Jilly Cooper - Score!

Andy, the exhibits officer, had in the past lost a lot of sleep over Karen. Making sure no-one was around, he muttered, so she had to draw close to hear him, that a rude letter from a bank manager had been found in Lucy’s handbag. ‘She’s very overdrawn, and the bastard seems relieved funds are coming in at the end of filming. We’ve also got some bank statements.’

‘What’s she been spending her money on?’ Karen brushed her breasts in the cream shirt against Andy’s arm.

‘Sends two hundred and fifty a month home to her parents,’ said Andy, consulting the statement. ‘Subscribes to a number of animal charities, but most of it seems to have gone to someone called Rozzy Pringle. She’s given her nearly three grand in the last two months.’

Karen whistled. Could Rozzy be blackmailing Lucy?

Parker’s department store in the high street was having an after-hours preview of new stock for account customers. Heading for Evening Gowns, Karen tried on a spangled horror in shocking pink.

‘That looks gorgeous,’ said the sales girl truthfully, who was used to Peggy Parker’s friends, who needed a shoehorn to get into a size twenty. ‘You part of the Don Carlos crew?’

Karen shook her head. ‘But I know a lot of them shop here.’

‘We had that Rozzy Pringle in last Thursday,’ said the girl wistfully. ‘Bought a floaty grey Belinda Belville dress.’

‘Are you sure it was last Thursday?’ squeaked Karen.

‘Quite sure. It was my afternoon off. I always miss the celebs.’

Karen was fighting for breath by the time she reached Gablecross, who was hovering outside Tabitha’s hospital room. ‘Sarge, you’ll never guess. Lucy’s given huge sums of money to Rozzy, and Rozzy bought her wrap-party dress on Thursday afternoon, the day she claimed to have been going to the doctor. She must have slashed her rainbow dress yesterday to avert suspicion.’

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.’

News either travels faster round a film crew than the fleetest greyhound or it never leaves the starting gates. No-one, even two hours into the wrap party, was aware that Lucy was now prime suspect and still evading a massive murder hunt. But they knew Tab’s fall had not been accidental, and the presence of policemen everywhere, frisking still arriving guests, taking their cars apart, murmuring into radio mikes, added to the general edginess. Guests had spilled out into the walled garden, where the scarlet and orange rambler roses clashed less gaudily by night. Beyond lay shadowy shrubberies, but there was no incentive to escape into the bushes with someone who might be the killer. The revellers clung close to the house in the light cast by George’s big golden windows, discussed in lowered voices who might have tried to bump off Tab, and leapt if someone touched them accidentally.

Maria had excelled herself with a huge cold turkey and salads, laid on a side table in George’s big drawing room. But everyone was too hot and jumpy to eat — as to fear of the murder was added fear of tomorrow, when they would no longer be a close-knit community. How would they cope without Lucy to listen to their problems or Sylvestre to mend their hair-dryers or Hermione to bitch about? So they all kept busy filling their Filofaxes with names and addresses they probably wouldn’t be able to put faces to in a week or two.