Score!

For a second, Gablecross digested this: Rozzy was such a lovely lady too. ‘Doesn’t make her a murderer,’ he said. ‘She needn’t have cut up her dress. Cancer makes people behave strangely — but good girl, well done.’

Blushing with pleasure, Karen peered into Tab’s room, where she could see a smooth, rakishly handsome man shaking Wolfie by the hand. ‘He’s nice.’

‘James Benson, the Campbell-Black and Rannaldini family doctor,’ said Gablecross. ‘Charges a fortune for being fazed by nothing.’

James Benson was smiling broadly as he came out.

‘Not much to worry about there,’ he told Gablecross, ‘although young Wolfgang must have had a harrowing afternoon. Never a dull moment with that family. I delivered that little tearaway nineteen years ago. Glad she’s found the right bloke at last.’

‘Wolfie’s a good lad,’ agreed Gablecross.

‘Very good. Needs a big family to cosset him and Tab needs guy-ropes.’

‘Could we have a word?’

James Benson looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got two patients to see, Tim, and I’m due out to dinner at nine.’

‘Won’t take long. This is my colleague, Detective Constable Needham.’

James Benson smiled in delight. ‘Oh, well, then I’m sure I can spare a few minutes.’

He led them into the Consultant’s office.

‘I wonder if we can find some sherry — it’s been a long day. How can I help you?’

‘D’you have a patient called Rosalind Pringle?’

James Benson stopped in his search. ‘Funny you should ask that. Rannaldini wanted to know the same thing, the Friday before he died. Came to see me about having his vasectomy reversed, said he’d heard I was treating her. Take a seat both of you,’ he went on, as he perched on the arm of a sofa. ‘Said I wished I had been, always thought Rozzy Pringle the most dishy lady, got all her LPs, used to hang round the stage door at Covent Garden when I was a student at the Middlesex. Funnily enough she’s exactly the same age as I am. Rannaldini’d heard a rumour she’d got throat cancer. I said I hoped not, tragedy to wreck that heavenly voice, but that I’d never treated her for that or anything else. Funny, I’d forgotten all about it, until you reminded me.’

‘You’ve been incredibly helpful, sir,’ said Gablecross. ‘If you’ll forgive us.’

‘That means not only was she bleeding Lucy white under false pretences,’ bleated Karen excitedly as they ran down the stairs, ‘but she could have sung Hermione’s last aria in the wood.’

‘Still circumstantial,’ panted Gablecross. ‘Not going to cancel out a DNA profile.’

But popping into the incident room at the station, they learnt that Rozzy’s local doctor had confirmed he had no knowledge of her having cancer.

‘Have they brought Lucy in yet?’ asked Karen.

‘She gave them the slip,’ sighed the Custody Officer.

Immediately the smile of satisfaction was wiped off Gablecross’s face.

‘The stupid fuckers!’

‘I thought you’d be pleased, knowing she’s your pin-up.’

‘You thought bloody wrong. She’d be safe in custody. If she’s on the loose, she’s in terrible danger. Come on Karen.’ Gablecross raced towards his car.

‘Ought we to tell Gerry Portland?’

‘Certainly not, we’re going to show him and Rupert Campbell-Black we can catch villains.’

But the tale of murder twists and turns. Wolfie, working a sixteen-hour day for the past three and a half months, was unused to so much happiness. He still couldn’t believe Tab was going to be OK and all his, at the same time. Every sound seemed to threaten the head that he loved. So he swore as his mobile rang.

It was Rozzy in tears.

‘Oh, Wolfie, they’re trying to arrest Lucy.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Killing your father and Beattie, and trying to kill Tab.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Wolfie appalled. ‘Look, Tab’s asleep, I’ll go into another room. We’re not supposed to use mobiles in intensive care, it buggers up the equipment. Get onto Rupert, he’ll vouch for Lucy’s innocence, so will Gablecross. He’s in the hospital somewhere, I’ll go and find him.’

But as Wolfie ran down the poorly lit and deserted corridor, Isa appeared from the Emergency Stairs at the other end, carrying a bunch of blood-red roses.

Having not been clocked by Gablecross and Karen as they rushed out of the front door, Isa had had no difficulty getting past the uniformed policemen guarding the lift. After all he was Tab’s husband and the champion jockey and had given them an excellent tip for Goodwood.

‘Hello, my darling,’ said Isa softly, as he catfooted into his wife’s room. ‘Time you and I had a little talk.’

81