Score!

‘Everywhere.’

Next moment, Griselda rushed in, shaking with horror.

‘Tristan, Karen, Sergeant Gablecross, listen to this horrible message on my machine.’

Griselda was followed by Flora, George, Bernard and Simone. Her hand was trembling so much they had to endure several seconds of whirring speeded-up chatter before she found the right place on the tape. The voice on the machine was so high and terrified at first no-one recognized it.

‘Please let me have your cloak for a second, I’m so cold.’

‘Lucy,’ gasped Tristan, looking round with desperate bloodshot eyes.

‘Poor child.’ At first the second voice was sympathetic, then it burst into gales of dreadful crazy laughter, then became chillingly hard and cruel. ‘You’ll be burning hot where you’re going. Where were we? Oh, yes, in Rannaldini’s torture chamber. He strapped them just where you are, in the debtor’s chair.’

‘That’s Rozzy’s voice,’ said Bernard hoarsely.

George put an arm round Flora’s shoulders.

Tristan jumped to his feet. ‘Do something, for Christ’s sake.’

Gablecross raised a shaking hand for silence, as Lucy, in a high, terrified voice, spoke again: ‘I can’t believe you killed Rannaldini. You’re far too slight and, anyway, you were in Mallowfield.’

‘Since I’m going to kill you in a minute,’ it was Rozzy’s voice, amused bitchy, ‘I’ll tell you while I do my face. Now, are you sitting comfortably?’

‘What time was that call made?’ barked Gablecross.

‘Someone called me before that,’ said a trembling Griselda.

‘It was me playing seely buggers.’ Simone had gone scarlet. ‘I rang you on the upstairs phone, Grisel, around twelve less ten minutes.’

As if trying to help the police with their inquiries, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed midnight.

‘So it could have been as little as ten minutes ago,’ said Karen, making lightning calculations.

‘I don’t understand why those obscene outpourings are on my machine,’ wailed Griselda.

‘You’re in her memory,’ said Bernard, who’d gone as grey as Simone had scarlet. ‘Rozzy’s as blind as a bat. I called her just after eleven forty-five to ask if she’d seen Lucy and check when she was coming over. She probably meant to switch her phone off after that, not wanting to be interrupted, and pressed your number instead.’

‘We’ve got to get Lucy out.’ Tristan was suddenly roused from shock. ‘Where the fuck’s the torture chamber?’

‘I can show you,’ said a soft voice.

Clive was hovering in the doorway. Never can so many people have been pleased to see him. He was still clutching Lucy’s lilies.

Pray God, they aren’t destined for her grave, thought Tristan in horror.

‘If Rozzy slams the door and flicks the switch to let the water in, Lucy’s got five minutes at best,’ said Clive.

‘Take my plane,’ urged George.

But as they rushed out of the front door towards the hangar, there was a tick, tick, tick and a judder overhead. Like a troupe of dancing stars, a helicopter landed on the lawn. As Rupert opened the door, his blond hair silver in the moonlight, Gablecross, Tristan, Clive and Bernard, cursing as he stubbed his toe on a reconstituted-stone cherub, raced towards him. But Karen outstripped them.

‘Quick,’ she panted. ‘It’s Lucy, in terrible danger. We’ve got to get to Valhalla and rescue her.’

‘The Famous Five,’ drawled Rupert, glancing at the others behind her. ‘That lot have as much chance of rescuing anyone as Mr Blobby.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ howled Tristan.

‘Rupert!’ came an excited cry as Hermione ran out of the house. ‘Now the party has really begun.’

‘You’re on!’ said Rupert, shooting faster than light back into the helicopter. ‘As long as Karen can sit on my knee — but I’m not taking that murderer.’ He glared at Clive. ‘He stole our Gertrude.’

‘You must,’ pleaded Karen. ‘He’s the only person who can lead us to Lucy.’

As she wriggled past Rupert to get into the back seat, she felt the hard bulge of a gun, but decided it wasn’t the moment to quibble. Anyway, they might need it.

Gablecross, still on the ground and on his mobile, was alerting the uniform boys at Valhalla.

‘Whatever you do, don’t arouse suspicion. She’s mad and extremely dangerous, and she’s got Lucy Latimer in there.’

As they flew over a pale lunar landscape, dark grey trees, black houses lit by a molten moon, Clive briefed them in his soft sibilant lisp: ‘The torture chamber’s fifteen feet from the lake and ten feet below the water level. The moment Rozzy presses the switch, the iron door slides up.’

‘I could swim under the guillotine and free her,’ urged Tristan, desperate for some action.