Preface to Murder

by M S Morris

  Grant shifted nervously in his chair. Beside him, his lawyer sighed, clearly aware that more bad news was coming.

  ‘CCTV from the Travelodge now shows that you didn’t return there until just before midnight.’ Bridget referred to a copy of the post-mortem report that she had brought into the interview. ‘The pathologist who carried out Diane’s post-mortem stated that the time of death was between eleven o’clock and one in the morning. That gave you plenty of time to kill her and then return to your hotel. So unless you can account for your whereabouts that night, I’m going to recommend that you are charged with her murder.’

  Grant lowered his forehead to the table in a gesture of defeat. Finally the knee that had been bouncing almost continuously beneath the table came to a halt. Bridget wondered if he had simply given up on life.

  He lifted his head from the table as if it were a solid lead weight, and stared at her with a look of abject hopelessness. ‘The truth is, I lied,’ he said. ‘Or at least I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I did go to the White Horse, but I stayed there longer than I may have implied. I should have told you this earlier, but I didn’t think it was important.’

  Bridget pursed her lips, waiting.

  ‘You see, I was meeting someone there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jennifer Eagleston and Michael Dearlove.’

  Bridget frowned at this latest claim. ‘But Michael Dearlove said that he was driving straight home to London after the talk. When Diane asked him if he wanted to go out for a drink, he told her that he had to get away.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grant, ‘but that’s because we were keeping the meeting a secret.’

  ‘Why?’

  Grant rubbed at his blackened eyes, as if all he wanted to do was fall asleep forever. ‘Michael has a book he wants to write, but his current agent hasn’t been able to find a publisher for him. So after my success at getting Diane’s book published, he asked me if I would put him in touch with Jennifer.’

  ‘Why did that have to be kept secret?’

  ‘Because of Michael’s contract. He has an agent already, so he was breaking his exclusivity terms by speaking to me. The whole situation is very delicate.’

  ‘Not as delicate as your current predicament,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Quite. So that’s why I’m telling you everything now.’

  ‘You claim that you met Jennifer and Michael in the White Horse after Diane’s talk finished? We can easily verify that, you know.’

  ‘Yes. As long as they’re willing to admit to it.’

  ‘Let’s hope for your sake that they are. How long did this meeting last?’

  ‘Until eleven? Perhaps not quite as long as that. Let’s say a quarter to eleven.’

  ‘So why did it take you more than an hour to return to your hotel? Don’t tell me that you missed your bus.’

  ‘No, although the buses aren’t very frequent at that time of night. The plain truth is that I just fancied a walk. After a whole evening sitting down, and a long meeting in a crowded pub, I needed to clear my head. So I walked.’

  Bridget did a quick calculation. The distance from the pub to the hotel was a little over two miles. Grant’s claim that he had spent an hour walking just about held up.

  He leaned forward again as if keen to press home his case. ‘Look, I’m not proud of how I’ve behaved. I’ve done some terrible things. The death threat hoax. Going behind people’s backs. Lying to you. But my business has been in desperate trouble. I’m right on the brink of going bust. I had to do something.’

  Bridget eyed him suspiciously across the table. ‘Do you know anything about payments that Diane received from a company called Per Sempre Holdings?’

  He seemed alarmed by the sudden shift in questioning. ‘Per Sempre Holdings? I’ve never heard of it. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a Cayman Islands company. Diane appears to have been its sole director and shareholder. Might she have been doing secret book deals that you were unaware of, just like the one you were trying to arrange with Michael Dearlove?’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Grant. ‘The agreement between an author and their agent is a legally binding contract. You must understand that my discussions with Michael and Jennifer were just informal talks. If Jennifer gives us the go-ahead to proceed, Michael will need to terminate his contract with his current agent and appoint me to manage his negotiations. He can’t just do it himself. Publishers aren’t interested in receiving manuscripts directly from authors. They rely on trusted agents to filter out the dross.’

  ‘So Diane couldn’t have gone behind your back?’

  ‘Certainly not. Anyway, why would she? I negotiated her a good deal for her book. Jennifer wanted to pay her far less, but I got her to up the advance by twenty percent. I’m good at what I do.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Bridget, although Grant’s dire financial predicament tended to suggest otherwise. ‘Yet Diane was earning a sizeable sum each month from this company of hers. Far more than she’s likely to make from sales of A Deadly Race.’

  *

  It was of little surprise to Bridget to discover that Jennifer Eagleston was still hanging around Oxford, attending talks and schmoozing with writers and their agents. In the light of what Grant had said about shady deals conducted over pints of beer in dimly-lit corners of pubs, Jennifer’s comment about poaching writers from other publishers had taken on more sinister implications. If Grant was to be believed, Jennifer wasn’t above breaking the law to get what she wanted.

  ‘DI Hart?’ she said breezily as she answered her phone. ‘How nice to hear from you again, but I’m a little busy to do lunch today, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to suggest lunch,’ said Bridget. ‘This time it would be more convenient if you came to speak to me at the station.’

  A stony silence greeted her words. A background buzz of conversation filled the void. Bridget heard a voice saying, ‘Jennifer, can I get you another drink?’

  ‘Is there a problem, Inspector?’ asked Jennifer after a moment.

  ‘I’m sure there won’t be,’ said Bridget pleasantly. ‘I’ll send a car to pick you up right away.’

  The publisher arrived at Kidlington half an hour later, looking flustered. But as always, her armour of red lipstick and scarlet nail varnish were firmly in place. She clutched her enormous tote bag in front of her like a shield.

  ‘This way, please,’ said Bridget, ushering her into the interview room so recently vacated by Grant Sadler.

  Jennifer took a seat, glancing nervously around the spartanly furnished room. She folded her hands neatly in front of her. Bridget had never seen the woman looking so meek. ‘What is it you’d like to know?’ she asked.

  ‘I would like to know,’ said Bridget, ‘exactly what you did after leaving Diane’s talk at the Divinity School on the night of her death.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jennifer. ‘You’ve been talking to someone. Might I ask who?’

  ‘Please could you just answer my question, Miss Eagleston.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ said Jennifer. ‘I had a meeting with Grant Sadler and Michael Dearlove.’

  ‘A secret meeting,’ said Bridget.

  Jennifer snorted. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, that’s a very melodramatic way of putting it. It was an informal conversation, that’s all.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of this conversation?’

  ‘We were just talking about a book Michael wants to write. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  ‘Except that Michael has an agent who represents him, and so Grant should never have introduced him to you.’

  ‘Well, these contractual terms can be rather vague,’ said Jennifer. ‘Like I said, we were just a few friends having a chat over a drink.’

  ‘Can you confirm where this meeting took place, and at what time you left?’

  ‘It was at the White Horse. Do you know it? It’s a charming little pub on Broad Street. And I guess we must have
finished, oh, I’m not sure when. Time flies when you’re in good company, don’t you think?’

  ‘What is your best estimate of the time?’ asked Bridget through gritted teeth.

  Jennifer frowned. ‘Elevenish. Maybe a little earlier, maybe a little later.’

  The time tallied roughly with Grant’s own account. Not that Jennifer Eagleston could be counted as a very reliable witness.

  ‘And what did you do after the meeting?’

  ‘I walked back to my hotel.’

  ‘And the other two? Grant and Michael?’

  ‘Michael needed to drive back to London, and I assume that Grant went straight back to his hotel.’

  Bridget gazed at her across the table. ‘What would you say if I told you that it was Grant Sadler who wrote the death threat that was sent to Diane?’

  Jennifer’s eyes opened wide in shock. She opened her mouth to speak, but for once, no words came out.

  *

  Three people had met in secret immediately before Diane’s death, and it didn’t take Bridget long to track down the third participant in that meeting. A quick search on the Oxford Literary Festival’s website revealed that Michael Dearlove was currently hosting an informal question and answer session at Blackwell’s marquee next to the Bodleian. Bridget got into her car and set off for central Oxford.

  By the time she arrived, the session was finishing, and the audience members were drifting off to browse the tables of books on display beneath the large canopy of the marquee. Michael Dearlove was chatting politely to an old lady but gave the impression that he was keen to get away. Perhaps he had somewhere else to go, or more likely he was simply gasping for another cigarette. Bridget decided to rescue him.

  ‘Ah, Inspector Hart,’ he exclaimed as she approached. ‘I was just about to leave.’

  ‘Perhaps you could spare me a little of your time before you dash away.’

  ‘Of course. Anything I can do to assist the police with their enquiries.’

  The old lady took the hint and allowed Bridget to guide the journalist away. Once outside he immediately lit up, inhaling deeply as if his life depended on it. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘that’s better. I’d forgotten how quickly this stuff gets a grip on you.’

  Bridget waved the smoke away with one hand. She was quickly losing patience with Michael Dearlove and his cigarettes. ‘I have some more questions to ask you.’

  ‘Fire away,’ said Dearlove. ‘You don’t mind if we take a stroll, do you?’ He set off along the same path they had walked last time she’d spoken to him, in the direction of Radcliffe Square. ‘So, what is this about?’

  ‘It’s about your meeting with Grant Sadler and Jennifer Eagleston.’

  ‘Oh, right. That meeting. It’s hardly a police matter, is it?’

  ‘I’m interested in establishing the facts, since it took place on the night of the murder.’

  Dearlove stopped and faced her. ‘You can’t think that one of us had anything to do with her death, do you? That’s ridiculous! I’ve already told you what I think.’

  ‘You did. In fact, you were very quick to point the finger at the security services. If I recall, you also advised me that I would have no hope of getting anyone associated with the security services to talk to me.’

  He puffed at his cigarette. ‘Well, did they talk?’

  ‘They talked. Although obviously they denied any involvement.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘So now I’m exploring an alternative line of enquiry.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I might have killed Diane?’ A genuine anger animated him now. He seemed affronted by the idea.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Bridget. ‘But I’d like to hear your account of the meeting that took place that night.’

  They turned into Radcliffe Square, and Dearlove took a moment to stare up at the golden pillars and arches of the Camera, crowned by the green-grey leaden dome of its roof. ‘God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s almost enough to make you want to throw in your principles and join the elite.’

  ‘It didn’t take much for you to throw in your principles, did it, Mr Dearlove?’

  He cast a look of annoyance in her direction. ‘Look, this meeting, it’s not such a big deal. The fact is that I’ve been trying to land a publishing contract for a while now. It shouldn’t be so hard. I’m a well-known journalist with a solid track record. But my agent just can’t seem to find an opening with any of the big publishing houses. She’s been trying for almost a year with no success. Frankly, it’s been galling to watch Diane bringing her book to publication while I twiddle my thumbs on the sidelines. So I decided to have a quiet word with Grant before Diane’s talk, and he suggested that I meet Jennifer. In fact, it was a very productive meeting. We’re already moving forward with some ideas.’

  ‘And where and when did this meeting take place?’

  ‘At the White Horse, just after Diane’s talk.’ He looked abashed. ‘I had to tell Diane that I was driving straight back to London. I feel bad about that now. It was the very last thing I said to her, and it was an untruth.’

  ‘And what time did the meeting finish?’

  ‘We left the pub at about five to eleven. I remember checking the time, because I wanted to estimate when I could expect to get home. I called my wife just as I was setting off to let her know that I wouldn’t be back until about one o’clock in the morning, and for her not to wait up for me.’

  ‘I see. It seems like a long drive to make, especially since you were returning to Oxford the next day for the literary festival.’

  ‘Yes. Normally when I’m in Oxford I stay with…’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I mean, sometimes I stay with a friend.’

  ‘A friend? Who?’

  Dearlove threw the end of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it angrily against the cobbles with his shoe. He reached into his jacket pocket for a replacement but found the pack empty. ‘God, dammit! Where can I buy more of these?’

  ‘There’s a shop this way,’ said Bridget, steering him in the direction of the High Street. ‘Now, you were saying that you usually stay with a friend in Oxford. Do you want to tell me who that is, or shall I make a guess?’

  He bowed his head. ‘All right, I may as well admit it. I usually stay with Diane.’

  Bridget recalled that during her previous conversation with Dearlove he had referred to Diane being “all alone in that big empty house of hers.” Now it was clear that he had seen the inside of that house first-hand. And he had made no secret of the fact that he had slept with Diane when they were students.

  ‘You were having an affair with her?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘And did your wife know about it?’

  ‘Of course not! That’s why I didn’t mention anything about it to you before. So you see, Inspector, Diane meant a lot to me. She was far more than just a colleague. She was more than a friend. That’s the reason I’m so keen to help you find out who killed her.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Bridget. ‘But you must understand that this also makes you a prime suspect for her murder.’ They had arrived on the High Street now, close to a small independent newsagent that sold tobacco. Bridget indicated the shop. ‘I think you’ll find what you need in there.’

  28

  Ffion had her head in a book. Several books in fact. A pile of Diane Gilbert’s reference texts on code-breaking stood on one side of her desk. A book on steganography was propped open in front of her. And in her hands was a hardback edition of A Deadly Race - signed by the author herself.

  Ffion was on the hunt for a secret message – Diane’s password – and perhaps it was hidden right here, within the very book she held. After all, if Diane Gilbert wanted to use the art of cryptography to hide her password, where better to conceal it than within her greatest work, her first published book?

  Steganography. Concealed writing. One message hidden within another.

  Even better than protecting a message by u
se of a secret code, steganography went one step further and disguised the fact that a message even existed. Ffion imagined the pleasure that the academic might have had, knowing that her biggest secret was out in the open, on full public display. It fitted the profile Ffion had built up of Diane.

  Arrogant. Contemptuous. Presumptuous.

  But these were qualities that could easily backfire.

  It was late and most people had already left the office. But Ffion was going nowhere, not now that she had picked up the scent of her quarry. It was just a hunch, but she knew that her instincts were good. She had trusted hunches before, and they had led her to success. She was sure that this time would be no different. If only she could find the key.

  She flipped through the pages of Diane’s book. Nearly five hundred in total. Three hundred words to a page. And Diane Gilbert had never used a short word if she could find a longer one that meant the same. Ffion did the maths. Close to a million letters in total. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Or a grain of sand on the seashore. Or a drop of water in…

  Come on, focus.

  The principle of steganography was simple. Whereas in most codes – or ciphers, to use the correct term – a substitution method was used to replace each letter in a word or sentence with another, in steganography the letters that made up the hidden message didn’t change, they were simply picked out of a larger text. The book that lay open on Ffion’s desk explained it through examples.

  One common technique had been invented by Francis Bacon, the English philosopher and adviser to Queen Elizabeth I. The principle of Bacon’s cipher was to conceal a message using different formatting of text, such as letters emphasised in bold or italics. But Ffion had found no examples of irregular formatting. All the text in the book was of the same size and font face, apart from obvious exceptions like the table of contents.

  Another method was to insert deliberate errors into the text – spelling mistakes in words for instance. By finding all the erroneous letters and arranging them in order, a message would be revealed. But Ffion had found no spelling errors in this book.