‘You ought to work for Hello!,’ said Fanshawe sourly. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

Edging forward, they caught sight of Tabitha, who looked as though she’d been struck by lightning. A big purple bruise on her left temple and cuts down her right cheek added the only colour to her deathly pale face. She seemed about to collapse, and was being supported by Rupert’s head groom, Dizzy. Next to them, with a face of granite, stood Rupert, holding Xavier and Bianca by the hand. In her other hand Bianca clutched a jam-jar full of harebells, scabious and meadowsweet, while Xavier held on to a carrier-bag and a Labrador as sleek and black as his face. A dozen other dogs milled round, snapping at flies and panting but unusually quiet, and on the other side of the fence, in silent sympathy, stood Rupert’s great horse, Penscombe Pride, Tiny the Shetland, and several red and white cows.

Taggie Campbell-Black, paler even than Tabitha, biting her lip to stop herself crying, held Gertrude, wrapped in an old orange and blue blanket, in her arms. Dropping a last kiss on her white forehead, she laid the little dog on her beanbag, already in the grave. On a wonky wooden cross, Taggie had written the words: ‘Gurtrude, are most preshous treshure, is berried hear.’

No-one had corrected her spelling.

Stepping forward, Xav dropped a packet of Kit-Kats and a box of Bonios into the grave beside Gertrude, then took his mother’s hand. Suddenly Bianca ran forward and knelt by the grave.

‘If you’re just pretending, Gertrude,’ she called out, in a shrill voice, ‘now’s the time to wake up.’

For a second, laughter rippled round. Then Declan O’Hara stepped forward. Known to cry on every possible occasion, today he was dry-eyed.

‘We all loved Gertrude.’ His deep, tender Irish brogue echoed round the fields. ‘She lived with us in London and the Priory opposite for eight years, and then with Rupert and Taggie for ten. But even this year she would struggle across the valley every morning for a Bonio and a bowl of milk. What we will remember is Gertrude’s kindness and her merriness, but none of us would have imagined that such a frail body contained a heart as stout as Beth Gelert.’

As Tab gave a sob, covering her face with her hand, Debbie noticed the dark bruises along the side and up the little fingers. She must have fought someone off like a wild cat. For a second, she swayed. As Rupert caught her, she buried her face in his shoulder.

‘Nothing in Gertrude’s life became her like the leaving it,’ intoned Declan. ‘She died as one—’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Declan, get on,’ snapped Rupert.

‘We will never forget you,’ Declan’s voice broke, ‘and on your grave, with shining eyes, may the Cotswold stars look down.’

There were flowers everywhere. Xavier picked up a trowel to help his father as, with gritted jaw, Rupert heaped powdery earth over Gertrude’s body. The moment he’d finished, muttering about organizing drinks, frantic not to break down, he belted back to the house.

‘Pity, with such a turn-out, it wasn’t video’d,’ Declan’s wife Maud was saying fretfully.

Slumped in despair, Taggie stood alone by the grave. But as she turned for home, Debbie and Fanshawe pounced. It was a while before she took in what they were saying.

‘Tab’s had a terrible shock over Gertrude,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t think she can talk to you.’

‘She was at Valhalla, yesterday,’ said Fanshawe, flashing his teeth. ‘We need to ask her her whereabouts. Uniformed police will be along to fingerprint her later,’ he added smoothly.

‘You’d better come in,’ said Taggie.

Tabitha was in an even worse state, shivering on the drawing-room sofa, gazing into space. Debbie noticed her ankles, criss-crossed with red weals.

‘I’ll ask the questions,’ hissed Fanshawe.

‘Great turn-out for a little dog,’ he began.

Tab looked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Wonder if you could tell us what you did yesterday from eight o’clock onwards?’

‘I worked my horse,’ said Tab, in a high, jerky voice.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ snarled Rupert, as he barged into the room.

‘Investigating the murder of Sir Roberto Rannaldini.’ Determined not to let nobs order him around, Fanshawe stood his ground. ‘We’re checking Mrs Lovell’s movements, in case she saw anything unusual.’

‘She didn’t,’ said Rupert coldly. ‘She came home because Gertrude died.’

‘Can we ask her a few questions?’

‘No, you fucking can’t.’ He turned to Tab. ‘You OK, darling?’

From next door could be heard voices and the popping of champagne corks.

‘Could we ask you a few questions, then?’ asked Debbie, smoothing her blonde bob. Rupert really was gorgeous.

‘If you want to, but you’d better be quick.’

‘I’ll do this one,’ hissed Debbie, as they followed Rupert into his office.

Debbie was very much into the non-confrontational, non-judgemental police interview. She was unfazed by the fact that Rupert was reading faxes, watching the first race runners in the paddock on Channel Four, and filling in entry forms. At least it meant he was relaxed.

‘I’d like you to shut your eyes, make your mind go blank, Mr Campbell-Black, and remember exactly what Tabitha said when she called you last night.’

‘I’ll shut my eyes if you both will,’ said Rupert, a shade more amiably.

‘OK,’ said Debbie. ‘What time did she ring?’

After a long pause, Fanshawe opened his eyes to see Rupert vanishing through a side door. ‘Mr Campbell-Black,’ he shouted, ‘you are impeding a police inquiry.’

‘And we are in the middle of a funeral.’

‘Only of a dog, sir.’

The fury on Rupert’s face made them both retreat.

‘We are investigating the murder of Mrs Lovell’s stepfather,’ protested Fanshawe.

‘Who was only a human,’ said Rupert contemptuously, ‘and a particularly loathsome one at that. Now get out.’

‘Arrogant shit,’ fumed Fanshawe as he belted down the drive.

‘How dare he talk to us like that. All those upper-class fuckers stick together. Same when Lord Lucan copped it, they close ranks and keep their traps shut.’

‘And just think how Gablecross will sneer when he hears we’ve been thrown out,’ sighed Debbie.


48


DS Gablecross was a deep thinker. He rose early, like the sun, moved slowly round examining everything from a different angle, before setting in the west, sleeping on things before he came to a decision. Reassured by his lazy smile and deep, West Country drawl, few people realized the bitterness and frustration simmering beneath the surface.

In the middle eighties, the world had seemed at his feet. A loving wife had looked after him, his three children hero-worshipped him. Working on hunches, playing suspects against each other, he and his running mate, Charlie, had been the most dazzlingly successful villain-catchers in the West Country. Charlie had not been above knocking suspects about. Like a foxhound, he was the kindest animal in the world until he got on to the scent of a quarry.

But then Gablecross’s life had changed. His wife, Margaret, had returned to teaching, the implication being that as he was more interested in catching villains than angling for promotion, they could no longer support three children on a sergeant’s salary. She had swiftly risen to deputy headmistress of the local comprehensive. She was so conscientious that Gablecross often returned after midnight to find her asleep over reports or exam papers. He had preferred the old days: being greeted by charred steak and kidney and Margaret feigning sleep through gritted teeth upstairs. His children had also become teenagers, questioning his every attitude, and regarding policemen at best as fascist pigs who persecuted blacks, gays, women and teenagers.

Worst of all, last Christmas Charlie had been shot in a drugs raid. His killer had been the brother of a young black guy who had committed suicide after Charlie had forced a confession out of him and banged him up for five years.

But if Gablecross’s world had been turned upside down, so had the law. As a result of the 1984 Act, hunches suddenly had to be justified and everything backed up with forensic or tape-recorded evidence. Supposed to make it easier to prove guilt, this gradually took the personality out of investigation and only the safety players prevailed. As a result, Gablecross’s battle-scarred contemporaries had taken early retirement or dull jobs in security. But being a hunter was the only thing Gablecross knew.

Surrounded by the fresh-faced young turks of the inquiry team, he felt old, edgy, almost a figure of fun. Particularly, as if to rub salt in the wound of Charlie’s death, the dandified ego-maniac Gerald Portland had teamed him up with the only black on the inquiry team, Karen Needham.

Karen, who had watched every instalment of Prime Suspect, intended to be the first woman head of Scotland Yard. A dusky Cleopatra, with long shiny hair drawn back in a dark blue bow, she had an undulating body and legs so long they made all skirts look like minis. Whenever she swayed through the incident room, the telephones and word-processors fell silent.

Karen, like Debbie Miller, was messianically into the peace interview. You made witnesses and suspects feel you were fascinated in them and what they had done. You utterly understood their trespasses, whether they had abused a tiny child or bashed up an old lady. Faced with her sweet smile and big kind eyes, everyone sang to the rooftops.

All the young turks told Gablecross he was a lucky sod to be paired with someone so pretty and clever. But Gablecross, who liked women, felt he was being sexist if he told Karen she looked beautiful, and racist if he complained about her slow driving and the even slower way she took down evidence in her clear round hand. Otherwise she had only one drawback: she couldn’t contain her laughter, even during interviews, over the absurdities of life.