Score!

‘We cannot film without Lucy,’ he yelled. ‘Who will make up Granny and Mikhail? Who will disappear Baby’s double chin and Alpheus’s nose?’

‘Rozzy’s offered,’ said Bernard fondly.

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid.’

How could Lucy bugger off like that? raged Tristan. She had left him no message since the now torn-up sprig of honeysuckle. The final straw was Gablecross popping in, all dressed up for his silver-wedding lunch, to put him through the mangle again. Not only had he blocked Rupert’s application for bail, he announced bullyingly, but Interpol had broken into Tristan’s flat in Paris, found some very interesting material and were about to blow the safe.

‘W-h-a-a-a-t?’ howled Tristan, his fingers clamped round Gablecross’s neck once more. ‘You bastard!’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ screamed Karen, leaping forward to prise Tristan off. Feeling the shivering rigidity of his body, seeing the madness in his eyes, there was no doubt he was capable of murder.

‘When are you going to tell us the truth?’ asked a somewhat shaken Gablecross, straightening his unusually smart blue silk tie.

Tristan collapsed in his chair. Suddenly it came spilling out. ‘OK, I came back to Valhalla. I need my address book to call an actor, Colin Firth, to see if he was interested in playing Hercule. I parked the Aston in a field off the drive, I didn’t want to be pestered. I sweat like a peeg, so I had a shower.’

‘And changed back into your favourite peacock-blue shirt and jeans.’ Karen couldn’t contain her excitement.

‘Oui, and then I buggered off to Forest of Dean.’

‘Did you call Colin Firth?’

‘Non.’ And beyond that he wouldn’t budge.

‘He can bloody well appear in court tomorrow,’ said a furious Gablecross, as, armed with Hermione’s CD and Rozzy’s cards and presents, he set off to his anniversary party.

He had looked almost attractive, conceded Karen grudgingly, as she wandered round the incident room, gazing at the map of Valhalla, flipping through statements, looking for silly little details in the jigsaw puzzle. As a detective you had to keep pushing yourself beyond the point you were able or wanted to go, continually asking how, when, why?

Even in the group photograph of the unit, Tristan looked sad. There were enough tears in those haunted eyes to put out any funeral pyre. Why was he so sad?

Karen glanced through the Sundays, which had all led on Tristan’s arrest. Rannaldini’s fans were still streaming into Paradise. A lynch mob had tried to burn down Tristan’s caravan. Portland had put a uniformed man outside. The Scorpion had bussed down a lot of actors clutching more tulips in Cellophane, and photographed them weeping and pretending to be Beattie’s fans. Much was being made of Tristan’s cutting Hortense’s party, his rows with Rannaldini, his callous dumping of Tabitha, the raid on the Paris flat. Tristan’s family had all said, ‘Je ne dis rien’, but Alexandre, the judge, huffing and puffing with disapproval, was expected to fly over for the court hearing tomorrow.

In the Sunday Times there was a big piece by George Perry describing Tristan’s ever-flowering genius, and comparing Claudine Lauzerte with Garbo.

‘Oh, what a beautiful woman,’ sighed Karen, admiring Claudine’s huge, languorous eyes and the thick, dusky hair.

Madame Lauzerte, went on the piece, was currently filming in an adaptation of Rose Macaulay’s novel, The World Is My Wilderness, in Wales. Why should Tristan need an address book and clean clothes to drink brandy in a field? pondered Karen. Who was he gabbling in French to on the telephone when he came back after Rannaldini’s murder? The incident room was having difficulty in tracing the owner of the mobile as the number was unlisted. How could such a devastating man have had no suspicion of a relationship — except for a disastrous skirmish with Tabitha — for the past three years?

Karen picked up a telephone. ‘How would you like that drink?’

Ogborne, having read down the right side of the Heavenly Host menu all summer and chosen the most expensive food, was so fat he could only fit into tracksuit bottoms. Undaunted, he met Karen at the Old Bell in Rutminster during the break.

The willows trailing in the river Fleet were already turning yellow; holidaymakers were hanging over the bridge.

‘Shooting polo’s been a shambles,’ confided Ogborne. ‘Mikhail’s fallen off three times. All he’s interested in is getting his new crocus-yellow Range Rover resprayed before he goes back to Russia — I’m sure it’s nicked. Tab has been yelling non-stop. With no Tristan to smarm, charm and calm, and no Rupert, Lucy or Wolfie, we might as well have stayed at home. How’s Tristan? Bet he’s enjoying the peace. He’ll be auditioning for Hercule soon, so they can send potential leading ladies in with his caviare every day — can’t be bad.’

‘Is Claudine Lauzerte going to be in Hercule?’

‘I’m sure. If Tristan had had his way, she’d have played Elisabetta, but she’s even older than Dame Hermione.’