Preface to Murder

by M S Morris

  Bridget had been just as nervous as the young couple themselves, wondering what she’d do if Alfie turned out to be the unsuitable boyfriend that she had convinced herself he was. But she had been pleasantly surprised. Alfie turned out to be a delightful young man, if a little on the skinny side, with wavy dark hair that reached almost to his shoulders. He stood about a head taller than Bridget. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hart,’ he’d said, holding out his hand to her, and Bridget had been quite charmed. ‘Call me Bridget,’ she’d replied, beaming at him.

  Afterwards, she’d had second thoughts. And third thoughts. Was he too polite? Had his politeness been nothing more than a cynical act? And, most worrisome of all, was the reason she’d found him so alluring because of his striking resemblance to her ex-husband, Ben? But Jonathan, as usual, had dismissed her concerns. ‘He makes Chloe happy,’ he told her. And that was certainly hard to deny.

  Today, for the first time, Alfie would be joining them at Vanessa’s house for Sunday lunch. It felt like a big step, welcoming Alfie into the wider family, and Bridget was pleased that he had accepted the invitation. Knowing Vanessa, she’d have gone to extra trouble to cook something special for the occasion. Although, come to think of it, Vanessa always went to extra trouble. Bridget wasn’t complaining. It would be the first decent meal she’d had all week.

  She pulled up outside Alfie’s parents’ house in Sunderland Avenue – a white, detached 1930s house on the northern edge of Oxford – and waited in the car while Chloe went to fetch him. Bridget had met Alfie’s parents briefly after dropping Alfie back home after his visit to Wolvercote. They were a little older than Bridget, but seemed nice. Alfie’s father, Jasper, ran his own dental practice on the Banbury Road. His mother, Autumn, was a wildlife photographer who always seemed to be away in search of endangered species. Their demanding careers and laissez-faire attitude to child-rearing meant that Alfie had grown up with a lot of freedom. Too much, in Bridget’s opinion. They were lucky that their son had turned out so well.

  Chloe and Alfie emerged from the house after a short while, hand in hand. Vanessa, Bridget knew, would take one look at Alfie’s skinny arms and torso and immediately serve him double helpings. She hoped he had a good appetite. Most teenage boys did.

  ‘Morning, Bridget,’ said Alfie as he and Chloe clambered into the Mini. He grinned cheerfully at her from the back seat.

  ‘Good morning, Alfie.’ Bridget could hardly complain about Alfie being over-familiar by using her first name. It was she who had invited him to do so. In any case, it was impossible to be cross with a boy who smiled so nicely.

  Bridget drove the short distance to Vanessa’s house in Charlbury Road, and parked on the drive behind Vanessa’s Range Rover.

  ‘Nice house,’ said Alfie appreciatively, admiring the large, detached property that dwarfed Bridget’s own modest abode. The house was even bigger and grander than Diane Gilbert’s house on St Margaret’s Road a short distance away. Vanessa’s husband, James, ran his own highly successful, cutting-edge computer business, leaving Vanessa free to concentrate on raising the children, cooking the perfect roast and tending the garden. It was a lifestyle that Bridget envied from time to time, before reminding herself that she was hopeless in the kitchen and would hate to be cooped up at home all day.

  ‘Just wait till you’ve tasted Aunt Vanessa’s cooking,’ said Chloe. ‘She’s the best.’

  It was a fair comment, and Bridget was glad that Chloe was still happy to join her and Vanessa for lunch every Sunday. The weekly occasion was a family tradition that Bridget hoped would continue for years to come. She just wished that Jonathan could be there too. Indeed, it was at a Sunday lunch at Vanessa’s that Bridget had first met Jonathan – no chance meeting, but a result of Vanessa’s matchmaking. Bridget had to admit that Vanessa had chosen well. Thankfully, Jonathan would be flying back the following day.

  Once all the introductions had been made, Chloe took Alfie outside to look at the back garden, leaving Bridget alone with Vanessa and James.

  ‘So, what’s up with you?’ asked James. ‘How has Jonathan been getting on in New York?’

  ‘It sounds like he’s having a fabulous time.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘So, so. To be honest, I’ve been feeling very alone with him and Chloe away.’

  ‘You should have called me,’ said Vanessa. ‘That’s what sisters are for.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Is there something in particular on your mind?’ asked Vanessa

  Bridget knew she shouldn’t discuss her work with her sister and brother-in-law, but it would be good to get her problems off her chest. She still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jonathan properly. She took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘It’s work. A new case. A writer was killed in Oxford after appearing at the Oxford Literary Festival and it’s my fault.’

  ‘I heard about that on the news,’ said Vanessa. ‘But how can it possibly be your fault?’

  ‘No doubt you’ve heard about the death threat? I was supposed to be protecting her.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That is awkward.’

  ‘It’s more than awkward. It could be the end of my career.’ Bridget felt tears welling up in her eyes, but she refused to let Vanessa see her cry. She wiped them quickly away. ‘I know that you’ve never approved of my career choice, but you know how important it is to me. I spent years in the slow lane, working reduced hours while I looked after Chloe. I can’t afford anything to go wrong now.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?’

  ‘I’m nearly forty, Vanessa. What else would I do with my life?’

  ‘Well,’ said James, before Vanessa could make any suggestions, ‘the answer seems quite straightforward to me.’

  ‘Really? What?’

  ‘Get on with it. Solve the case.’

  Bridget laughed dismissively at his matter-of-fact solution. ‘It’s not that easy. There are all kinds of complications involving national security. I’m treading on eggshells and I feel completely out of my depth.’

  ‘You’ve solved difficult cases in the past,’ said James. ‘Just hang in there. I’m sure you’ll make a breakthrough sooner or later.’

  Her brother-in-law’s faith in her was endearing. Bridget just wished she shared it.

  ‘Can Alfie and I take Rufus for a walk?’ asked Chloe, returning from the garden. Rufus, the family’s Golden Labrador, wagged his tail enthusiastically at the mention of his name and the word “walk”. ‘We’ll be back in time for lunch.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Vanessa. ‘Let me fetch his lead.’

  ‘They just want to spend a bit of time on their own,’ said Bridget, once Chloe and Alfie had been dragged out of the house by Rufus.

  ‘Ah, young love,’ said Vanessa. ‘But I’m glad they’ve gone out for a short while. I wanted to talk to you on your own too.’

  ‘What about?’ Whenever Vanessa had something to discuss, it usually involved telling Bridget off, or offering her some unsolicited advice about how to run her life.

  ‘Come into the kitchen. You can stir the gravy while I tell you.’

  Bridget followed her in with some trepidation. She had never before been trusted with such an important job in Vanessa’s kitchen. She accepted a wooden spoon and began to stir the aromatic brown sauce on the hob while Vanessa donned a pair of Cath Kidston oven gloves and checked the progress of the Yorkshire puddings. Satisfied that they were rising nicely and that Bridget wasn’t about to ruin the sauce, Vanessa leaned back against her Smallbone cupboards and began to speak. ‘It’s Mum and Dad. I’m worried about them.’

  ‘Why? Has something happened?’

  After a rift lasting many years, the barriers that had separated Bridget and Vanessa from their parents had finally been broken down during a family reunion at Christmas. Now Bridget was enjoying regular phone calls with her mum and dad and, although their weekly conversations were not long, she felt closer to them than at any time since they�
�d moved away from Oxford to retire to Dorset. Her father always said that everything was going well and then asked her about her work. Her mother would give a brief update on her state of health – new pills from the doctor, a check-up at the hospital – and then ask after Chloe and Jonathan. Bridget felt that she was pretty well informed about the state of things in Lyme Regis. But had they been hiding things from her? Was it possible that everything wasn’t quite as rosy as her father claimed?

  ‘Mum’s health is not at all good,’ said Vanessa.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Bridget. ‘I know that.’

  Just before Christmas, their mother had fallen and sprained her wrist. She had become quite doddery and was no longer able to manage the stairs. And yet she was only in her seventies. How frail could she be?

  ‘They gloss over the facts, but I’ve been doing my own research with the help of Dr Google. Her eyesight’s going, you know. She has glaucoma and it’s starting to affect her peripheral vision. That’s why she keeps bumping into things and falling over.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Bridget. ‘But can’t that be treated?’

  ‘Damage to the optic nerve is irreversible. She’s taking eye drops now, which will hopefully stop it getting worse, but it’s already too late to restore her lost vision.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bridget, then immediately chided herself over the tactless expression. Vanessa gave her a dirty look and Bridget immediately resumed her stirring of the gravy, which had lapsed momentarily.

  ‘And she’s on blood pressure tablets too. She’s at risk of having a stroke or a heart attack. She’s really not well at all. Dad pretends he’s coping with everything, but it’s getting too much for him down there. Lyme Regis is far too hilly for people of their age.’

  Now Vanessa was sounding ridiculous. ‘But lots of old people retire to Lyme Regis,’ protested Bridget. The gravy was starting to bubble and thicken and she stirred it more vigorously to prevent any lumps from forming. She was beginning to suspect that Vanessa had assigned her the task so that she could be blamed when it went wrong.

  She was wondering how she could extricate herself, both from Vanessa’s hypochondria by proxy and also the burden of responsibility for the gravy, when her phone buzzed with an incoming message. ‘I have to check this,’ she said. ‘It might be important.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ sighed Vanessa, taking over the stirring of the gravy. ‘It always is.’

  Bridget studied her phone and found a text message from Michael Dearlove. After the previous day’s conversation walking around Radcliffe Square, the journalist had fixed up a meeting for her with his contact at the Saudi Embassy in London. That was quick work. She was still waiting for Grayson to sort out something with MI5. Dearlove didn’t give the name of his contact, but the meeting was scheduled for tomorrow at ten o’clock.

  Bridget slipped the phone back into her bag with a smile. What had James advised her? To get on and solve the case? It looked like she might just be about to do that.

  Vanessa handed her the tureen of gravy. ‘You can carry this through to the dining room.’

  ‘Did it turn out all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Vanessa grudgingly. ‘Not bad.’

  Perhaps there was hope for Bridget in the kitchen too.

  16

  It seemed that every time one of Bridget’s problems was solved, another appeared in its place. Chloe might be safely home from London, but Vanessa had planted fresh worries about their mum’s state of health. Even so, Bridget couldn’t allow herself to dwell on that now. She barely had enough time for a quick team meeting before she would need to dash off to catch her morning train to London. In the briefing room, she asked everyone to give a quick update on what they’d discovered so far.

  ‘Jake, Ryan, you can go first.’

  ‘We managed to speak to most of Diane’s colleagues at the Blavatnik,’ said Jake.

  ‘It was the weekend, so some of them took a bit of work to get hold of,’ added Ryan.

  ‘A few of them reported hearing raised voices coming from the Head of Department’s office a couple of days before Diane was killed. But no one thought anything of it at the time.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bridget. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Apparently, heated arguments between Professor Al-Mutairi and Dr Gilbert weren’t that uncommon.’

  ‘Did anyone say what the argument was about?’

  ‘No one knows for sure,’ said Ryan. ‘It took place behind closed doors, and people were reluctant to listen in. But one person thinks he heard the professor threaten to fire Diane if she carried on the way she was. Everyone stressed how much Al-Mutairi is concerned about reputation. He doesn’t want the institute to become associated with controversial viewpoints. Whereas Diane Gilbert seemed to go out of her way to embrace radical politics.’

  ‘What about Professor Al-Mutairi himself? Did you ask him about the argument?’

  ‘We would have, but he was away from Oxford for a meeting.’

  ‘How convenient for him,’ said Bridget. She turned to Ffion. ‘How are you getting on with the phone and laptop?’

  ‘Still working on the phone,’ said Ffion. ‘There’s a lot to go through. But hopefully I’ll move onto the laptop later today.’

  ‘Good. Where are we with the toxicology report?’ Bridget was met with blank stares. ‘Okay, Ryan, I’d like you to get onto the lab and chase it up. Go over there in person if you have to, and make sure they’re dealing with it as top priority. We need to know exactly what it was that killed her.’

  ‘Righto, ma’am,’ said Ryan.

  ‘And Jake, could you check out Diane’s bank accounts and phone records?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Andy, have a dig around and find out all you can about Diane’s political affiliations. Was she involved with any groups, formally or informally? Who were her connections? I’m particularly interested in radical organisations, the kind of people who want to overthrow the status quo.’

  Andy made a note in his notebook and Bridget checked her watch. It was time to be off if she was going to catch her train.

  ‘What about me, ma’am?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Just help out with anyone who needs it,’ said Bridget, wishing she had something more definite for the eager young DC to get stuck into. ‘I’m going to London now,’ she told her team. ‘I’m following up a lead from Michael Dearlove, the journalist who interviewed Diane Gilbert at the literary festival.’

  They looked at her expectantly, obviously curious about what she would be doing in the capital.

  ‘It’s a long shot, but I’m going to speak to someone at the Saudi Embassy.’

  Ryan whistled. ‘Are you sure they allow women in there?’

  Bridget wasn’t sure if this was a serious question, or Ryan’s idea of a joke. She hoped she wasn’t about to cause a diplomatic incident. ‘Well, I’ve got an appointment, so they better had.’

  ‘Good luck, ma’am,’ said Jake.

  ‘Thank you.’ She had a feeling she was going to need it. ‘And if anyone makes any progress, text me.’

  She supposed that she really ought to let Grayson know where she was going. This was presumably just the kind of thing he’d meant when he’d asked to be kept informed, but when she peered through the glass walls of his office, he was on the phone, and she really didn’t have time to hang around.

  Twenty minutes later, as she hurried across the footbridge that led from the long-stay car park to the station entrance, she was suddenly filled with a sense of alarm. What if someone from the Saudi Embassy really had killed Diane Gilbert? She would be walking straight into the wolf’s lair. Dearlove hadn’t revealed to her the identity of his mysterious contact, but if the man she was about to meet knew enough to be of any use, he was almost certainly involved in the plot himself. Jake’s solidly reassuring presence came into her mind, and she wished that she’d had the sense to bring him with her. But it was far too late for that now. Her train would be leaving Oxford in f
ive minutes.

  17

  The Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia was located on Charles Street in the heart of Mayfair. The grand, Palladian-style building with its perfect proportions and symmetrical design ranged over three floors with huge Venetian windows and a double-layered pillared portico that looked out onto formal flower beds and immaculate lawns. Bridget couldn’t help but be reminded of a tiered wedding cake. The impending marriage of Ben and Tamsin was still obviously playing on her mind. In front of the white-painted building, the green flag of Saudi Arabia fluttered gently from a flag pole, but the wind wasn’t strong enough to lift it high.

  Bridget had arrived just in time for her appointment, having taken a taxi across town from Paddington station. She was slightly surprised to discover two uniformed British police officers on duty outside the gates to the embassy. The officers were wearing black bulletproof vests and were armed very visibly with automatic rifles. Bridget approached them and showed her warrant card. ‘Any trouble here?’ she enquired.

  ‘Just routine, ma’am,’ said the senior officer, a sergeant. ‘Part of our normal protection duties here in the capital. Nothing to be concerned about.’

  Bridget nodded, hoping that was true. She wondered if the officers’ presence had anything to do with Diane Gilbert’s death, but decided that it was probably just normal. London was permanently on heightened alert for terrorist incidents these days. It was reassuring to know that friendly forces were stationed immediately outside the embassy, although she knew they had no legal power to enter the grounds or the building, even to prevent a crime taking place. Once inside, Bridget would be entirely on her own, and at the mercy of a foreign power.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the metal gates that led from the street and made her way to the grand entrance.

  While the exterior of the building was classically refined, the reception hall of the embassy was – in Bridget’s opinion at least – excessively ornate, with polished marble floors, an ornamental ceiling formed from scrolling and curving plasterwork, and gilded touches applied to any surface that may have felt left out of the general opulence. A young woman wearing a dark jacket, her hair covered with a scarf, sat behind the mahogany desk, and two men in black suits stood on guard beside the front door. There was no doubt in Bridget’s mind that these men were armed.