by M S Morris
Bridget stepped over the threshold and followed Ian through a door to the right of the entrance hall. She found herself in a perfectly proportioned, high-ceilinged sitting room decorated in a sunny shade of yellow. The walls were hung with equally colourful oil paintings of Tuscan landscapes and Mediterranean hillside villages. A couple of armchairs and a brown leather sofa covered in scatter cushions were arranged around a centrepiece Persian rug in vivid shades of red and cream. The effect was warm and welcoming.
‘Please let me introduce my son, Daniel.’
A dark-haired man of around thirty years of age stepped forward from where he’d been standing by the window. ‘Daniel Dunn,’ he said, shaking Bridget’s hand.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Dunn,’ said Bridget.
The young man, who bore a striking resemblance to Diane, was wearing a smart, dark suit and looked as if he’d just stepped from the office. ‘Thank you. And please call me Daniel. “Mr Dunn” sounds too much like my father.’
‘Daniel, then,’ agreed Bridget.
‘Please do take a seat,’ said Ian, gesturing to the leather chair nearest the window.
Bridget was about to sit down when a strikingly glamorous woman with tanned skin and glossy dark hair tumbling over her shoulders entered the room, carrying a tray loaded with a cafetière, china cups and saucers, a jug of cream, some sugar in a small bowl and a plate of biscuits. She set the tray down on an antique chest and rose again to greet Bridget.
‘This is my wife, Louise,’ explained Ian.
Standing in heels, Louise was at least as tall as her husband, if not an inch or so taller. She was also perhaps twenty years younger than Diane Gilbert. ‘Louise Morton,’ she said, shaking Bridget’s hand. ‘I kept my own surname when I married Ian. For professional reasons, you understand.’
‘Professional reasons?’
‘I’m a paediatrician at the John Radcliffe. That’s where Ian and I met.’
‘I see.’
Ian began pouring cups of coffee. ‘Annabel explained the circumstances of Diane’s death when she phoned this morning,’ he said. ‘Needless to say, it’s come as a terrible shock to all of us. Annabel is taking the death of her sister particularly hard. They were very close.’
‘Of course,’ said Bridget. She declined the offer of biscuits – mentally awarding herself a gold star for resisting temptation – but gratefully accepted a cup of coffee with real cream.
When everyone was settled, she began her questioning. ‘Mr Dunn –’
‘Ian, please.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. No doubt smiling to put patients at their ease was a skill he’d had many years to master.
‘Ian, then. If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with some background on your relationship with the deceased.’
‘Of course.’
‘Let’s go back to the beginning. How did you and Diane first meet?’
‘I actually met Diane through her sister. I knew Annabel from university – we were both involved in student politics, and of course Diane had very strong political interests too. She was always much more committed to the cause than either of us, I have to say. It’s a very long time since I went on a protest march. But at the time it was a shared interest that helped to bring us together.’
‘And how long were you married to Diane?’
‘Twenty-five years. But we divorced ten years ago.’
‘Do you mind if I ask why?’ The question wasn’t strictly necessary, but so far Ian hadn’t shown any reluctance to talk about his personal life, and Bridget wanted to draw as much information out of him as possible.
‘I don’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘There was no big bust-up, no extra-marital affairs, no dramatic falling-out. We just drifted apart, without really noticing it. Diane had her career, I had mine. Suddenly our silver wedding anniversary was on the horizon and when our parents – who were all still alive at the time – suggested we should do something special to celebrate, we both realised that we had no desire to throw a lavish party or even to go out for a romantic dinner together. Diane always believed in brutal honesty, so when we sat down to talk about our relationship, we came to the conclusion that it was over and there was no point pretending otherwise. We hadn’t made the time for each other and by then it was too late. Daniel had grown up and left home. He didn’t need us anymore. So we agreed to separate and eventually got a divorce. There were no histrionics or recriminations, just an amicable parting of the ways.’
How civilised, thought Bridget, recalling her own acrimonious split from Ben. ‘And you met your current wife at the hospital?’
Ian reached across the sofa and took Louise’s hand in his. ‘Louise is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ he said, ‘except of course for my son, Daniel.’
Daniel, who was sitting rather sullenly, sunk into an armchair, elbows resting on the sides, his neck disappearing into his shoulders, acknowledged the compliment with the slightest nod of his head.
‘And how long have you two been married?’ asked Bridget, looking from Ian to his gorgeous new wife.
‘Seven years,’ said Louise, smiling.
‘And we’re very happy together,’ said Ian, giving her hand a squeeze.
‘Do you have any children of your own?’ Bridget asked.
Louise shook her head, making her glossy chestnut hair bounce on her shoulders. ‘No. But perhaps it’s a blessing. I see so much suffering amongst young people in my work at the hospital. I couldn’t bear it if a child of my own ever fell seriously ill.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Bridget. As a police officer, she was all too aware of the many and diverse ways that a teenage girl might become a victim of crime, and had been unable to stop herself picturing Chloe in each situation. From car crashes to kidnapping to murder, Bridget had lived each scenario a thousand times in her imagination. She had paid less attention to the possibility of serious or terminal illness. Perhaps that ought to feature more prominently on her list of parental concerns.
She turned back to Ian. ‘After the divorce, how was your relationship with Diane? Oxford isn’t such a big place. You must have bumped into one another from time to time.’
‘We got on well enough,’ said Ian. ‘As I explained, there was no terrible break-up, just a parting of the ways. We still met up for coffee now and again. She told me about her book, and when I saw that she was appearing at the literary festival I thought about going to hear her talk, but I had another engagement that night. Now I rather wish I’d gone to the festival.’
‘Did Diane have any other relationships since the divorce?’
‘You mean a boyfriend?’ said Ian. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
Bridget turned to Louise. ‘What about your relationship with Diane? It can’t have been easy being Ian’s second wife. Did Diane ever show any resentment towards you?’
Louise seemed amused by the suggestion. ‘Not at all. Diane wasn’t a jealous woman. I can’t say that she was my best friend, but we certainly never exchanged any unpleasantries. And if you think I had any problem being Ian’s second wife, you couldn’t be further from the truth. It didn’t bother me that I didn’t get to him first, I was simply glad that he was available when I met him.’ She held Ian’s arm and leaned in towards him affectionately.
This was all very grown up. Bridget’s mind conjured up an image of Tamsin, Ben’s fiancée. No matter how many times she repeated the word, she still couldn’t quite come to terms with the fact that her ex- was about to remarry. Bridget still hadn’t met Tamsin, but her mental picture of her always resembled the beautiful but wicked stepmother from Snow White. Bridget couldn’t imagine the soon-to-be Mrs Tamsin Hart being as magnanimous towards her as Louise was towards Diane. Of course, there was always the possibility that it was Bridget who was at fault, harbouring irrational and unpleasant jealousy towards her replacement. She shook her head, dismissing the absurd idea as quickly as it had arisen.
‘What was your other engagement on the evening
of Diane’s talk?’ Bridget asked Ian, getting back on track.
‘A retirement party for one of the hospital consultants.’ He stopped and gave her a questioning look. ‘Are you asking me to provide you with an alibi? I can give you the details if you like.’
‘Please.’ Although Bridget had no reason to suspect Diane’s ex-husband of foul play, no detective ever got results without being nosy.
‘The party was at a restaurant in Thame. Louise and I went together and got a taxi back here afterwards.’
‘What time did you arrive home?’
Ian looked to his wife for confirmation. ‘Was it around midnight?’
‘Just before,’ said Louise. ‘I remember because I turned the radio on in the kitchen whilst I was making myself a cocoa. It helps me unwind before going to bed.’
That reminded Bridget of something that she’d been meaning to ask Ian. ‘Was Diane a heavy sleeper?’
‘Diane?’ Ian sounded surprised. ‘Not a bit of it. She always slept lightly. And she tended to wake up early. She used to say that life was too short to spend it asleep.’
‘One last thing – can you think of any reason why someone would have wanted to harm your ex-wife?’
Ian shook his head from side to side. ‘Diane wasn’t always the easiest person to get on with, but I can’t think of anyone who would hate her enough to kill her.’
Bridget turned to the son who had so far sat in silence, drinking his coffee and eating the biscuits. Crumbs lay scattered over the trousers of his suit. ‘It must have been a terrible shock to hear the news of your mother’s death this morning.’
Daniel brushed the crumbs absently onto the Persian rug where they disappeared into the intricate pattern. ‘A shock, yes. But I can’t say that I was terribly upset.’
‘You didn’t get along with your mother?’ Bridget knew from personal experience that the parent-child relationship could be tricky. She lived in constant fear that she and Chloe would grow apart. Bridget’s own parents had grown distant from herself and her sister Vanessa after the death of Bridget’s younger sister, Abigail, and it was only during this most recent Christmas that the gulf that had separated them for so many years had finally been bridged and the family had come together again. But whatever rift had developed between Daniel and his mother could now never be healed. Would he spend the rest of his life regretting that? From his expression and body language, Bridget doubted it.
Daniel twisted awkwardly in his chair. ‘How can I put this kindly? The maternal instinct didn’t come naturally to my mother. She was always too focussed on her career and her politics. All she ever talked about was Israel, Palestine, and American imperialism. She didn’t have time for me, and she didn’t have time for Dad either.’
‘Daniel, is that really fair?’ asked Ian. ‘Your mother loved you deeply.’
Daniel folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well, she had a strange way of showing it. If she’d shown you a bit more love, perhaps you wouldn’t have had to divorce her.’
Bridget intervened before a full-blown family row could erupt. ‘You felt your mother neglected you?’
‘In a word, yes. Dad was always there for me, despite having such a demanding career. And Aunt Annabel too. She’s been more of a mother to me than my own mother ever was. I spent almost as much time in her house growing up as I did in my own.’
He smiled warmly at the memory, and Bridget could imagine Annabel’s higgledy-piggledy cottage being a much more welcoming place for a young child than Diane’s imposing house, where nothing was out of place. His kind-hearted aunt might well have provided Daniel with the affection he craved, and that his mother was unable to give him.
‘And Louise has always been very kind to me as a stepmother,’ Daniel added. ‘It was only my mother who didn’t care.’
Bridget stepped in quickly again, before Ian could say anything. ‘Some women find it difficult to relate to small children. They get on better with their children once they’ve grown up.’
Daniel gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘If anything, our relationship deteriorated once I grew up. As a child it was just a matter of maternal indifference on her part. But as I grew older, I became so sick of her left-wing politics that as soon as I had the vote, I rebelled by voting Conservative. I even joined the Conservative Party. Imagine that! Who joins the Conservatives in order to rebel? Anyway, my mother was horrified, which was of course my intention. That was when we really started to argue. And then I dealt the final blow to her by becoming an accountant, working right in the heart of the capitalist system.’
Daniel’s cheeks had become bright red during his tirade, and his chest was heaving. He leaned back in his chair, gripping the armrests tightly, and looked around the room as if daring his father or his aunt to contradict him. Wisely, they declined to rise to the bait.
‘So now you live in London,’ prompted Bridget, seeking to steer the interview into less turbulent waters.
‘I rent a place in Camberwell,’ he said. ‘Not particularly glamorous, but…’ He trailed off.
‘Daniel would like to buy a place with his girlfriend,’ said Ian, ‘but London property prices are sky-high, even with two salaries. Diane and I tried to help out financially, but…’
‘I can imagine,’ said Bridget. Even in Oxford, getting a first step onto the property ladder was a challenge. She knew that Jake, on his sergeant’s salary, was still renting a small flat in East Oxford. And in London, even in somewhere like Camberwell, south of the river, prices were prohibitive for many people starting out on their careers.
The mention of property prices led her nicely onto another tricky question. ‘On the subject of money, who stands to inherit Diane’s estate?’
‘Well,’ said Ian, ‘it’s no great secret. Diane re-wrote her will after our divorce was finalised, and she told us all what she’d done. Daniel will inherit everything. Diane may have struggled to express her love for Daniel in a direct way, but in truth she was devoted to him. Her will leaves everything to him.’
9
A feeling of gloom settled heavily on Grant Sadler as his bus swung around the corner of the High Street and nudged into the congestion of St Aldate’s, heading south. The wide road quickly narrowed as the bus proceeded slowly past Christ Church. Grant gazed forlornly out of the window as the great edifice of Tom Tower appeared briefly on his left and then was gone. The best part of Oxford was behind him now, and ahead lay only the river and the grim terraced houses of the Abingdon Road. Beyond that, the sprawling Park & Ride, the Travelodge and ultimately the ring road.
The edge of the world.
His phone rang in his jacket pocket making him jump. He dragged it out and eyed the screen nervously, fearful that the police wanted to speak to him again. It was a relief to see that it was just Diane’s publisher calling.
‘Hi, Jennifer. What can I do for you?’ The bus bounced wildly over a bump in the road, and he pressed the phone to his ear.
‘News of Diane’s death is out.’
Grant lowered his voice, wishing he was somewhere less public. ‘Yes, I’ve just been speaking to the police. That Inspector Hart who was at the talk last night.’
‘Oh, her. What angle are the police taking?’
‘What do you mean, what angle?’
‘I mean, what questions did she ask you?’
‘Mainly about Diane, and what I did last night.’
‘They think you’re a suspect?’
People on the bus were staring Grant’s way now, and he turned his head to look out of the window. ‘No. Why would they?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Grant,’ said Jennifer. ‘Of course you’re a suspect. So be careful what you tell them. Anyway, listen, I’ve arranged for you to be interviewed by some of the TV networks. Sky News, the BBC and Channel 4. I’ll be handling the radio interviews and newspaper journalists myself.’
Grant marvelled at Jennifer’s insensitivity. ‘Seriously? Diane’s body is barely cold.’
‘That
’s why we need to move right away. If we play this right, A Deadly Race will soon be flying off the shelves.’
‘Isn’t that rather mercenary?’
‘I’m surprised you’re taking that attitude, Grant. I thought you’d be keen to garner as much publicity as possible. After all, as I’m sure you don’t need reminding, you’ll be receiving fifteen per cent of earnings.’
‘Fifteen percent,’ said Grant. ‘Hardly a life-changing percentage.’
‘That depends on what it’s fifteen percent of, doesn’t it? Diane’s book now has every ingredient necessary to make it into a bestseller. A death threat; claims of state collusion in arms sales to a repressive government; the murder of an Oxford academic. The conspiracy theorists will go wild.’
‘I’d rather have a successful living author on my books than a dead one-hit wonder.’
‘Would you really, Grant? Some of the biggest books in history have been one-hit wonders, as I’m sure you know. Gone with The Wind was the only book Margaret Mitchell ever published. It was so successful she spent the rest of her life doing nothing but responding to fan mail.’
‘Well, this isn’t Gone with The Wind. And Diane Gilbert won’t be responding to any fan mail.’
‘No, she won’t. But what about you, Grant? How exactly do you plan to spend the rest of your life? Do you think you’ll even be in business five years from now? Everyone knows that the world of publishing is changing, and it’s no secret that you need the money. So I suggest you have a long, hard think about how you’re going to continue to put butter on your bread, and then smarten yourself up and get down to the studio to do those interviews.’
The line went dead.
*
Since returning from the Blavatnik School of Government, Jake had spent his afternoon immersed in the dispiriting world of social media. It seemed that an outspoken writer on a controversial topic was destined to receive a torrent of abuse. It was shocking what some people were prepared to write when they believed themselves to be untraceable and unaccountable. There were a lot of haters out there, but none of their abhorrent outpourings went as far as the death threat Diane had received by post.