Preface to Murder

by M S Morris

  Jennifer looked at her blankly. ‘What’s Per Sempre Holdings?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve never heard of it. Are these payments significant?’

  ‘They’re monthly payments of five figures,’ said Bridget.

  The publisher’s eyes widened to huge circles. ‘Five figures? You mean, in excess of ten thousand pounds each month?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Bridget.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Jennifer, shaking her head. ‘I wish I could help you, I really do, but I’ve no idea what these payments relate to. They’re certainly not from sales of her book.’

  23

  ‘So how did it go, mate?’

  Jake looked up from his plate of food to see Ryan sitting down opposite and unloading his tray. ‘You mean my date?’

  Ryan tore open a sachet of tomato ketchup and squeezed the blood-red contents over his chips. ‘Of course I mean your date. Come on, tell me all about it.’

  Jake put down his knife and fork with a clatter. He’d spent the morning immersed in work, trying to blot out the epic fail of the night before. He didn’t need to be reminded of it over his lunch. The canteen was serving one of his all-time favourites – roast chicken, chips and beans. It was the meal his mum used to cook for him every Friday evening after football practice. He just wanted to be left alone to enjoy it in peace. ‘Let’s just say that it wasn’t a great success.’

  Ryan began shovelling food down his gullet as if it might be taken away from him if he was too slow. ‘Why not? Tilly looked pretty damn hot in her photo. Was that her real name after all?’

  ‘Short for Matilda.’ Tilly’s name had turned out to be just about the only thing about her that was real.

  ‘So, what was the problem?’ asked Ryan, reaching for the salt and vinegar and dousing his food in them. ‘Spill the beans.’ He scooped up a forkful of baked beans and stuffed them in his mouth.

  ‘The problem was that her photo was a little bit out of date. And when I say a little, I mean by about two decades.’ When Jake had walked into the pub, nervous but hopeful, he’d wondered if he’d come to the right place. There was no one there who looked remotely like the fresh-faced young woman he was expecting to meet. The real Tilly had been closer to forty, and it was fair to assume that she hadn’t spent the past twenty years on a strict diet. In fact her love of fun didn’t seem to have done her appearance any good at all. ‘She was twenty years older than I expected, and twenty pounds heavier.’

  Ryan chortled and slapped Jake on the shoulder. ‘Sometimes people aren’t entirely truthful in their online profiles. But that’s just to be expected. Everyone wants to present themselves in the best possible light.’

  ‘So you can’t trust what you read online?’ He shouldn’t have been surprised by this revelation, especially after the long session he’d spent trawling through Diane Gilbert’s social media accounts.

  ‘You just have to be more open to surprises, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t expect everything to be exactly as it says on the tin. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with older women. Experience can be a good thing. Was she as much fun as she sounded?’

  ‘Oh, she was fun, all right,’ said Jake, chasing his baked beans half-heartedly around the plate with his fork. ‘She put away a whole bottle of wine, and hardly stopped laughing the whole night.’ He cringed as he recalled the vivid details of his train wreck evening.

  ‘So, what happened in the end?’ enquired Ryan. ‘Did you take her home?’

  ‘Are you joking? I called a taxi for her and wished her goodnight.’

  Ryan shook his head in disappointment. ‘Mate, you could at least have walked her home and gone in for a coffee.’

  Jake glared at him, his arms folded across his chest. ‘She just wasn’t the kind of woman I was looking for.’

  ‘Well, never mind. That’s the way it goes sometimes. At least now you know how online dating works, so you can try another one.’

  ‘Another one? You’re not serious?’

  Ryan munched on his ketchup-and-vinegar-sodden chicken. ‘You know what your trouble is? You’re far too choosy. And if you don’t mind me saying, someone in your position can hardly afford to be.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘It is. So, here’s what you need to do. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep trying until you get lucky.’ Ryan jabbed his fork in the direction of Jake’s plate. ‘And if you’re not going to eat those chips, I’ll have them.’

  *

  Lunch at the Eagle and Child had been a pleasant way to pass an hour, but other than a rather hard lesson in the precarious economics of the publishing industry, Bridget couldn’t say that she had learned a lot. There was no doubt that Jennifer’s publishing house would benefit immeasurably from increased sales of A Deadly Race. But did that make Jennifer herself into a suspect? Bridget made a mental note to get Andy to check out the financial status of the publishing house.

  She returned to Kidlington to see if there was any progress on the handwriting analysis or any of the many other outstanding tasks, but before she could quiz her team on progress she was intercepted in the corridor by Chief Superintendent Grayson. She tried to slip past him unnoticed, but a clearing of Grayson’s throat told her that she was about to be subjected to another grilling.

  ‘DI Hart. My office, please.’

  She followed him into his lair and waited while he lowered himself into his leather chair. He didn’t invite her to take a seat. ‘So, outline your current thinking,’ he said.

  Bridget knew that she needed to tell a good story, regardless of her own distinct lack of confidence in her ability to identify Diane’s killer. ‘At this point, sir, we’re following a number of clear leads.’ She summarised her visit to London and her hope that analysis of Al-Mutairi’s handwriting might identify him as the author of the death threat. She also filled him in on the mysterious payments into Diane’s account.

  Grayson’s pen was treated to a workout as she went over the various points, but the Chief Super’s eyebrows remained resolutely in a straight line, even when she revealed the total amount that Diane had received from the company in the Cayman Islands. ‘So, you still have no idea what the source of this money might be,’ said Grayson, ‘and so far only one suspect.’

  The criticism felt rather unfair to Bridget. ‘A strong suspect, sir.’

  ‘Maybe. What about the toxin that was used to kill the victim?’

  Bridget nodded, glad to be able to answer at least one of the Chief’s questions unambiguously. ‘A mixture of phosphorous, magnesium and potassium. The injection into the heart led to instant cardiac arrest.’

  ‘Do we know where it came from?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, you need to find out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Time’s running out, DI Hart. If you don’t make real progress soon, I promise you, I’ll bring in Baxter to take over.’

  *

  After escaping from Grayson, Bridget made her way to the incident room. There, everyone was busy, but had little to report. ‘Find out what’s happening with that handwriting analysis,’ Bridget told Jake. ‘That’s our strongest lead.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She realised that she had raised her voice at him and immediately regretted it. Just because Grayson was piling the pressure on her, there was no excuse for her to pass it on to her team. One look around the office told her that they were all working as hard as they could, and the best thing she could do would be to get out of their way and leave them to it. She turned around and left the office, wondering how she could best use the remaining hours in the day.

  The top priority in her mind, after confirming whether Al-Mutairi had penned the death threat, was to find out the source of the Cayman Islands money. Since Jennifer Eagleston had been unable to help, it made sense to ask the one person who might be in a position to shed light on th
e matter. Ian Dunn, Diane’s ex-husband. After all, the academic had made no attempt to conceal her unexplained income, declaring it on her tax returns – hardly the action of someone embroiled in illegal activities. Perhaps there was a completely innocent explanation for the money. If so, they could forget about the issue and focus the investigation elsewhere.

  When she arrived at the house in Headington, the silver Lexus Coupé belonging to the hospital consultant was parked outside, and a black Volkswagen Golf was pulling up behind it. Bridget parked on the opposite side of the road and watched as Daniel Dunn got out of the car, carrying a zipped, black document folder.

  She opened her door and crossed the road. ‘Good afternoon. I was hoping for a quick word with your father, but if you’re here too, all the better.’

  He regarded her warily, but nodded. ‘All right. You’d better come in.’

  He seemed rather flustered by her appearance. Tucking the leather folder under one arm, he inserted the key into the lock and grappled with the door handle. The folder slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. Bridget picked it up and handed it back to him. He snatched it from her without a word.

  Ian must have heard their arrival, because he appeared immediately in the hallway, removing a pair of reading glasses from his nose. ‘Daniel, and Inspector Hart too. Any news?’

  ‘Just more questions, I’m afraid,’ said Bridget.

  ‘In that case, let’s go into the sitting room. Would you like a drink? I can put the coffee machine on if you like.’

  Bridget gratefully accepted the offer and Ian disappeared into the kitchen.

  Daniel sat on the sofa and Bridget took a seat opposite. He regarded her inscrutably, the leather folder balanced on his knees, his hands crossed protectively over it. ‘So, no progress on my mother’s death?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re following up several leads,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Perhaps we could wait until your father returns.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sure.’ He lapsed back into sullen silence.

  ‘You’ve been out?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘To the solicitors. To see about the will.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ So that’s what his precious folder contained.

  Ian entered the room with three coffees on a tray. He had gone to the trouble of arranging the cups on saucers and laying out a plate of Amaretti biscuits. ‘Oh, I really shouldn’t,’ said Bridget, eyeing the golden, almond-scented domes that always reminded her so much of Italy. ‘But I’m sure that one won’t do any harm.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t,’ said Ian indulgently. He turned to Daniel. ‘So, how did you get on with the solicitors?’

  Daniel gave Bridget an irritated glance before replying. No doubt he would have preferred to discuss his business in private. Well, too bad. ‘It was a useful first meeting. But they can’t do anything about the will until after the inquest. Everything is going to be delayed because of the murder enquiry.’

  ‘It’s normal for a coroner’s inquest to be held in the case of a suspicious death,’ said Bridget. ‘But the purpose of the inquest is simply to determine the cause of death, not to assign blame. The murder enquiry shouldn’t delay matters.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s all very stressful.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Ian soothingly. ‘But you’re doing a good job. Mum would have been proud of you.’

  Daniel shrugged indifferently.

  ‘But the will is all in order?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Yes. The will is exactly as Mum said it would be.’

  ‘So you inherit everything?’ pressed Ian.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing at all for Aunt Annabel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought that Diane was very close to her sister,’ said Bridget who had been watching this exchange between father and son as avidly as she would a Wimbledon final.

  ‘They were,’ said Ian. ‘But Annabel has everything she needs, financially.’

  ‘Whereas I’m the one struggling to get onto the housing ladder,’ said Daniel petulantly.

  Not for much longer, thought Bridget. ‘The house must be worth, what…?’

  ‘Several million,’ said Daniel, making a rocking motion with his hand as if to suggest that one million here or there was of no great import. ‘I’ve asked a couple of agents to give me a valuation. Of course, they can’t look inside until your lot have finished doing whatever it is you do.’

  ‘What about the royalties from her book?’ asked Bridget, ignoring Daniel’s implied criticism of police procedures. ‘Who will receive those?’

  ‘Me,’ said Daniel. ‘But I don’t think it will be a significant sum. Who wants to read about my mother’s ridiculous conspiracy theories?’ He dunked his Amaretto into his coffee, but it slipped from his hand. ‘Ow,’ he said, scalding his fingers as he attempted to retrieve the floating biscuit. In annoyance, he levered it out with his teaspoon and deposited it on the saucer, where it sat sodden and dripping over the edge. ‘She’d have been better off writing some potboiler novel. That would have made her more money.’

  ‘I don’t think your mother wrote for the money, Daniel,’ said Ian.

  ‘No, of course not. She had higher ideals. Earning money was for the rest of us.’ He leaned back in the sofa, sulking like a man who had just lost a great deal of money rather than one who was about to inherit a several million pounds.

  ‘I think you might find,’ said Bridget, ‘that the royalties from sales of her book will amount to rather more than you expect. According to her publisher, the book’s flying off the shelves.’

  Daniel’s interest was immediately aroused. ‘Really? That is good news.’

  Bridget turned her attention to the main reason for her visit. ‘Ian, on the subject of money, we’ve been going through Diane’s bank account and there was something I was hoping you might be able to explain.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ian, ‘I’ll help you if I can, but Diane hasn’t shared any information about her finances with me since our divorce.’

  ‘There’s not any kind of problem with her account, is there?’ asked Daniel, frowning.

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ said Bridget. ‘But in addition to her university salary she was receiving a substantial sum each month from an off-shore company by the name of Per Sempre Holdings. On her tax returns she declared it as dividend payments.’

  Daniel leaned forward with renewed interest. ‘When you say “substantial”, what sort of amounts are we talking about?’

  ‘Well in excess of her salary as a senior lecturer,’ said Bridget.

  ‘And where did you say these payments were coming from?’

  ‘A company called Per Sempre Holdings. It’s registered in the Cayman Islands. Do either of you know anything about it?’

  Father and son looked at each other and the surprise on their faces appeared genuine.

  ‘I’ve never heard of this company,’ said Ian, ‘but as I say we’ve been divorced for around ten years now. When was the company registered?’

  ‘We’re still looking into all the details,’ said Bridget. ‘As I said, it’s an off-shore company so it’s taking a little time to get to the bottom of it. I just thought that one of you might be able to give me an answer more quickly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there,’ said Ian.

  Daniel shook his head. ‘No, Mum never mentioned this company either.’ But the prospect of yet more money coming his way seemed to have raised his spirits considerably.

  Bridget finished her coffee and biscuit and put the cup and saucer back on the tray. ‘Before I go, just one more quick question. I don’t suppose either of you know the password to Diane’s laptop?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Ian. ‘Diane tended to be rather secretive about such matters.’

  Bridget nodded. She was beginning to suspect that Diane had been secretive about a number of matters.

  ‘You k
now,’ said Ian, ‘Diane had a strong interest in secret codes, the kind that spies used. She used to invent her own codes when she was a teenager, and she collected books on espionage, cryptography, and so on. She loved all sorts of puzzles, cryptic crosswords, secret languages and suchlike. So I imagine her password isn’t going to be easy to guess.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bridget, standing up. It seemed that nothing Ian or his son told her today was going to be helpful.

  ‘Before you go,’ said Ian, ‘I have a question for you. We were wondering when it will be possible for the family to have access to Diane’s house. There are documents that will be needed to complete all the formalities of her death, and although Daniel will inherit everything of value, there are personal items like photographs and other mementoes that should go to certain family members.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Bridget. ‘I don’t see any reason why the house needs to remain off limits beyond the end of this week. I’ll give you a call as soon as we’ve finished with it. I assume you have a key?’

  ‘I have one,’ said Daniel. ‘And Aunt Annabel does too.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Ian, ‘Annabel has lost hers.’

  ‘Lost it?’ queried Bridget. ‘Do you mean somebody took it?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I think she probably just misplaced it. She’s been so upset, you know. I’m sure it will turn up.’

  Bridget thanked the father and son for their time and rose from her seat. Ian showed her to the front door. He lingered, and she sensed there was something on his mind. ‘Listen, please don’t think badly about my son,’ he said. ‘I know that sometimes he appears to be mercenary and ungrateful, but he’s not really. It’s just that he and Diane didn’t have an easy relationship.’

  ‘So everyone keeps saying.’ It was hard for Bridget to reconcile Daniel’s resentful attitude towards his mother with the photograph albums that Bridget had seen in Diane’s house, filled with photograph after photograph of her only son. It was obvious from those photographs that she had thought the world of him, and she had left everything to him in her will. Yet he clearly hated her.