Score!

Lucy had been searching for hours, shouting herself hoarse, running herself into a state of collapse. To add to her frustration, her mobile wouldn’t work in the wood so she had to keep returning to the house or the Paradise — Cheltenham road to ring the police and the local dog sanctuaries.

Purplish-black clouds were massing on the horizon and the wind had risen, tangling her hair. After yesterday’s downpour, the woodland floor was impossibly slippery, her legs were lacerated by bramble cables and nettles, her face and arms scratched, her knees bruised and bleeding where she had continually fallen over. But she felt no pain except desolation.

‘James, James.’ Her voice echoed mockingly back at her. The hot heavy air carried every sound except a joyful bark. To the clay shoots banging away in anticipation of 12 August was added a rumble of thunder. Untranquillized, James would bolt half-way to London. Returning to the road once more, she punched out the number of Rutminster police station.

‘It’s Lucy Latimer again, ringing about James, a big red shaggy lurcher. He slipped his collar so he hasn’t got a name tag.’

‘Who did you say?’

‘Lucy Latimer.’

She could hear a hand thudding over the receiver, then a man’s voice, calm but quivering with excitement. ‘Where are you, Lucy?’

‘To the north of Hangman’s Wood.’

‘Come back to the big house.’ Then, after a pause, ‘We’ve got good news for you.’

‘Oh, my God! He’s red and shaggy.’

‘That’s the one. Meet us at your caravan, Lucy.’

Crying with relief, her loafers squelching in sympathy, Lucy ran all the way. Oh, please, please, please, let it be James. An extraordinary garish light was gilding the wheatfields, turning the Valhalla lawns a Day-glo emerald. Silver streams were hurtling down the valley into an ever-rising lake. Outside her caravan beside the love-in-a-mist, a bowl of food she’d left to tempt James was so heaving with maggots she nearly threw up. She was about to chuck it out when, glancing into her caravan, she saw that her suitcase had been opened, her drawers up-ended and her bag emptied on the table.

Tristan’s papers, she thought in horror. Leaping up the steps, unzipping the bench-seat cushion, she sighed with relief. The parcel was still there. She must lock it safely in her make-up box, but where were her keys? Normally they hung on a hook beside her nieces’ photographs.

‘Lucy Latimer,’ yelled a voice.

‘James, where is he?’ croaked Lucy as, still clutching Tristan’s parcel, she bounded down the steps.

DC Miller had never confronted a murderer before. This one certainly looked crazy: muddy and bloodstained, with scratches on her arms and legs, a torn dress, hair like an electrocuted bird’s nest and frantically heaving breasts.

‘Oh, please, give me back my dog,’ gasped Lucy.

Then police were fanning round her, and Lucy caught a glimpse of handcuffs, or was it a gun in Fanshawe’s hand?

‘Lucy Latimer,’ he said triumphantly, ‘we are arresting you for the murders of Roberto Rannaldini and Beatrice Johnson, and the attempted murder of Tabitha Lovell.’

‘Wha-a-a-t?’ whispered Lucy. ‘You tricked me. You haven’t got James at all. Bastards!’ Her voice rose to a scream.

Seeing a gap to the left, she shot through it. Terror gave her feet wings — she had not run for Cumbrian Schoolgirls for nothing. She also knew Valhalla better than any of the police. Racing across the facilities unit, jumping box hedges, running towards the car park, for a second she left whistles and baying Alsatians behind, then went slap into Rozzy.

‘Darling, whatever’s the matter? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘The police! They think I’m the murderer,’ sobbed Lucy. ‘Oh, Rozzy, help me, I didn’t do it.’

‘Of course you didn’t. How ridiculous!’

‘I can’t let them arrest me until I’ve found James.’ Lucy took off across the grass again.

‘You certainly can’t. Funnily enough, I keep hearing squeaking. I just wonder if the old boy’s got himself shut in somewhere. Clive’s back. He might have been poking around, and left a door open.’

‘Oh my God, Clive stole Gertrude! He might steal James!’

‘I can’t keep up with you,’ gasped Rozzy. ‘I’ve got a stitch. I know where you can hide.’ She tugged Lucy behind a yew peacock as a cursing, sweating Fanshawe pounded past.

Grabbing Lucy’s hand, Rozzy led her through iron gates across the east courtyard in through the back door along endless dark passages, then up shiny polished dark stairs into Rannaldini’s study, which had a musty, neglected smell. There were no fan photographs stacked on the big oak desk now, no-one to encourage Don Juan, astride the lady of the manor, in the Étienne de Montigny on the right of the fireplace.

Rozzy went straight to the left of the painting and started to tap the panelling.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Lucy, through desperately chattering teeth. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn but outside she could hear shouting.

‘Looking for the priest-hole. I’ll find it in a second.’

‘Please hurry,’ begged Lucy.