Preface to Murder

by M S Morris

  Ian sighed. ‘I suppose the truth is that Diane was a product of her time. Back in the eighties, women were being told that they could have it all. Even the woman Diane loathed most in the world, Margaret Thatcher, had it all – she ran the country and looked after her family at the same time. So Diane felt that in her own way she had to do the same. I suppose that she may have treated Daniel the same way that she treated her career – a project, with goals, targets and a timetable. It wasn’t really what a young boy needed from his mother.’

  ‘But Daniel enjoyed a good relationship with you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely,’ said Ian. ‘You know, I would have liked to have had more children, but Diane was adamant that one was enough. She had already put a tick in that box with Daniel’s birth, and she didn’t have time for more. If I’m being completely honest, that was probably the main reason we drifted apart.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bridget. ‘I’m sorry.’

  So now the truth of the failed relationship was emerging. The “amicable parting of the ways” that Ian had described to her at their first meeting was little more than a fiction intended to conceal the usual bitterness and recriminations of a broken marriage. Well, Bridget couldn’t blame Ian for that. No one wanted to dwell on love turned sour. Better to paper over the cracks, fix a smile to your face and soldier on. It looked as if Ian had found happiness with his second wife whilst maintaining a good relationship with his son from his first marriage. Not a bad outcome in Bridget’s book.

  24

  Ffion drummed her long fingers on the keyboard, her green-painted nails tapping at the keys idly, unconsciously beating out the four-to-the-floor rhythm of the techno music that she loved. But no matter what combination of letters and numbers she tried, none matched the password of Diane’s laptop.

  Ffion had cracked plenty of passwords in her time. Obvious passwords like birthdays and pet’s names. Trickier ones that involved a combination of a date and a name. Even more obscure ones that required some kind of external key to crack them. But nothing she had tried here was working, and she was out of ideas.

  If only the filesystem wasn’t encrypted. Then her USB cloning device would have let her bypass the laptop’s security and read the data with ease. But with encryption in place, there was only one way in, and that was with the password.

  Why on earth had the academic gone to the trouble of encrypting her data? What had she wanted to hide? Ffion had asked some of Diane’s colleagues at the Blavatnik School, wondering if this was official policy, but she’d been met with puzzlement. None of the other academics even knew how to encrypt a computer. Diane had clearly been determined to conceal something. And Ffion was equally determined to find out what.

  Encrypting a filesystem wasn’t an easy feat to pull off. It suggested a high degree of computer literacy, well beyond what most people were capable of, as well as a knowledge of encryption methods. Where did that knowledge come from?

  Ffion’s fingers stopped abruptly. A connection was forming in her mind. Encryption technology… surveillance techniques… the secret state. Diane’s book collection back at her house in North Oxford contained a section on codebreaking and cryptography. Maybe it was worth going back to the house and taking a closer look.

  Bridget was still out of the office but Ffion didn’t think her boss would object to her looking through Diane Gilbert’s book collection again. Not if it meant she was able to get into the laptop at last. On her Kawasaki, she could be there and back in half an hour. If nothing else it would be a welcome change of scene. Pulling on her motorcycle leathers and grabbing her crash helmet, she headed out of the station.

  *

  It was pleasantly warm in the spring sunshine, and the hanging baskets on the nearby pub were filled to abundance with spring flowers. Bridget turned her face to the sun as she walked the short distance from Ian Dunn’s house back to her car. But the flood of pleasure was fleeting. Grayson’s stern voice rang again in her mind like an echo that refused to die away. Time’s running out, DI Hart. I promise you, I’ll bring in Baxter to take over.

  She was painfully aware of how little progress she had made that day. Time seemed to be slipping through her fingers with little to show for its passing. Her phone rang, and hoping that it was Jake or Ffion with an update, she answered without first checking the caller ID.

  Mistake. It was Vanessa. ‘Oh, Bridget, I’m so glad I caught you.’

  ‘Actually, I’m working. Is it something important?’

  Vanessa’s voice was full of reproach. ‘Well, yes, actually, it is. So if you can give me five minutes of your precious time.’

  A car drove past noisily and Bridget returned to her own car. Inside, with the door closed, the background noise was much reduced. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Mum.’ Vanessa sounded upset.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She’s had a fall.’

  ‘Another one?’ Bridget thought back to the sprained wrist their mother had suffered when she fell just before Christmas. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘What do you mean, is she all right? Didn’t you hear what I said? She’s had a fall.’

  ‘But, I mean, how serious is it… is she in hospital?’

  ‘Dad took her in to be looked at, but they’re back home now. She’s broken her arm and has a black eye.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Only briefly. I spoke to Dad mainly.’

  ‘And how is he coping?’

  ‘Well, you know him. He says he’s managing perfectly well, but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Clearly he’s not.’

  Bridget took a deep breath. Arguing with Vanessa was always a mistake, but… ‘If Dad says he’s managing, then maybe he is.’

  A pause greeted her suggestion, and Bridget recognised the signs of Vanessa gearing up for a lengthy oration. ‘Bridget, our father is not managing at all. He hasn’t been managing for the past year. I already explained to you how frail Mum has become. And Dad has health problems of his own. Even under normal conditions they barely muddle through. So now with Mum’s arm in plaster and badly shaken-up –’

  Vanessa was difficult to interrupt when she was in full flow, but Bridget needed to cut through the tirade. ‘What do you think we should do?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious. You and I need to go down there right away and make sure that they’re all right. What Dad needs is a good rest while we take care of Mum. James has agreed to work from home for the next few days and look after the children, and I’m sure Chloe will be fine on her own, but she can always stay at our place if she doesn’t want to fend for herself –’

  ‘Vanessa, I can’t just drop everything and go down to Lyme Regis. I’m in the middle of a murder enquiry.’

  ‘You’re always in the middle of something,’ said Vanessa. ‘Doesn’t Thames Valley Police have any other detectives? Haven’t you got a team you can delegate to? You’re always making excuses.’

  Vanessa’s accusation stung, and Bridget knew that it contained a kernel of truth. Her life was a constant balancing act between competing pressures of work and family – one that she could never seem to get right. There simply wasn’t enough of her to go around. But this time her career was on the line. ‘Listen, I’ll call Dad tonight and have a chat with him. If I think the situation is as bad as you make out, then I’ll see what I can do about taking some time off. But I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Well, suit yourself,’ said Vanessa stiffly. ‘I’m driving down to Lyme Regis tomorrow. Someone needs to step up, and it looks like it will have to be me. If you think you can spare the time to join me, call me back. If not, don’t bother.’

  *

  ‘Ffion, love, how’re you doing?’

  Ffion had just been about to wrap up for the day when her phone rang. It was her older sister, Siân. She wasn’t supposed to take personal calls while at work, but then again, it was already an hour past the time she was
supposed to have finished. A pile of Diane Gilbert’s books now stood teetering on her desk – books on codemaking, codebreaking, ciphers, cryptographs and cryptograms. She had begun to work her way through the collection, but it was too late in the day to be starting a new project. Anyway, since no one else was around, it wouldn’t matter if she took the call. She picked up and was immediately cheered by her sister’s friendly voice. Siân’s enthusiasm was always infectious.

  ‘I’m good,’ she replied. ‘How are you? And the kids?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Arwen will be trying two days a week at pre-school next term, just for a trial run before starting properly in the autumn. That’ll give me more time to spend with Owain. You know what a handful he can be. Always getting into trouble. Not anything bad, mind you. He’s just a bit of a scamp.’

  Ffion grinned to herself. Owain was only one year old. How much trouble could a one-year-old get into? Siân should try dealing with the criminals Ffion came up against in her job. On the other hand, she’d probably get them sorted out after a good talking to. There was no messing with Siân. When she set her mind to something, she got her way.

  It was Siân who had engineered the reconciliation that had taken place after Christmas between Ffion and her parents. Ffion’s mam had never approved of her daughter’s sexuality, and the rift had driven Ffion away from home, away from Wales, and all the way to Oxford. There was no question of her ever moving back to live in Wales, but at least she was on speaking terms with her parents again, and was planning to visit them as soon as she could get a few days off work.

  ‘So what’s up?’ asked Siân.

  ‘Does anything have to be up?’

  ‘No. But I’m hoping you’ve done something interesting since last time we spoke.’

  Ffion laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I do have some news.’ She proceeded to tell Siân all about Marion and the fun they were having together.

  ‘She does sound nice,’ said Siân. ‘So when are you planning to bring her here?’

  The question brought Ffion up short. ‘You mean to Wales?’

  ‘Sure. I’d love to meet her.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

  Ffion had spent years doing her best to keep her family away from the rest of her life. They’d never come to visit her in Oxford. She’d barely been back to Wales in seven years. But maybe it was time for that to change. Now that she was reconciled with her mam, perhaps there was no longer anything to fear. Perhaps the natural reluctance she felt at Siân’s suggestion was nothing more than an old habit that needed to be unlearned. Well, what better way to start than to ask Marion if she’d like to spend a weekend in Wales? Could she do that? Take a girlfriend to meet her parents? To hang out in the village that had once felt so alienating, and yet held a natural beauty with its backdrop of mountains, its still lakes nestled between green peaks, and its small, close-knit community of two-up-two-down cottages? She knew that she could.

  Although she hadn’t been with Marion for long, the relationship was affecting a change in her. She was much more comfortable in her own skin these days, more confident in her sexuality, and perfectly relaxed in Marion’s company.

  She couldn’t help noticing how different this relationship was to her time with Jake, when she had stressed over his unhealthy diet, the mess in his flat, his awful taste in music. Sometimes she wondered what she’d ever seen in him. Well, that was a little unfair. He was kind and steady and easy-going and he did have a great sense of humour. If only he could have learned to do the washing-up and put his dirty underwear in the laundry bag. But that was men for you. Like Marion said, men were different, and not just in the most obvious ways.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she told Siân. ‘And I’m sure that Marion would love to meet you too.’

  The more she thought about it, the more the idea took hold. She was sure that Marion and Siân would hit it off immediately, and what better way to show her mam and dad how happy she could be in another woman’s company? As soon as they saw her together with Marion, they would be bound to welcome her into their home.

  Besides, if there was a chance that she might spend the rest of her life with Marion, then it would be best to make a start right away. What was it that Marion had said?

  Time is precious. Let’s not waste any.

  25

  Bridget arrived at work the next morning conflicted with guilt. Was she doing the right thing coming into the station? Should she have requested leave and accompanied her sister to Lyme Regis to help look after their parents? It occurred to her that Grayson wouldn’t have denied any such request, might even have been glad of an excuse to bring in DI Baxter without formally removing her from the case. She suspected her guilt was based, in part, on not wanting to give Grayson such an easy way out, which only made her feel even worse about herself.

  On the drive from Wolvercote she told herself repeatedly that her decision to stay in Oxford and work on the case was a logical one based on the conversation she’d had with her father the night before. She’d phoned her parents at half past six, judging that they would have had their tea by then but probably wouldn’t yet be watching any favourite TV shows that couldn’t be interrupted. Her parents still tended to watch programmes at the time they were broadcast rather than on-demand. She’d thought her father had sounded tired when he answered the phone, but he perked up considerably when he realised it was Bridget calling. It was true, he admitted when asked, that her mother had had a fall and had broken her wrist and (he had lowered his voice) was a ‘bit shaken up’, but he insisted that they were managing just fine.

  ‘I don’t expect you to drop everything in the middle of the week and drive all the way down here,’ he’d said when Bridget had mentioned Vanessa’s plans. ‘You’ve got a busy career. And a daughter to look after.’

  ‘There are other detectives at Thames Valley Police,’ she’d felt obliged to point out. ‘And I have a team I could delegate to.’ She almost wished her father would just admit defeat and then the decision would be made for her.

  In the end they’d agreed to ‘wait and see how things are in a few days.’ It was a very British response, Bridget thought. Wait and see. Don’t make any rash decisions. Stay calm and carry on. Vanessa, of course, took a different opinion. When Bridget had informed her – not without a certain trepidation – of her decision to stay in Oxford for now, Vanessa had made it abundantly clear that it was a good thing that at least one of them was willing to drop all her commitments and fly down to Lyme Regis on a mercy mission. Vanessa the martyr, Bridget had thought indignantly after they’d ended their less than harmonious phone call. Now she wondered if Vanessa wasn’t actually a saint, and she, Bridget, just a selfish person.

  Well, she’d made her decision – she could always change her mind at the weekend – and for now the only thing to do was to get on with work. She clicked on her email and immediately discovered the first bad news of the day.

  An email from forensics informed her that the Head of Department at the Blavatnik was not the author of the death threat. Or, at the very least, there was no evidence to link the letter that had been sent to Diane with the sample of handwriting that Professor Al-Mutairi had provided. But if Al-Mutairi hadn’t written the letter, who had?

  It was not a propitious start to the day. It seemed to Bridget as if every possible lead on this case was squashed almost as soon as it was suggested. Her meetings at the Saudi Embassy and with MI5 had come to nothing. There was still no ID on the sender of the death threat. Still no clear picture of how the intruder had entered Diane’s property. And still the mystery of the payments into Diane’s bank account. Despite her team’s hard work, Bridget felt like she was no further forward now than she had been at the beginning of the enquiry.

  What had Michael Dearlove told her? Forget it. Walk away. And yet she could not. It wasn’t just a murder investigation that hung in the balance, it was her own career. If Grayson carried out his threat to bring in Baxter, she would never have
a chance to vindicate herself. She thought too of PC Sam Roberts and PC Scott Wallis. The two young constables were already suspended from duty, and Bridget owed it to them to uncover exactly what had happened that fateful night. She hoped that the other members of her team would have something more positive to report.

  ‘Who wants to go first?’ she asked, scanning the room for volunteers once they were all assembled.

  After a moment Jake stepped forward. ‘I’ve had a reply from the authorities in the Cayman Islands.’

  At last. Bridget felt her hopes rise. Was this the breakthrough she had been waiting for so desperately?

  ‘So,’ said Jake. ‘The company register shows that Diane was the sole shareholder of Per Sempre Holdings, and she was also listed as its director. The registered address isn’t a proper street address, just a mailbox with a forwarding service. So it seems to be just a shell company, with no actual office or employees.’

  ‘So what is this outfit?’ asked Ryan. ‘Some kind of money laundering operation?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Jake. ‘Not all shell companies are a front for illegal activities. There are legitimate reasons for setting up a company in that way. Maybe for tax reasons. Companies registered in the Cayman Islands pay no business taxes, and there’s no inheritance tax to pay on the death of a shareholder.’

  ‘Still sounds dodgy to me,’ said Ryan.

  ‘But where was the company’s money coming from?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Jake. ‘We still don’t know. The company register only tells us the officially registered information. It doesn’t reveal anything about the business’s operations. So now I’ve submitted another request to access the company’s bank details. Once I have that, we’ll be able to see the source of the income.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ It was hard for Bridget to keep the frustration out of her voice.