have had,’ sighed Rozzy. ‘My husband has two from a previous marriage. But how pretty you are, child.’ Rozzy gazed at Karen in wonder. ‘I bet you’re hungry. We’ve got basil in the window-box outside, I’ll make you some tomato sandwiches.’

‘Piece of cake’ll be fine,’ said Gablecross, who wanted to start the questions. ‘You must be upset about Rannaldini.’

‘Very.’ Rozzy’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He had such a dreadful childhood, you know. His father was a German officer, fighting in Italy at the end of the war, his mother an Italian intellectual. They fell in love, Rannaldini was the result. The officer went back to Germany, the Italian intellectual was married anyway to a farmer, but always felt little Roberto had blighted her political career. She was terribly harsh on him.’

Putting three tomatoes in a bowl, Rozzy poured boiling water on them. ‘Then, when Rannaldini was only in his teens,’ she went on, ‘he realized his fairy godmother had given him good looks, alarming charm and musical genius. The world was at his feet, and I’m afraid it spoilt him. But underneath he was sick at heart, because he’d had four wives and endless, endless women, but never been able to maintain anything permanent.’

‘What about Dame Hermione?’ asked Karen.

‘They made a huge amount of money for each other,’ said Rozzy tartly, ‘ditto Cecilia Rannaldini.’

‘How’d you know so much about him?’

‘We often worked together.’

With the swiftness of the working stepmother, forced to do things in a hurry, while she had been talking Rozzy had made a pot of tea, put milk in a jug, laid out cups and saucers, skinned and chopped the tomatoes, and topped them with basil, salt and pepper. Now she slapped them between slices of buttered brown bread.

‘Voilà.’ She put the plate of sandwiches in front of Karen. ‘Please tuck in too, Detective Sergeant.’

Gablecross patted his gut. ‘Can’t get into any of my suits. Could you describe your movements on Sunday?’

It seemed her husband’s birthday party hadn’t been much fun.

‘I came out of the kitchen and found Glyn kissing Sylvia, our nanny-stroke-housekeeper.’ Rozzy’s lip trembled. ‘Stroke’s the operative word. She’s very pretty, and it was his birthday.’

‘This sandwich is yummy. Did you have a lovely dress?’ said Karen, longing to cheer the poor lady up.

‘Rainbow-striped silk,’ said Rozzy, ‘I made it myself.’

‘What time did the party end?’ asked Gablecross, helping himself to a slice of chocolate cake.