Preface to Murder

by M S Morris

  Bridget made her way round the side of the house to the extensive garden at the back. The neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly edged lawn were a far cry from her own wild, untangled plot. There was very little chance of Bridget’s tiny garden in Wolvercote improving any time soon. But she had taken heart on hearing on the radio that leaving part of your garden to nature was good for the environment. Weeds were to be welcomed, it seemed. Perhaps she would redesignate a portion of it as a wildlife haven and abandon it to the whims of nature. Who was she kidding? She had basically already done that with the entire plot.

  The barking of Rufus alerted Vanessa to Bridget’s arrival. She stood up from where she had been kneeling, a trowel in her hand. From the look of it, she must have stopped off at the garden centre on her way back from Lyme Regis, because four bright-green potted plants were waiting to be assigned their place in the freshly dug border, and a watering can, a bag of compost and a brightly-coloured bottle of liquid fertiliser were on hand to give them the best possible start to their new life.

  ‘Hi,’ said Bridget. ‘You’re busy.’

  ‘Weeding helps to calm me down,’ said Vanessa. From the heap of dead weeds in the nearby wheelbarrow, Bridget guessed that Vanessa had needed a lot of calming. ‘And Easter is a time for new beginnings.’

  Bridget took that remark as a positive sign. ‘Would you like to go inside and talk?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got time.’ That wasn’t strictly true but this conversation would flow a lot more smoothly if she could show Vanessa that she was making an effort. In any case, Bridget had run out of fresh ideas on the investigation. Every lead she had followed had run into the ground.

  ‘We can talk out here,’ said Vanessa. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Besides, I want to get these azaleas planted before their roots start to dry out.’

  She knelt back on her gardening mat, scooped out a hole with her trowel, upended one of the baby plants, and struck the bottom of its plastic pot with what seemed like unnecessary force. The fledgling shrub popped out of its container in one neat movement, and Vanessa pushed it into its allotted hole, topping it up with compost. She firmed the dark crumbly material down with gloved hands, then started to dig a second hole before she spoke again.

  ‘Mum’s getting back on her feet now, and Dad’s looking after her. I think they’ll be okay for the moment at least. But I’ve said that I’ll go back and see them again as soon as I can. I’m hoping that you’ll be able to come with me next time.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ said Bridget. ‘That is, I’ll do my very best to get away. As soon as this current investigation is concluded, I’ll be able to take time off.’

  And, if as was looking increasingly likely she failed to conclude the investigation with a positive result, she would probably find herself with an abundance of free time. Grayson wasn’t likely to cut her much more slack. He had made it perfectly clear that he would bring in Baxter if he lost confidence in her. Perhaps she should pre-empt the decision and suggest it herself. She couldn’t claim that she was filled with confidence at her own ability to solve the case.

  ‘Things are going to have to change, one way or another,’ continued Vanessa. ‘In the short term, we’re going to have to spend more time down in Dorset helping out. Their house is just about manageable, but the garden is far too big for Dad to look after, especially now that Mum’s taking up so much of his time.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not at all strong. She has too many underlying health conditions. Dad was already struggling, and this broken arm is merely the latest in a long line of issues. I’m worried about her, and I’m worried about how much of a burden she is for Dad. You and I are going to have to lighten that load, otherwise I don’t know how he’ll continue to cope.’

  Bridget nodded. ‘I hadn’t realised things had got so bad. It’s because we’ve seen so little of them since they moved to Dorset. They’ve been hidden away.’

  ‘Exactly. You’ve put your finger on it. The fact is,’ said Vanessa, ‘they’d be much better off moving back to Oxford. We’d be close on hand to help out, and to step in if anything else happens. Or when it happens, I should say, because Mum’s not going to get any stronger. They’d see their grandchildren regularly too, and they’d also be able to visit Abigail’s grave whenever they wanted to.’

  Bridget nodded. Her dead younger sister was out of sight, but never far from her thoughts. ‘But will they agree to moving back?’ she asked.

  The second plant was now in place. Vanessa moved her kneeling mat along the border and plunged her trowel once again into the neatly-weeded soil. ‘Not without a fight.’

  ‘Did you discuss that with them?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  Vanessa freed a third shrub from its container and lowered it into place. ‘They weren’t exactly keen on the idea. They refuse to admit to themselves that they can’t cope anymore. I think that for them, leaving Lyme Regis would be like an admission of failure.’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘The next time I see them, I’m going to insist that they move back to Oxford, and I’d like your support in this matter. If we both tell them the same thing, then they might start to listen.’

  ‘I don’t think I have any more influence with them than you do,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Vanessa. ‘They expect me to make a fuss, but if you back me up, then they’ll be forced to take the idea seriously.’

  Perhaps that was true. Vanessa had always been the bossiest of the three sisters. But this was the closest she’d ever come to admitting it. Bridget savoured the moment.

  Vanessa had now planted all four azaleas and was tidying up the edge of the bed where the soil met the lawn. ‘Anyway, make yourself useful and pour some of that liquid fertiliser into the watering can, will you?’

  Bridget picked up the green plastic bottle standing on the grass. ‘How much should I add?’ She scanned the label for guidance.

  ‘Just one capful,’ said Vanessa. ‘It’s strong stuff.’

  But Bridget’s mind was no longer on plants and gardening. Her attention was fixed on the bold letters on the label of the bottle.

  Ericaceous fertiliser: Rich in phosphorous, magnesium and potassium for all acid-loving plants.

  Phosphorous, magnesium and potassium.

  The three substances that had been found in Diane’s blood. She had been killed with liquid plant food.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bridget, thrusting the bottle into Vanessa’s hands, ‘but I have to dash.’

  Vanessa scrambled to her feet. ‘Wait a minute! You can’t just abandon me again. We need to talk about when we’re both going down to Lyme Regis.’

  ‘Call you later,’ said Bridget. She was already halfway across the lawn, heading towards her car. She thought she heard Vanessa swear at her, but she was too far away to know for certain.

  34

  Bridget still couldn’t remember the Latin name for Professor Al-Mutairi’s exotic pot plants, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was that she had seen him watering his precious flowers with liquid feed. Phosphorous, magnesium and potassium. Seeing the deadly cocktail of ingredients listed on Vanessa’s bottle of plant food had unlocked the final clue in the case.

  The professor had never tried to conceal his personal and professional hatred of Diane Gilbert. He had even threatened to fire her just a day or so before her murder, and Diane had countered with a threat to expose the truth about him. Bridget had a good hunch she knew what that truth was. No wonder he had been forced to act when he did, even knowing that Diane was under police protection.

  Bridget drove as fast as she could to the Blavatnik School of Government and dashed up the spiral stairs to the professor’s office, bursting inside without knocking.

  Professor Al-Mutairi looked up from his desk in surprise. ‘Inspector Hart, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I need to see the food that you give to your pla
nts.’

  He gave her a bemused look. ‘Are you planning to take up horticultural pursuits? I can highly recommend it. Growing plants is an excellent way to counter the stress of modern life.’

  He rose from his chair and walked over to the windowsill. A small bottle of plant food stood next to the dazzling display of yellow flowers. He handed it over to her and turned to study his beloved plants. ‘Rhanterium epapposum is a fascinating species. It’s adapted for the harsh climate and the saline conditions of the shores of the Arabian Gulf. It flowers in spring and then sheds all its leaves as the desert heat grows in intensity. During the summer it has all the appearance of being dead. Then, when the first rain of late autumn falls, it returns to life and resumes its growth. When I first brought these specimens to this country, I didn’t know whether they would take, but in fact they are thriving. I must say, I am rather proud of them.’

  But Bridget didn’t share the professor’s interest in desert flora. She quickly scanned the bottle, searching for the proof she needed. Phosphorous, magnesium and potassium.

  But the label on the bottle told a different story. Rich in nitrogen. She read through the rest of the ingredients, but none of them matched the chemicals listed in the toxicology report.

  ‘Is that what this food contains?’ she demanded. ‘Nitrogen?’

  The professor looked puzzled. ‘Why? What were you expecting?’

  ‘Phosphorous, magnesium and potassium!’ yelled Bridget in exasperation.

  Al-Mutairi shook his head. ‘You are confusing these with ericaceous plants. Desert soils are strongly alkaline, so ericaceous plant food would be detrimental to their growth. That is not at all what they need.’

  ‘Then do you have any ericaceous plants in your garden at home?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ said the professor. ‘I really don’t have time to maintain more than my little window garden here.’

  Bridget returned the bottle to the shelf, her spirits deflated.

  ‘I would love to spend more time talking with you about gardening and horticulture, Inspector,’ said Al-Mutairi, ‘but I do have other tasks to be getting on with.’

  Bridget looked up at him, studying his features. Perhaps Al-Mutairi was innocent of Diane’s murder, but she was confident that he was hiding one secret. ‘I know what you did,’ she told him. ‘I know the truth about you that Diane Gilbert threatened to expose.’

  A cold look spread across his face and she knew that she was right. ‘Really? And what truth might that be?’

  ‘That you work as an informant for MI5.’

  Professor Al-Mutairi’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Is that a statement of fact, Inspector, or are you inviting me to confirm or deny your conjecture?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  He tugged gently at his beard before responding. ‘Let me just say this. Diane Gilbert was a danger to the national security of this country, and also a threat to peace in the Middle East. Someone needed to watch her.’

  ‘And you took it upon yourself to be that someone?’

  He smiled broadly then, all traces of his earlier displeasure gone. ‘It strikes me that if I tried to deny it, you would simply refuse to believe me.’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Bridget.

  ‘In that case, Inspector, there is nothing more for us to discuss. Now, I really do have pressing matters to attend to, so I will wish you good day.’

  *

  Diane Gilbert had taken great care to conceal her second life as a writer of steamy romance. A secret pseudonym. An encrypted laptop. An off-shore company. She hadn’t told anyone in her family or her professional world about this lucrative source of income.

  Ffion, who knew a thing or two about leading a double life, was intrigued by the extraordinary lengths Diane had gone to in order to conceal her activity. And why? To protect her academic reputation. It might be the twenty-first century, but old-fashioned snobbery was still alive and kicking, especially in the world of academia where colleagues were often viewed as rivals. Ffion could well imagine the glee on Professor Al-Mutairi’s face if he found out that Diane had stooped so low as to write commercial fiction, and romance at that. No wonder Diane had kept her secret so close to her chest.

  But to her fans, Diane’s alter ego Lula Langton was famous. She enjoyed a large global following, desperate to read the latest instalment from their favourite author. Lula had her own website where readers could discover her books and sign up to Lula’s newsletter, ensuring they never missed a new release. But the About page, which would normally display a photograph of the author with an informative resumé, was deliberately vague. It featured a rear-view image of a woman walking barefoot on a beach – it could have been anyone – and a bio that focused almost exclusively on reviews of her books – ‘sensual’, ‘scintillating’, ‘sexy’, and ‘seductive’ were popular adjectives – and on their bestseller status – Lula Langton is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of red-hot, contemporary romance. There was actually nothing about Lula Langton herself. But that was no surprise, since Lula didn’t exist.

  Diane’s laptop had one of the best-organised filesystems that Ffion had ever encountered. Folders and files were all named so that it was easy to navigate the contents of the hard drive. A spreadsheet entitled Writing and Publishing Schedule provided insight into Diane’s rigorous planning process, containing a detailed plan for the production of each book, with time allocated for plotting, writing, editing and publishing. It rather dispelled the myth that writing was a purely creative art which happened whenever the muse inspired you. Diane had treated it as a business, sticking to a rigid programme of work and hitting self-imposed and demanding deadlines. Ffion admired her self-disclipline.

  Diane – or Lula – had written three different series. There was the Highlands series set in Scotland, the covers of which featured rugged men poised on rocky crags and wearing nothing but kilts despite the inclement weather. A billionaire romance series featured images of men with smouldering good looks, and dinner jackets slung over their shoulders. To Ffion’s way of thinking they all looked rather too young to be billionaires. But it was Diane’s latest series, Betrayed, with cover shots of beautiful but wicked-looking women, that had proved to be the biggest hit. Each book was set in a different luxury holiday destination in Europe, and they had titles like Betrayed in Barcelona, Seduced in St Tropez, Cheated in Cannes, Deceived in Dubrovnik, Abducted in Athens, and the latest book, Stolen in Sorrento.

  Stolen in Sorrento had been released a month before Diane’s death. Ffion read the blurb.

  Scarlett and Katie are sisters and the best of friends. Scarlett is engaged to Jamie, and Katie is engaged to Tom. A road trip around Italy seems like the perfect way to spend the summer before each couple marries and settles down.

  But beneath the growing heat of the Italian sun, love and passion take an unexpected turn.

  By the time they reach their final destination of Sorrento, loyalties and devotions will be tested to the limit. In the shadow of Vesuvius, lust and desire are about to erupt. But when the hot lava flows, which sister will come out on top?

  A shiver ran up Ffion’s spine. The plot of the story sounded as if it might be based on the Italian tour that Diane and Annabel had undertaken with their respective partners before they were married. It hinted at something dramatic happening on that holiday. What – or who – had been stolen? Ffion reached for the photograph of the two couples sitting around the dinner table, the threatening presence of Vesuvius clearly visible in the background. Could it be that Diane’s romance books were not entirely fictional? Was that another reason why she had kept them secret?

  Ffion clicked through the filesystem until she found the original manuscript of Stolen in Sorrento. It was only 50,000 words long, a fraction of the length of A Deadly Race. It wouldn’t take her long to speed-read her way through the text, and maybe it would reveal something new. She settled herself in her chair and began to scan through the prose, delving into a world of
love and passion, just as the blurb promised.

  *

  Bridget returned to her car, mired in frustration. Professor Al-Mutairi fed his plants the wrong kind of food! But what he had told her about ericaceous plants was correct. The food that matched the toxicology report was the kind that Vanessa used on her azaleas. Ericaceous plants loved acid-rich soil. So she was looking for someone who grew rhododendrons, camellias, heathers, magnolias and so on. She clapped her hands together and set off for Old Headington.

  Soon she was pulling up again outside the Georgian house that belonged to Ian Dunn and Louise Morton. She stepped out of the car and paused for a moment to admire the glorious display of pink blooms on the magnolia tree in the front garden. Then she strode up the garden path and rang the bell.

  The door was answered by Louise Morton. She had changed out of her gym wear and was wearing tight stretch jeans teamed with a sheer blouse over a camisole top. On seeing Bridget, she frowned. ‘I thought you’d already spoken to Ian. He told me that you came to see him at the hospital.’

  ‘I did,’ said Bridget. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Ian’s not here. He came home from work and then went out again.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Bridget. ‘It was you I wanted to see.’

  She followed Louise into the lounge and sat down. No coffee was offered this time, and Louise gave Bridget the distinct impression that she would be glad to see the back of her. Bridget settled down in the armchair and made herself comfortable. ‘I was admiring your garden as I came in. It’s looking lovely. Is it you or Ian who looks after it?’

  Louise eyed her suspiciously. ‘Me, mainly. But I have a gardener who comes in once a week.’

  ‘It must be a lot of work,’ said Bridget. ‘Especially the magnolia tree. Do you have a lot of ericaceous plants?’

  ‘A few.’ Louise looked pointedly at the smartwatch she wore on her wrist. ‘Was there something in particular you wanted to ask me? Because if not, I have plenty I’d like to be getting on with.’