‘Did anyone see you leave Magpie Cottage on Sunday?’
‘No, but I was back in Warwickshire by midnight.’
‘So you had plenty of time to murder Rannaldini.’
‘Why take out my most important owner?’
‘Because he was intending to take all his horses away.’
‘He wasn’t. If you’ve been on this case since Sunday, Sergeant, you must realize Rannaldini was a control freak who tested everyone.’
‘Who owns his horses now he’s dead?’
‘Imagine it’s his son Wolfgang, not my greatest fan. He’s got a stupid public-school crush on Tab, so that wouldn’t be a motive to kill his father, would it?’
‘Did you know his last will cut out both your mother-in-law and Tab, so you don’t stand to gain a penny?’
‘So I was much better off with him alive, wasn’t I?’
‘Did you know your wife’s claiming that Rannaldini raped her on Sunday night, and there are traces of lipstick, perfume and powder on his dressing-gown and his body?’
Isa’s face was expressionless, but Sparkling jumped away with a snort of pain, as his fingers tightened on her foreleg.
‘I didn’t. Rannaldini always had the hots for her.’
‘People said she’d never looked more beautiful or excited as she ran towards the watch-tower. Odd she should tart up like that to pick up a dog.’
‘She had opened a new perfume called Quercus,’ added Karen.
‘I gave it to her,’ said Isa roughly. ‘She knew I was coming round. Has it entered your thick heads that she was tarting up for me, when the loss of her parents’ dog put everything out of her head?’
‘Did she tell you Rannaldini’d raped her?’ asked Gablecross, then swore as they heard Janice calling from the tack room.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ she smirked. ‘But it’s Cecilia Rannaldini returning your call.’
For once, Isa had the grace to blush.
‘Why’s he talking to her?’ hissed Karen.
Gablecross shrugged.
‘Presumably, as the chief inheritor of Rannaldini’s estate, she’s his new boss.’
‘Quite capable of murdering anyone,’ fumed Karen as they left the yard. ‘I wonder if that was his chewing-gum found near the body?’
Late on Wednesday afternoon, PC Brown and PC Jones rolled up at Lucy’s caravan. Tracking down the relevant cast and crew had been a nightmare.
‘Miss Lucy Latimer?’
‘Yes.’
How nice to see a smiling face, thought PC Jones.
‘We’ve come to give you a DNA test. We’ll need identification.’
‘That’s fine. Thank God, I’ve just found my passport. I’ve been searching all day. Would you like a cup of tea? This is James, he won’t bite.’ She pointed to a shaggy red dog taking up most of the available seating.
‘Very nice lady,’ said PC Brown, as they ticked Lucy’s name off their list twenty minutes later. ‘Sergeant Gablecross said she was a cracker.’
‘Bit long in the tooth,’ said PC Jones, who was all of nineteen. ‘Never really fancied older birds, unless they look like Claudine Lauzerte or Joanna Lumley.’
By the time Lucy had finished making up the cast that night, she was really feeling her age, and her back was killing her.
‘I’ll have to go and see James Benson,’ she groaned.
‘Let me give you a massage in the break,’ said Rozzy, ‘might save you the money.’
Lucy stretched on the table, stripped to the waist, breathing in oil of rosemary, almost falling asleep as Rozzy’s wonderful healing fingers crept round the back of her neck, unknotting the muscles. Next moment she jumped out of her skin, as James let out a furious growl, hackles up, long teeth bared. Something loomed in the window. Was it Rozzy’s shadowy reflection? Then Lucy screamed as a lens crashed against the glass, and she saw the blurred outline of a cameraman. James continued to bark his head off.
A second later Hype-along barged in through the caravan door, and had used up half a roll of film before Lucy could grab a towel.
‘Now I know what you girlies get up to.’
‘You bastard,’ yelled Lucy.
‘Don’t do that to us,’ chided Rozzy. ‘Thank God we’ve got a guard dog. Good boy, Jamesie.’ She held out a hand, but James was still growling and barking.
‘You frightened him,’ said Lucy indignantly. ‘I’ve got a bad back.’
‘And a gorgeous front.’
‘Gimme that role of film.’
‘Naaah, nice for my scrapbook.’
Hype-along sat down in Lucy’s make-up chair and, picking up a powder brush, pretended to mop his brow. ‘Give us a drink.’
As Lucy got a bottle of white out of the fridge, he swung round to face them with shining eyes.
‘Latest gossip is that Rannaldini had the whole of Valhalla wired up like Fort Knox, and the police have the memoirs, and steam is coming out of Glamour Pants Portland’s very clean ears.’
Oh, God, thought Lucy numbly, that’s how they knew about Rozzy’s cancer. Had Gablecross and Karen already known about Maxim being Tristan’s father? Were they flying kites when they interviewed her?
‘Now, you’re not to spread naughty gossip,’ chided Rozzy, taking the dangerously tilting bottle from Lucy, ‘or I’ll water your flowered tie.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ said Hype-along. ‘This is the best fuckin’ publicity I’ve ever had on a film. If
