Score!

‘She was at Valhalla, yesterday,’ said Fanshawe, flashing his teeth. ‘We need to ask her her whereabouts. Uniformed police will be along to fingerprint her later,’ he added smoothly.

‘You’d better come in,’ said Taggie.

Tabitha was in an even worse state, shivering on the drawing-room sofa, gazing into space. Debbie noticed her ankles, criss-crossed with red weals.

‘I’ll ask the questions,’ hissed Fanshawe.

‘Great turn-out for a little dog,’ he began.

Tab looked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Wonder if you could tell us what you did yesterday from eight o’clock onwards?’

‘I worked my horse,’ said Tab, in a high, jerky voice.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ snarled Rupert, as he barged into the room.

‘Investigating the murder of Sir Roberto Rannaldini.’ Determined not to let nobs order him around, Fanshawe stood his ground. ‘We’re checking Mrs Lovell’s movements, in case she saw anything unusual.’

‘She didn’t,’ said Rupert coldly. ‘She came home because Gertrude died.’

‘Can we ask her a few questions?’

‘No, you fucking can’t.’ He turned to Tab. ‘You OK, darling?’

From next door could be heard voices and the popping of champagne corks.

‘Could we ask you a few questions, then?’ asked Debbie, smoothing her blonde bob. Rupert really was gorgeous.

‘If you want to, but you’d better be quick.’

‘I’ll do this one,’ hissed Debbie, as they followed Rupert into his office.

Debbie was very much into the non-confrontational, non-judgemental police interview. She was unfazed by the fact that Rupert was reading faxes, watching the first race runners in the paddock on Channel Four, and filling in entry forms. At least it meant he was relaxed.

‘I’d like you to shut your eyes, make your mind go blank, Mr Campbell-Black, and remember exactly what Tabitha said when she called you last night.’

‘I’ll shut my eyes if you both will,’ said Rupert, a shade more amiably.

‘OK,’ said Debbie. ‘What time did she ring?’

After a long pause, Fanshawe opened his eyes to see Rupert vanishing through a side door. ‘Mr Campbell-Black,’ he shouted, ‘you are impeding a police inquiry.’

‘And we are in the middle of a funeral.’

‘Only of a dog, sir.’

The fury on Rupert’s face made them both retreat.

‘We are investigating the murder of Mrs Lovell’s stepfather,’ protested Fanshawe.

‘Who was only a human,’ said Rupert contemptuously, ‘and a particularly loathsome one at that. Now get out.’

‘Arrogant shit,’ fumed Fanshawe as he belted down the drive.

‘How dare he talk to us like that. All those upper-class fuckers stick together. Same when Lord Lucan copped it, they close ranks and keep their traps shut.’

‘And just think how Gablecross will sneer when he hears we’ve been thrown out,’ sighed Debbie.

48

DS Gablecross was a deep thinker. He rose early, like the sun, moved slowly round examining everything from a different angle, before setting in the west, sleeping on things before he came to a decision. Reassured by his lazy smile and deep, West Country drawl, few people realized the bitterness and frustration simmering beneath the surface.

In the middle eighties, the world had seemed at his feet. A loving wife had looked after him, his three children hero-worshipped him. Working on hunches, playing suspects against each other, he and his running mate, Charlie, had been the most dazzlingly successful villain-catchers in the West Country. Charlie had not been above knocking suspects about. Like a foxhound, he was the kindest animal in the world until he got on to the scent of a quarry.

But then Gablecross’s life had changed. His wife, Margaret, had returned to teaching, the implication being that as he was more interested in catching villains than angling for promotion, they could no longer support three children on a sergeant’s salary. She had swiftly risen to deputy headmistress of the local comprehensive. She was so conscientious that Gablecross often returned after midnight to find her asleep over reports or exam papers. He had preferred the old days: being greeted by charred steak and kidney and Margaret feigning sleep through gritted teeth upstairs. His children had also become teenagers, questioning his every attitude, and regarding policemen at best as fascist pigs who persecuted blacks, gays, women and teenagers.

Worst of all, last Christmas Charlie had been shot in a drugs raid. His killer had been the brother of a young black guy who had committed suicide after Charlie had forced a confession out of him and banged him up for five years.

But if Gablecross’s world had been turned upside down, so had the law. As a result of the 1984 Act, hunches suddenly had to be justified and everything backed up with forensic or tape-recorded evidence. Supposed to make it easier to prove guilt, this gradually took the personality out of investigation and only the safety players prevailed. As a result, Gablecross’s battle-scarred contemporaries had taken early retirement or dull jobs in security. But being a hunter was the only thing Gablecross knew.