‘D’you think he killed him?’

‘Possibly. Rannaldini was a deal-maker, Tristan a dream-maker. It was inevitable they’d fall out if they worked together. According to Simone, Tristan cut his aunt’s eighty-sixth birthday party in Paris so he could have got back. I always suspected he was one of Rannaldini’s illegits. Rannaldini was far nicer to him than to Wolfie. On the other hand, Tristan could be gay, and in love with Rannaldini. Only that could explain how their relationship survived such fearful rows.’

‘You reckon?’ Gablecross tried to hide his interest.

Karen’s eyes were on stalks as she scribbled frantically to keep up.

‘Well, Tristan’s incredibly buddy-buddy with his foppish French crew. And he’s taken all the attractive women in the cast out to dinner but never lifted a finger. Serena Westwood, who’s beautiful, had a next-door room to him in Prague. Not a pass was made.’

‘Didn’t he like Tabitha Campbell-Black?’ piped up Karen.

‘So did Rannaldini, bats about her.’ Taking another slug of bottled water, Chloe told them about the newspapers flaring up under Tab. ‘That was probably the first murder. If Tristan hadn’t dragged her free, she’d have burnt to death — and good riddance to most people, she’s such a brat. Anyway, they fell into a showy clinch, and he whisked her home, leaving Ranners foaming at the mouth and Tristan’s admirers ready to slit their throats. But during the night something happened. Perhaps he couldn’t get it up, perhaps Rannaldini put the boot in, but the next morning he blew her out. The atmosphere was terrible. Wolfie’s had to carry Tristan ever since.’

Chloe smiled wickedly.

‘What other soap updates would you like? Flora had a schoolgirl crush on Rannaldini until he dropped her from a great height. This summer he dropped Gloria, Hermione and Serena and didn’t provide parachutes for them either, and he was atrocious to Helen, always flaunting other women. Any of that lot could have done it.

‘A lot of people’, Chloe pondered, ‘might have bumped off Rannaldini for being horrible to Tristan, who does inspire devotion. I’m sure Bernard’s a closet gay and in love with him. Rozzy Pringle’s got a real old lady’s crush, posies in his caravan, darning-needles at the ready. And Lucy Latimer, our make-up artist, as they like to be called, shakes so much if Tristan drops into her caravan you risk getting your eyes gouged out with a mascara wand. Lucy’s one of those plain women men leave children and dogs with rather than wives for. Anyone else?’ Chloe glanced up at the telephone list beside the mirror. ‘Most of the Frog crew were in Paris on Sunday night, but are quite capable of putting a cross-Channel hex on Rannaldini. Mikhail’s a kleptomaniac — removes your earrings when he makes a pass and never gives them back.

‘Wolfie’s cute. He arrived carrying a torch for Flora, but transferred his affections to the brat. Pushy Galore — that’s what we call Gloria Prescott — heard Wolfie threatening to kill Rannaldini around ten forty-five on Sunday night. I should wear a chastity belt when you interview Pushy, Detective Sergeant. She’s into hunks.’

Looking up from her shorthand notebook, Karen said tartly, ‘Alpheus Shaw told us Gloria was a delightful young woman and a lovely singer.’

In a second, Chloe’s look of amused composure was wiped off her face. ‘Alpheus Shaw — “Offshore”, to his accountant — is a serial adulterer,’ she hissed. ‘He’ll have to quarter his consumption, if he’s going to play Don Giovanni with any conviction. I don’t know who had the bigger ego, him or Rannaldini. But Rannaldini was so incensed that Alpheus beat him at swimming he seduced Alpheus’s ghastly wife Cheryl and, playing Leporello, listed every woman Alpheus had been up and down to this summer, which included Hermione and Pushy. Alpheus has also been up to one Stradivarius of a tax fiddle, putting, among other things, Mr Bones, his German shepherd, on the payroll as his financial manager. Rannaldini threatened to expose him, refused to replace the Jaguar Wolfie totalled, and teased him about his big nose. Oh, Mr Shaw had plenty of motive to murder Rannaldini.’

Slowly the quiver of rage subsided.

‘On a happier note I guess we have to congratulate you,’ said Karen innocently. ‘I’d love to play Delilah.’

Again, Chloe’s face convulsed with fury. ‘I’d got that part. That bastard Rannaldini, who saw himself as a global puppeteer, pulled strings and got it given to Cecilia, his geriatric ex-wife, no doubt in lieu of alimony.’ Again the rage cooled. ‘This is all off-the-record, of course.’ Chloe smiled sweetly. ‘Eboli is such a mischief-maker — I was psyching myself into the part.’

‘Would you like to make a statement?’

‘Perhaps,’ teased Chloe. ‘Mikhail tries to stab me in the next scene. Please stick around and guard me, Detective Sergeant.’

As she turned to the mirror, dabbing away a few beads of sweat with a powder brush, Wolfie popped his head round the door.

‘Five minutes, Chloe.’

Gablecross consulted his notes.

‘At nine thirty you were heard down by the tennis court making a call on your mobile, asking how things were going.’

‘To my mother, I always ring her on Sunday night.’

‘And you were phoned back at nine thirty-five, and said,’ again Gablecross referred to his notebook, ‘“OK, terrific. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”’

There was a pause.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant. It was Mummy ringing back. We were arranging lunch. I’d be free, because of night-shooting. She was letting me know Wednesday was fine.’

‘Could we have your mother’s phone number?’

‘I think I chucked it. She’s touring abroad, and gave me lots of numbers, probably some hotel.’

Karen made a note to follow this up.

‘You left the tennis after that?’ she asked.

Playing for time, Chloe rummaged in her handbag for a silver scent spray, squirted it behind her ears and into her cleavage.

‘Lovely perfume,’ sighed Karen.

‘I can never remember what it’s called.’ Chloe turned back to Gablecross. ‘I went for a jog round Paradise. The tennis had hardly been arduous.’

‘You’ve been most helpful,’ said Gablecross, leaping to open the door.

‘“Just a jog at twilight,”’ sang Chloe, disappearing into the night.

‘That woman is the biggest bitch,’ stormed Karen. ‘There isn’t a member of the cast she hasn’t slagged off.’

‘But very useful.’ Gablecross squinted at his reflection in Chloe’s mirror: perhaps he was hunky rather than fat. ‘Wonder why she never married?’

‘Prefers to be the leisure activity of some guy cared for by a wife,’ said Karen dismissively. ‘And her alibi is extraordinarily thin.’


46


Shooting was progressing so much faster now Rannaldini was no longer around to say, ‘No, no, no,’ that Gablecross was anxious to nail Mikhail before he pushed off. He found him in the bar, a great Russian bear, dropping five Alka-Seltzers into a pint mug of water.

‘Is my fault.’ Mikhail rolled dark eyes to heaven. ‘I drink two litre of vodka yesterday, and even vorse, I have munchies ven I vake, and eat jacket potato with baked beans and two sandwiches filled with bacon, avocado and mayonnaise. Now I feel seek.’ He proceeded to refute Chloe’s story. ‘Bloody bitch is bloody liar. I never sleep viz her and spend only five minutes arguing in maze.’

‘She said you argued for several hours.’

‘Rubbish! I pass out.’

‘With respect, sir, you might not have been in a fit state to remember.’

‘I remember her going, I pass out under wipping ash, I also have a perfect motive for murder. Rannaldini set up party knowing I’d be kissing everyvun, then he introduce my vife. I love my vife, and he visks her off to votch-tower, and make me cockhold.’

Karen, who was given to laughter, buried her face in her notebook.

‘How d’you know Rannaldini took your wife to his watch-tower? Have you spoken to her since then?’

‘Of course not.’ Mikhail smote his breast. ‘Rannaldini visk all vomen to votch-tower. Whoever murder Rannaldini is ’ero. Vork is vonderful. I am booked for Figaro, for recording of Elijah. Cecilia Rannaldini, who play Delilah with me, who eat bass baritone for breakfast, ask me to stay in Rome.

‘But all that is nothing’, Mikhail unhooked Gablecross’s Parker pen from his breast pocket to sign the bill, ‘vizout my Lara. Vot price crocus-yellow Range Rover I just buy if there is no Lara to drive round steppes?’

He would be back on Wednesday or Thursday, he assured Gablecross, when they could talk more. ‘OK, Mr Wolfgang,’ he added, as Wolfie appeared at his shoulder. ‘I come and am quite sober.’ He belched loudly. ‘I am off to murder Eboli. Votch my knife slide into that bitch.’ Then he burst into earth-shattering song, ‘“Vot has he said? Unhappy woman, tremble,”’ as he strode off.

Gablecross turned to a grinning Karen. ‘Nice straight bloke.’ He liked men who loved their wives. ‘Goodlooking, too. Now where the hell did I put my pen?’

Overhead Jupiter danced a stately gavotte with a newish moon. Below the rows escalated.

‘The beetch keeked me on front legs,’ roared Mikhail.

‘I’m not having him brandishing that knife at me,’ screamed Chloe.

A white rose in a plant pot flew out of the maze, narrowly missing Gablecross’s head.

‘Don’t worry,’ said a soft, sweet voice, ‘they’re only psyching themselves up to sing. Come and have a nice cup of tea. My name’s Rozzy Pringle.’

The Tristan-worshipper, thought Karen.

Back in Make Up, which was deserted because Lucy was on the set, Karen saw that Rozzy had a lovely face but so criss-crossed with lines it was as though some Victorian beauty was peering through a lattice window.