Preface to Murder

by M S Morris

  It was a vision of yet another version of Diane, a carefree, young woman, with a taste for fun and the simple pleasures of life. Somehow that woman had vanished over the years, submerged beneath adult responsibilities of marriage, motherhood, and a demanding academic career. Diane had made many choices travelling along that road. One of them had – perhaps – led to her death. But the solution to that mystery wouldn’t be found within these old photo albums.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Bridget closed the album and dragged her thoughts away from sun-drenched Italy back to a damp and still chilly Oxford. ‘Sorry, yes?’

  ‘Should we move upstairs?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, returning the album to the shelf, and wrapping her coat firmly around herself. ‘I think we’ve done all we can here.’

  Bridget had visited Diane’s bedroom before, on the morning of the discovery of the body. This time, however, with the curtains drawn back, the body removed to the morgue, and the sense of urgency gone, she was able to take a proper look around. As expected, the room was furnished to the highest specification, with fitted walk-in wardrobes and an en-suite bathroom. But even here there was little sign of any personality. The bedside table held nothing but a reading light and a small glass jar of lip balm.

  Ffion swept her gaze around the minimalist interior. ‘Not a single book on display. I thought that writers were supposed to spend all their spare time reading.’

  It was a little surprising, given that there were so many books downstairs.

  Bridget made her way into the bathroom which, like the kitchen, was all gleaming surfaces and high-spec functionality.

  The skincare products, displayed like works of art, were all brands that Bridget coveted but had never been able to convince herself that she was worth spending that amount of money on. But that wasn’t what interested her most.

  She pulled open the doors to the bathroom cabinet and rummaged inside. But amongst the prosaic packs of Paracetamol, Ibuprofen and indigestion tablets, there wasn’t a single packet of sleeping pills. She was still no nearer to explaining how Diane, supposedly a light sleeper, had not been awoken by the sound of breaking glass in the middle of the night.

  13

  Bridget returned to Kidlington with much on her mind: a dead woman, killed while under her responsibility; the seemingly unavoidable conclusion that matters of national security were to blame; not to mention the implied threat to Bridget’s own career prospects if she screwed this up.

  The circumstances of the murder itself were cloaked in mystery and Bridget’s visit to Diane’s house had done nothing to shine any light on them. And if all this wasn’t enough, the undercurrent of resentment that Ben had aroused in her tugged heavily at her emotions, and the continued absence of Jonathan and Chloe was beginning to feel like a void in her own heart.

  Ffion, too, seemed lost in thought, but Bridget took some solace in the sense that her constable’s thoughts might be lighter and happier than her own.

  On returning to the station, her luck began to change. After fetching a coffee from the machine, she made her way back to her desk and discovered an official-looking envelope waiting for her. She immediately recognised it as having been sent from the mortuary department of the John Radcliffe hospital. No doubt an email was waiting for her in her inbox, but Dr Roy Andrews still believed in the value of paper. She opened the envelope and found that just as she’d hoped, Roy had pulled out all the stops and completed the post-mortem that morning.

  Whilst in person Roy could be accused of being overly fond of the sound of his own voice, on paper he was unfailingly concise. The report’s conclusion was clear and to the point. The victim had died from cardiac arrest. The time of death was estimated to be anywhere between eleven o’clock at night and one in the morning. Although natural causes couldn’t be completely ruled out, the pinprick on Diane’s chest was, as Sarah had suggested, the surface mark from a hypodermic needle that had penetrated all the way to the left atrium of the heart. The post-mortem had been unable to determine the nature of any injected substance, but blood samples had been sent to toxicology and the results would come through in the next few days.

  Bridget laid the report aside, marvelling both at the miracles of modern forensic science, and the frustrating delays associated with them. A few days? Damn all weekends and holidays! What was she to do while she waited for the toxicology report?

  The surface of her desk was already littered with unfiled reports and documents relating to this and other cases. One day she would work out a system, and her desk would be as clear and empty as Grayson’s. But not today. Next to the discarded post-mortem report was a programme of events for the Oxford Literary Festival. She picked it up and flicked idly through the pages, stopping when she reached Diane’s talk on Thursday evening. This was where it had all started. Just a few days ago, and all had been running smoothly. Then, the protection of a reluctant and ungrateful academic had seemed like an unnecessary waste of Bridget’s time. Now, the artfully-shot photos of the Divinity School seemed to mock her. If she could rewind the clock and start that day again, what would she do differently? Other than remain at Diane’s side throughout the night, it was hard to know.

  Her eyes skipped over the text on the page and came to rest on the name of the man who had interviewed Diane that evening. Michael Dearlove, the journalist. Dearlove had been chosen because he was known for his work in the same topics that Diane had written about in A Deadly Race. If anyone could provide fresh insight into why Diane might have been murdered, it was surely him.

  Bridget scanned the upcoming events and discovered that Dearlove was interviewing a writer of political biographies right that very minute and was due to finish in half an hour. The talk was taking place at the Oxford Martin School, situated on the corner of Catte Street and Holywell Street, just opposite the Bodleian.

  Leaving her cup of coffee untouched, she scooped up her keys and phone and rushed back out to her car.

  *

  By the time Bridget arrived at the Oxford Martin School, the talk was already over. A steady stream of people was coming down the stairs and she made her way in the opposite direction, ignoring the rude stares of the bibliophiles as she pushed past them. By the time she reached the lecture theatre only a few stragglers remained.

  Housed within the old Indian Institute building, the Oxford Martin School was a modern addition to the university, founded with the stated goal to “find solutions to the world's most urgent challenges”. There was nothing like setting yourself an ambitious target, thought Bridget, chastising herself once more over her inability to meet even her modest New Year’s resolutions, though whether her problem was that she aimed too low or too high was anyone’s guess.

  The lecture theatre was a much smaller venue than the Divinity School, and clearly reflected the current writer’s place in the pecking order. Nevertheless, the audience must have enjoyed themselves, because the young man from Blackwell’s who Bridget recognised from Diane’s event looked a lot happier than he had done when she had last seen him, and appeared to have sold out all his books.

  Bridget spotted Michael Dearlove at the front of the room gathering his notes together. She hurried to catch him before he left.

  ‘Mr Dearlove?’

  He looked up at her, a slight frown flitting across his forehead as he tried to place her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Bridget Hart.’

  His expression cleared. ‘Ah, yes, I knew I recognised you from somewhere. You were Diane’s bodyguard on the night she was murdered.’

  Bridget winced at this reminder of her failure to prevent the writer’s death, but judging from Dearlove’s expression, he had intended no malice. He appeared sad, not angry. He put out a hand to shake Bridget’s.

  ‘Call me Mick. Or Michael, if you find Mick too informal.’

  ‘Michael then, I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to talk to me about Diane?’

  He dropped his notes int
o a leather briefcase. ‘I’d like nothing better. Diane’s been on my mind constantly since her death. I still can’t believe what happened. But what I want most of all right now is a cigarette. Do you mind?’

  Bridget followed him down the stairs and back outside, where he immediately lit up. ‘That’s better,’ he said, inhaling deeply and blowing out a stream of smoke through his nose. ‘I’d given up, but Diane’s death put paid to that. I’ve been smoking like the chimney of a nineteenth-century cotton mill ever since I heard the news. Absolutely shocking. I can’t tell you how upset I’ve been.’

  ‘You knew her well?’

  Dearlove nodded and set off in the direction of Radcliffe Square. Bridget fell into step beside him, doing her best to keep up with him on her short legs.

  ‘Diane and I knew each other since way back. God, I can’t bear to think how many years that must be. Suffice to say, we were students together back in the day.’

  ‘Here at Oxford?’

  ‘Not likely. I would never have got in here’ – he gestured at the Radcliffe Camera, the Bodleian Library and the other university buildings that surrounded them – ‘and Diane wanted a university that was more in keeping with her socialist principles. We were at Manchester together. That was a wild place to be back in the seventies. We didn’t just smoke tobacco then, I can tell you.’

  They began to circle around the domed Radcliffe Camera, the towering spire of the University Church of St Mary the Virgin ahead of them, the ornate crenellations of All Souls College to their left.

  ‘Do you mind me asking exactly how close you were?’

  Dearlove chuckled grimly. ‘Is it that obvious? All right, we slept together a few times at university. God, it was the seventies. Everyone slept with everyone!’ He tossed the stub of his cigarette aside, grinding it into the cobbles with the toe of his shoe. He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and lit up another one. ‘That was before Diane met Ian, of course. We lost touch for a few years, as people do, but then our mutual interest in politics and current affairs drew us back together.’

  ‘You wrote about similar topics.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dearlove. ‘That’s why the publisher sent me an ARC of her book.’

  ‘An ARC?’

  ‘Sorry, that’s publishing-world jargon. An advance reading copy or an advance review copy. It’s what publishers send out to reviewers before the finished version of the book goes to the printing presses. They wanted me to read and review it so that I could give them a quote to put on the final cover.’

  ‘This book will make you rethink everything you know,’ recited Bridget, remembering what she had read on the cover of the book at the festival.

  ‘You’ve read it?’ asked Dearlove.

  ‘Only the back-cover blurb,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve been a little preoccupied trying to find out who killed Diane Gilbert and why.’

  Dearlove took a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘What progress have you made in that direction?’

  ‘That’s really why I came to speak to you today,’ she said. ‘We’re building up a profile of Diane Gilbert, speaking to friends, family and colleagues.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Dearlove inhaled deeply and blew out more smoke. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d compared his smoking to a Victorian-era mill.

  ‘But everything keeps pointing back to the same thing.’

  Dearlove nodded crisply. ‘A politically motivated assassination.’

  ‘Exactly.’ However much she had hoped to avoid that conclusion, Bridget couldn’t ignore the evidence. ‘So who do you think might have killed Diane?’

  ‘On the basis of her political interests and research publications, I’d say that you’re looking at MI5, the CIA, or even the General Intelligence Presidency.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The GIP is Saudi Arabia’s primary intelligence agency, reporting directly to the king,’ explained Dearlove. ‘The Presidency has close ties to the Mabahith, the Saudi secret police, and also has links with the CIA. It’s the outfit many people believe planned and carried out the murder of the journalist Jamal Khashoggi.’

  ‘I see.’ If Dearlove was right in his speculation, it was a daunting list of potential suspects. ‘If what you say is true,’ said Bridget, ‘then doesn’t that also make you a potential target? After all, you cover a lot of the same topics in your newspaper articles that Diane wrote about in her book. Have you received any death threats?’

  Dearlove laughed mirthlessly, smoke billowing out through his nostrils. ‘Death threats? Sure. I’m a journalist. There’s always some nutcase on Twitter who wants to see me dead. But I’m just a cynical old hack and I don’t pay any attention to that kind of thing. If some government agency really wanted me dead, they could stick a poisoned umbrella tip into me right now, and there’s nothing that you or I could do to prevent them.’

  Bridget glanced around. Fortunately, the only umbrella in sight belonged to a tour guide who was pointing the potentially lethal item skywards and corralling his flock to follow him towards the gates of All Souls.

  Dearlove finished his second cigarette and threw it onto the cobbles in disgust, stamping it out in a splutter of embers. ‘Can you tell me how she died? I keep thinking of her, all alone in that big empty house of hers, trying to picture her in her last moments. Was it a very violent death?’

  Bridget was reluctant to reveal any details about the investigation to Dearlove, but given that he was also a potential target, she figured he had a right to know. ‘We think that Diane may have been given a fatal injection.’

  ‘Really?’ He took a moment to digest the news. ‘Well, that just confirms my suspicions. How many organisations would have the capability of carrying out that kind of murder, especially while the target was under police protection?’

  ‘So what do you suggest I do?’ Bridget knew she was getting out of her depth. So far Grayson’s efforts to make progress through official channels had turned up nothing. She needed to find another way forward.

  ‘Seriously? Forget it. Walk away. None of the groups I mentioned to you are ever going to admit anything. And the minute you start investigating the British security services, you’ll be shut down. The Deep State won’t allow you to get close.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Michael, you’re beginning to sound a little paranoid.’

  He grinned. ‘Mock me if you like, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘What I was hoping,’ said Bridget, ‘was that you might be able to help me. What I really need is a way in.’

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘You want me to give you a contact?’

  ‘Don’t journalists have all the best sources?’

  ‘We prefer to keep them to ourselves.’

  ‘But if you want me to properly investigate Diane’s death…’ She let the sentence dangle, like a hook on a rod.

  Dearlove studied her face, perhaps weighing up whether he could trust her. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get you a name. For Diane’s sake.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bridget, giving him her card.

  They had completed a full circle of Radcliffe Square and were now back on Catte Street, near the festival marquee. Booklovers were entering and leaving the tent in an almost constant flow.

  Dearlove pocketed her card and waved farewell, before turning back. ‘While I work on getting you a contact, perhaps you should begin by looking a little closer to home.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Diane’s boss at the Blavatnik. Everyone knows that Al-Mutairi and Diane hated each other. He’s in thrall to the Saudis and thinks that the British and Americans are the Middle East’s best buddies. He has friends high up in the Saudi regime, and he’ll know more than he’s told you, you can count on that.’

  And with that he strode away, leaving Bridget with the lingering scent of tobacco and a growing sense of unease.

  14

  Bridget’s phone rang as she was walking back to her car, and
Ffion’s name flashed up on the screen. She answered immediately, glad of a distraction from the world of international espionage and intelligence agencies.

  As always, the Welsh detective wasted no time getting to the point. ‘Good news, boss, forensics have finished with Diane’s phone and laptop.’

  ‘That is good news. So how soon can you get hold of them?’

  ‘Already have.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve haven’t been able to get into the laptop yet,’ said Ffion, ‘but I’ve got access to her phone. I’m working through all her emails and messages.’

  ‘Find anything significant yet?’

  ‘Not yet. There are thousands to look at. I just wanted to let you know before I finished for the day.’

  ‘Okay.’

  It was unlike Ffion to make a call unless she had something of real significance to report. Bridget waited.

  ‘There was one other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One of the apps she used most regularly on her phone, apart from messaging apps, was an e-reader.’

  ‘You mean for reading books?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Personally, Bridget hadn’t yet made the leap from paper to digital. It wasn’t just with books that she lagged behind the times. Despite Chloe’s constant urging for her to ditch her old music collection and embrace the world of streaming she was still unwilling to move on from CDs. She was clinging to the past perhaps, or putting her faith in physical objects that she could hold in her hands. Perhaps because of all she had lost in her life – her sister, her husband – that was understandable.

  ‘So what kind of books did you find?’

  Bridget recalled the heavily laden bookshelves in Diane’s house, stacked full of political and other non-fiction books, and sensed that Ffion was about to reveal something surprising.

  ‘Hot romance. Hundreds of books, all with covers featuring half-naked men with ripped torsos. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bridget, who didn’t, and for whom “hot romance” meant Jane Eyre. ‘So I guess this explains the lack of reading material on Diane’s bedside locker. She was secretly reading this stuff on her phone.’