Score!

75

The moment he was released on Monday morning, Tristan showered away every speck of prison dirt and drenched himself in Eau Sauvage. To match his mood, he then selected black jeans, a black shirt and, because the temperature had dropped fifteen degrees, a dark brown cashmere jersey he’d never worn before.

Pale and more shadowed than ever under the eyes, he had shed another half-stone in prison, and looked as dramatically elongated and demon-haunted as an El Greco saint.

To forget the horrors of prison and to blot out the even more nightmarish prospect of the Mail outing him and Claudine tomorrow, Tristan, as was his custom, plunged into work. But as he hurtled the Aston towards George’s house, his dreams of using a polo match under a burning sun as a ritualized symbol of conflict were shattered. After a night of torrential rain, George’s polo field was as full of lakes and as green as Ireland. His only compensation was driving through a huge puddle and drenching the paparazzi hanging around outside George’s massive electric gates.

Inside, it was difficult to distinguish the massive police and press presence from George’s heavies and the fleet of extras who’d been bussed in to act as policemen, paparazzi and Philip’s bodyguards.

Behind the house, which crouched ox-blood red and elephantine on a hill, a stretch of park had been levelled into a polo field surrounded by huge bell-shaped trees now dark and swollen with rain. Overhead, like a flotilla of battleships, hung charcoal-grey clouds.

On the edge of the field, outside a yellow and white striped tent, whose roof was buckling under the downpour, a small band in red uniforms was dispiritedly wringing out their instruments. Seeing his arrival, the commentator stopped telling the shivering extras in their flowery dresses and pale suits that the gallant Marquis of Posa had just scored a goal, and welcomed back ‘our director’, Tristan de Montigny.

Tristan was in no mood for pleasantries. Ignoring the ripple of applause and the large ‘Bienvenu, Tristan’ banner, he drove over to the unit, where the place was under water and in uproar, because neither Lucy nor Wolfie had turned up. Tristan was appalled. It was like coming home on a bleak winter night to find the pipes frozen and the central heating kaput. No-one had seen them since Saturday morning.

‘I know they’ll be found face down in a field,’ sobbed Simone.

‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snapped Tristan, who’d gone cold at the same thought.

All around him singers, who’d been soothed and flattered by Lucy for the past three months, were having tantrums and making fearful fusses about catching cold. A fleet of make-up artists had been bussed in anyway to handle all the extras. The most experienced, hijacked to look after the stars, must have graduated from the set of the Hammer House of Horror.

Granny looked about as menacing as a Brylcreemed Barbara Cartland. Tab, Pushy and Chloe had vermilion lips and black-ringed eyes like Brides of Dracula. Mikhail’s drink-reddened face clashed horribly with his crimson polo shirt.

‘Why isn’t Lucy here to sort out my bags and my double chin?’ grumbled Baby, who, having played polo until the stars came out with Rupert’s cronies then pigged out on Taggie’s sea trout, three helpings of loganberry torte and copious glasses of wine, was now trying to alleviate his hangover with a massive gin and tonic.

Alpheus was so furious that Griselda had hidden his noble brow and chestnut locks under a straw hat with a Blues and Royals ribbon that he’d surreptitiously fed the offending headgear to Sharon and Trevor, who’d rushed on to the field noisily tearing it to shreds.

Nemesis had struck swiftly. The new make-up artist didn’t have Lucy’s blow-drying and colouring skills, and Alpheus ended up with corkscrew curls the colour of mango chutney and looked like Paddy Ashdown in a Shirley Temple wig.

Simone was in hysterics that any continuity had been shot to pieces. ‘How could Lucy do this to us?’ she stormed.

‘Manage without her,’ snapped Tristan.

Nor had Tristan dreamt, as the day progressed, how much he would miss Wolfie to field telephone calls, to keep track of his belongings, and control the extras. Rupert had high-handedly sent over a couple of his grooms with all his dogs, and all his polo-playing friends’ dogs because they all wanted their dogs in the film and because one always sees lots of dogs at polo. The dogs proceeded to fight and bark and mount each other. Rupert, meanwhile, had buggered off to a race meeting at Ayr.

‘I vish his bloody daughter had gone too,’ grumbled Mikhail.

One of the first sounds Tristan heard and ignored was Tab, yelling her head off in true Campbell-Black fashion. She was desperately nervous about making her polo film début playing against world-class players, even if she had known them since she was a child. She had wanted to look ravishing for Tristan’s return, and been turned into the Town Tart by this ghastly make-up. It was all Lucy’s fault. And where was utterly bloody Wolfie to hold her hand, find her whip and absorb abuse like a punch bag?

Even worse, as Mistress of the Horse, she felt it her duty to see the singers played properly. Baby was good, but Mikhail had an unnerving habit of dropping his reins and swinging his stick round with both hands like a Tartar warlord as he thundered down the field.

‘For Gawd’s sake, watch him,’ Sexton pleaded with Tab. Having insurance claims already on a murdered producer and a recently absentee director, he didn’t want Mikhail taking out Ricky France-Lynch the England captain, or his forwards Seb and Dommie Carlisle.

Mikhail was sulking because George’s open house had suddenly become closed when one of Georgie’s heavies had caught him sidling out with a little Watteau and a Sickert under his polo shirt.

‘I know the murderer’s still at large,’ giggled Flora, ‘but Mikhail seems to be taking bulletproof vests to extremes.’

She still looked haunted and desperately tired as she and George hardly left each other’s side. As soon as the wrap party was over, they were off to Cornwall with Trevor.

Everyone was relieved to have moved away from Valhalla’s dark mazes and haunted cloisters. Rannaldini’s doomladen overture, pouring out of the speakers, however, was a constant reminder that his killer had not been caught.

The violence of the polo was equally unnerving, ponies thundering over grass as slippery as buttered spinach, sticks clashing, balls hurtling like cannon shot, often into the crowd, players deliberately colliding. The ponies kept jumping out of their thin thoroughbred skins and taking off, because the cast, upstaging each other, continually broke into snatches of their next opera or song cycle to prove there was work after Carlos.

‘Telephone, Tristan,’ shouted Bernard.

It was Claudine in hysterics. It was all Tristan’s fault, for barging into the cottage in Wales, the police had already been round, her maid was threatening to dump to the Express, and Jean-Louis to divorce her.

And she would have let me swing, thought Tristan savagely. He remembered Gablecross telling him that in big murder cases several marriages always broke up.

Couldn’t he get his friend Rupert Campbell-Black to pull strings and stop the Mail? wailed Claudine. Tristan said he’d try and hung up.

‘I don’t want to be bothered with any calls,’ he ordered Jessica, who was nervously standing in for Wolfie.

While they were waiting for the cameras to reload and reposition, he finally got through to the château. Hortense was obviously a little better, as she was in a meeting, unable to be disturbed. Tristan might not have been so sanguine if he’d known with whom. He left a message with Florence that he’d be down on Wednesday after the wrap party.

When they broke for a late lunch, Jessica said a French lady had rung five times on the unit mobile.

‘Non, non, non,’ howled Tristan, as it rang again. ‘I can’t talk to anyone.’

Next moment he had been buttonholed by Alpheus, complaining about both Tabitha and the make-up artist, and Chloe complaining that Baby was being gratuitously offensive, and had nearly ridden his pony over her.

They were soon joined by Pushy.

‘Could we have another make-up artist? I know I can look prettier than this, Tristan.’

God, he missed Wolfie to send them packing. Leaving them, in mid-bellyache, on his way to his caravan, he passed Jessica telling Bernard that Lucy expected to be back by mid-morning tomorrow.

Tristan swung round in fury. ‘Lucy rang? Why didn’t you put her on?’

‘You didn’t want any calls.’

‘I didn’t mean Lucy, you stupid bitch. Get her back at once.’

‘I didn’t take her number,’ stammered Jessica, appalled by such unaccustomed rudeness.

‘You bloody idiot.’

Jessica burst into tears.

Tristan couldn’t remember being so angry. All he had wanted during his lunch break was to pour out his heart to Lucy about the horrors of prison and the difficulties of filming polo. Also, because Lucy had been so wonderfully comforting when he had found out Maxim was his father and had been forced to give up Tab he felt he should perhaps have provided the last piece of the jigsaw, and levelled with her about Claudine. He wanted to explain, before Lucy read about it in tomorrow’s Mail, that the love that had obscured his vision for the past three years had suddenly been blown away like mist at sea. But if Lucy wasn’t getting back till mid-morning, it would probably be too late.

‘Oh, you’re wearing my sweater. It really suits you.’

It was several seconds before Tristan realized the happy voice belonged to Rozzy, who was looking really pretty. All the lines in her face seemed to have ironed out. He’d forgotten she’d given him this jersey.

She tried to cover up for Lucy, which was difficult when James shot out of Wardrobe and did four pirouettes, nearly strangling himself on his lead, because he too was pleased to see Tristan. Then he slunk back in despair because he wasn’t with Lucy.

‘I’ve had to tie him to the table leg because he keeps following me on to the set.’

‘Poor old boy.’ Tristan unclipped James’s lead. ‘Where the hell’s your mistress?’

‘She’ll turn up,’ said Rozzy. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ she added, leading him towards his caravan. ‘Which did you like best, my tarte aux oignons or the quiche Lorraine?’

‘They were both marvellous,’ mumbled Tristan, who’d been far too uptight to eat anything in prison. ‘My God!’

For a second he thought he’d let himself into the wrong caravan. There were vases of wild flowers everywhere.

‘Marjoram, honeysuckle, scabious, forget-me-not, bellflower, thyme, wild basil and those dark purple bugle-like flowers are called self-heal. I picked two vases of them, because I know you will heal after your horrible experience.’

‘You’re so kind,’ muttered Tristan, breathing in the honeysuckle, which reminded him of Lucy’s lone sprig in prison.

How dare Rozzy ponce up his caravan! All the books and magazines had been straightened. All the notes secured under a paperweight. The floor was hoovered, even the windows cleaned, so everyone could see when he was there. He wanted to scream.

‘It’s very kind, Rozzy.’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’ She added playfully, ‘I’ve made you a sort of brunch. I know how strong you like your coffee. Sit down and relax. I’ve made you an omelette and Mrs Brimscombe picked me these with the dew on them this morning.’

‘Rozzy, please.’ Tristan opened his mouth in protest, and Rozzy popped a raspberry into it.

‘Anyway,’ she added, as the rattle of rain on the roof increased, ‘you can’t film at the moment.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘I’m not taking “non” for an answer.’ Rozzy got a couple of croissants out of the microwave, and dropped one on his side plate.

For a second, Tristan was tempted to pour out his problems. But Rozzy had enough troubles of her own.

Having cut him a slice of omelette, primrose yellow and oozing herbs and butter, she poured him coffee and orange juice, and shoved the butter plate against his side plate. As she reached behind him to get the pepper-pot out of the cupboard, he felt her breasts brush against him and had to steel himself not to flinch. Rozzy put a hand on his shoulder.

‘You’re so tense, I’ll give you a massage later.’

Suddenly the caravan seemed tiny. James, sulking on the sofa, was no chaperon. Next moment Rozzy’s hand had clenched on his shoulder as the rain rattle on the roof was augmented by a rat-tat-tat on the door.

‘I am not going to let people hassle you,’ hissed Rozzy.

‘Hi, chaps, that looks scrummy.’ Griselda’s green and purple striped turban came round the door.

‘I’m trying to persuade Tristan to eat,’ said Rozzy evenly.

‘Don’t force the poor boy. Nice to have you back.’ Griselda added to Tristan, ‘We’ve got a problem. Alpheus’s white suit has been nicked for the second time. I’ve ordered another from Paris because he won’t wear a blazer. But if you could wait to shoot his little scene until midday, by which time Lucy should be back to fix his face. I wondered if we could ask her and Wolfie to make a detour through Paris to pick up his new suit.’

There was another knock. It was Bernard this time, wanting a word with Rozzy.

‘I do hope they’ve had a nice jaunt,’ said Griselda, slapping unsalted butter and strawberry jam on a croissant, as Rozzy ran down the caravan steps to the shelter of Bernard’s yellow striped umbrella.

‘Wolfie’s such a smashing chap,’ went on Griselda, with her mouth full, ‘and had such a bad time with his father copping it, and Lucy’s such a lovely girl, but lonely in a way.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Wolfie and Lucy went off in the Gulf on Saturday morning. Makes a jolly good passion wagon. Always thought they fancied each other.’

‘Don’t talk such fucking rubbish!’ yelled Tristan, walking out of the caravan, slamming the door behind him.

Jumping off the sofa, James tried to follow him, scraping his long claws against the caravan door and whining.

‘Hum,’ said Griselda, helping herself to a slice of cold omelette. ‘Tristan seems to miss Lucy almost more than you do, old boy.’

Half-way across the field, Tristan found he was still clutching one of Rozzy’s rose-patterned cups. Next moment Alpheus had descended from one side, Mikhail from another, Pushy from still another.

‘Tabitha has been so rude to me,’ they shouted in unison.

‘I wish I cared,’ snarled Tristan.

After two and a half days of Gablecross’s interrogation, he could cope with scenes only if he were making them. He’d been so worried that finding out about Claudine was going to break Lucy’s heart, and now she’d buggered off with Wolfie and clearly couldn’t give a stuff.

‘“What news from the court in France, that lovely country of elegant ways?”’ sang Chloe to his departing back, and everyone giggled.

Then Tristan watched Saturday night’s rushes, which he thought were quite awful and said so. Oscar and Valentin, who’d worked very hard and been rather proud of their efforts, looked utterly deflated.

‘What has got into our boy?’ sighed Oscar. ‘The flics obviously put him through it.’

They had all been ecstatic about Tristan’s release, but instead of acknowledging their cards and welcome-home banner, he’d just stalked in and criticized everything.

‘I’m not working with that fucker any more,’ said the crew and cast in unison.

Two things relieved the impasse. The rain stopped, and Bernard frogmarched Tristan into his now empty caravan and bawled him out.

‘You’re behaving like a spoilt child. Everyone’s jumpy. You’re meant to reassure them — and as for bullying poor Rozzy,’ Bernard went an even deeper shade of burgundy red, ‘when she spent so long mucking out your caravan and praying for your release in the chapel.’

After that Tristan settled down, forgot his problems, and filmed mêlées, skirmishes, and Baby exchanging sizzling eye-meets with groupies and chucking down his stick in fury when Philip ordered him off the field.

It was still gloomy and overcast, however, and the only patches of sky blue were the opposition’s shirts, which must have been specially chosen by Griselda to bring out the colour of Tab’s furiously flashing eyes. Riding wonderfully wildly and as fiercely as the men, a blue toggle holding back her hair and showing off her glorious jawline and cheekbones, she seemed to be goading Tristan to watch only her.

But Tristan found his eyes drawn to the ponies, glossy black, dark brown, silver-grey, gleaming bay and chestnut, so polished and rippling with fitness. They were so helpful, so responsive, so neat and athletic, so gallant and outwardly unfazed, despite being sworn at and clouted round their delicate heads and legs by sticks and balls. They reminded him of Lucy.

When rain stopped play again, he locked himself in Bernard’s caravan and watched a rough cut. Gradually his confidence came back. Tomorrow they had only to film Baby careering down the field, shoving his pony against Tab’s, pushing her off the line of the ball to score the winning goal. This would be followed by Alpheus in his splendid white suit summoning Carlos inside for an already-filmed pep talk: a light day’s shooting, which should be over by two, giving them time to tie up any loose ends before the wrap party in the evening.

Tristan felt an almost Christ-like elation that here were the makings of a great film, which even Rannaldini would have been proud of. The old monster looked divine on the rostrum, thanks to Lucy’s make-up. She really did deserve an Oscar. And darling Rozzy had been wonderful in her crying scene with Hermione. Christ, he’d been a shit to her after all she’d been through. He’d better go and apologize.

The film had been so dark, particularly in the last terrible scene, that he was amazed to come out to a watery orange sunset, dancing midges and house-martins swooping on insects. People were gossiping outside their tents and caravans. But as he paddled across the drenched field towards Wardrobe, he heard a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a dreadful howling.

Racing through the puddles, his heart thumping, he leapt the four steps up to the Wardrobe caravan. Steeling himself for more unimaginable horrors, he found James shuddering in the far corner, and Rozzy crouched on the floor keening. In the first crazed second, he thought that she had knocked over Lucy’s blue bowl of pot-pourri. Then, drawing nearer, he saw the petals were tiny pieces of silk, as though someone had shredded the rainbow.

‘Oh, my God,’ groaned Griselda, behind him. ‘It’s her wrap-party dress. She’s spent months making it from fragments of silk.’

It had literally been cut to ribbons.

‘Why should anyone hate me so much?’ wept Rozzy.

‘They don’t. They love you.’ Pulling her to her feet Tristan took her in his arms, stroking her hair, feeling her tears drenching the jersey she had given him.

A hovering, desperately concerned Bernard produced a brandy, which triggered off a terrible fit of coughing, reminding Tristan once again how ill she was.

‘Don’t cry, chérie, I’ll buy you another dress.’

Within seconds, relieved that something at last had happened, twenty police, led by Fanshawe and Debbie, had surrounded the caravan. They were disappointed the crime was going to be hard to date.

‘I hung the dress in the back of the cupboard, when I came back after Glyn’s birthday party exactly a week ago,’ gasped Rozzy, between sobs.

Debbie took her hand. ‘Who knew it was there?’

‘Lucy, Grisel, Simone, I don’t know.’

As the shredded fragments were shoved into a plastic bag for Forensic, Debbie gathered up a handful. ‘Silk isn’t torn or severed, looks as if it’s been chopped up by big pinking shears.’

And Tristan shivered, as he remembered the speed with which Lucy often cut up James’s liver with a big pair of scissors, claiming he hated it in lumps. Oh, God, it couldn’t have been Lucy.

Two policemen were left to guard Wardrobe. Everyone else drifted away, leaving Rozzy with Tristan whose hand she still clutched. To make a break, he crossed the caravan to comfort James, who only betrayed his upset by a frantically shuddering body.

‘You still haven’t eaten,’ gulped Rozzy. ‘Let me make you supper.’

Feeling an absolute rat, but unable to cope with her dark anguish, Tristan pleaded exhaustion.

‘I’ll collapse if I don’t crash out. I’ve got to hold the centre tomorrow. Your dress being cut to bits is bound to freak everyone out, then there’s the wrap party. Forgive me,’ he said, as her tears started to flow again. ‘I’ll buy you dinner next week, and please go and get yourself a new dress tomorrow.’

Reaching in his back pocket, he gave her three hundred pounds, then a hug. Outside he found his hovering, desperately worried first assistant director.

‘Try and comfort her,’ he begged, then his mind careered off. ‘In case Lucy doesn’t get back in time to make up Granny, can you ask Berman’s to put a monk’s black robes with a pointed hood in a taxi first thing?’

‘What d’you think to that?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Ugly,’ said Debbie. ‘Such a nice lady. Who’d deprive her of a lovely dress when she’s got so little?’

‘Might be someone with an ancient grievance because she had such a beautiful voice. We should recheck those ladies who might have been singing in the wood. Chloe, Gloria, Hermione, even Flora, and all the soprano extras.’

Debbie sighed, then said, ‘She was evidently in Tristan’s caravan for twenty minutes this morning. He was so sweet to her tonight. Could it be the murderer not being able to bear him being nice to anyone?’