by M S Morris
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Bridget pleasantly. ‘Your job as a paediatrician must be very demanding. It can’t leave you much time for hobbies like gardening. Personally, I can never find the time. My own garden’s a complete mess. But working at the hospital does give you easy access to medical equipment, like syringes. And no doubt you would be fully aware of the effects of phosphorous, magnesium and potassium on the human body.’
Louise stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘That’s how Diane was murdered. A concentrated solution of chemicals injected into her heart. She died almost instantly.’
‘And why are you telling me this?’
‘Because phosphorous, magnesium and potassium are the principal ingredients of ericaceous plant food, the kind you feed to magnolias.’ She gave Louise a moment to digest the implication. ‘I must say, it took me a while to make the connection. You appeared to have no reason to want Diane dead. There was no financial motive. There was no reason for me to suspect jealousy, since Ian divorced Diane so long ago. But then I discovered that you had lied to me the first time we spoke.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When you said that you and Ian had no children of your own, you told me that it was a blessing. But in fact it was a source of great anguish to you.’
Louise shook her head angrily. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I think I do, though, Louise. I think that in reality you longed for a child, and that you married Ian believing that since he already had a son, he would make an ideal father for a child of your own. Then, when you were unable to conceive, you blamed yourself.’
A single tear began to roll down Louise’s cheek.
‘I can only begin to imagine the sense of sadness you must have felt,’ said Bridget softly. ‘And then, when you realised that Ian wasn’t really Daniel’s father after all –’
‘What?’
‘You must have guessed,’ said Bridget. ‘The clumsiness, the trembling hands. As a doctor yourself, you must have spotted the symptoms of Huntington’s disease and realised that Daniel was really the son of John Caldecott.’
Louise was staring open-mouthed, and Bridget began to have doubts. Still, she pressed on. ‘You must have felt a sense of betrayal at the way Diane had cheated on Ian, then kept the truth about Daniel’s paternity a secret. She didn’t even appear to like her own son. Meanwhile, you had been trying desperately for a baby all those years, blaming yourself, and all for nothing. Diane’s behaviour must have felt like a slap in the face.’
‘No,’ said Louise. ‘It’s not true. I didn’t know any of this. How do you know?’
‘It doesn’t matter how I know,’ said Bridget. ‘But there was one final clue that made the puzzle fit together. Annabel’s missing keys to Diane’s house. I knew that the murderer must have had access to a set of keys, but I didn’t know how they had got hold of them. But you could easily have taken Annabel’s keys when you were at her house, couldn’t you?’
‘No,’ said Louise. ‘I’ve hardly ever been to Annabel’s house. It’s Ian who sees her most. They’ve always been very close. He’s known her even longer than he knew Diane. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘Ian found the missing keys.’
‘What?’ said Bridget. ‘Where?’
‘They were in one of our kitchen drawers. I have no idea how they got there, but Ian discovered them.’
‘When?’
‘When he came home from work an hour ago.’
‘Can you show them to me?’
Louise shook her head. ‘Ian’s got them. He’s taking them back to Annabel. You just missed him. He left about ten minutes before you arrived.’
*
Ian Dunn knocked loudly on Annabel’s front door and was answered immediately by the sound of scampering paws and excited barking from within the house. Oscar. The small, yappy dog had always rather irritated Ian. He wasn’t fond of dogs at the best of times, and the Jack Russell terrier that Annabel had chosen as her companion after her husband died was a particularly boisterous specimen. Always in need of a long walk, the dog was constantly barking, digging in the dirt, and jumping up to place its muddy paws on Ian’s trousers. Not to mention trying to chew his shoes. He was glad that Annabel had the good sense to keep the dog on a tight leash.
According to Annabel, the Jack Russell breed was named after a nineteenth-century parson of that name, who had been an enthusiastic fox hunter and dog breeder. The young Mr Russell, while a student at Exeter College, Oxford, was said to have bought a terrier while out hunting one day in Marston. He regarded the bitch as the perfect fox terrier, and all Jack Russells were supposedly descended from that one animal. Ian rather wished that Jack Russell had fallen off his horse that day.
When Annabel opened the door, the dog rushed out, leaping up and yapping frantically as it always did. Ian bent down to pat the dog, hoping it wouldn’t try to take his fingers off. It jumped up at him, licking his face with its pink tongue.
‘Oh, hello, Ian,’ said Annabel. ‘You’re lucky you’ve caught me. I was just about to take Oscar out for a walk around the field before it rains.’
Ian glanced up at the dark clouds gathering overhead. In his hurry to get to Marston, he hadn’t thought to bring a coat with him. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Annabel clipped Oscar’s lead to his collar. ‘Of course not. We’d love to have Ian join us for our walk, wouldn’t we, Oscar?’
Ian regarded the woman before him almost as if she were a stranger, taking in the loose grey hair, the old, mud-splattered coat and walking boots. Such a contrast to Diane, who had always presented herself immaculately. And quite unlike Louise, whose beauty and grace seemed so effortless.
I almost married you.
How different his life would have turned out, had it not been for that trip to Italy.
‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ said Ian. He was glad he had caught her going out with the dog. It would be easier for him to do what he had come to do outside, with Oscar as a distraction, than sitting opposite her, face to face in her tiny front room. That’s how much of a coward he was.
‘As long as you don’t mind a bit of mud,’ she said.
He smiled.
‘Wait here a second,’ she said. ‘There’s something I need to do.’
He took Oscar’s lead from her, and held it as the dog tugged vigorously. Annabel ducked inside the cottage but was back a minute later. She pulled the front door shut behind her and took the lead again. ‘This way,’ she said, as Oscar enthusiastically led the way down the garden path, sniffing at the gatepost as he went.
*
Bridget was already on her way to Marston when her phone rang. She answered it handsfree. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Ffion, boss. I’ve just finished reading Diane’s latest romance book. I know who did it!’
‘Me too. I spoke to Louise Morton. She told me that the keys to Diane’s house that Annabel reported missing have turned up. Ian Dunn claimed to have found them in his kitchen drawer this morning. He told Louise he was going to Annabel’s house to return them, and I’m driving there now. Get a response car round there and meet me at the house.’
‘Okay, I’ll organise a car. But listen. There’s something you need to know…’
35
Annabel didn’t press Ian on the reason for his visit and he followed her and Oscar down the path, wondering how best to broach the subject he’d come to discuss.
He knew that by choosing to come and see Annabel first – under the pretext of returning her lost keys – he was really only doing what he’d done for many years. Postponing the difficult conversation he needed to have with his son. For despite everything, he still thought of Daniel as his own and probably always would. But a full and frank explanation was long overdue. Detective Inspector Hart’s visit this morning had only served to drive that point home. If Daniel was really John’s son, and Ian had little reason to doubt it, then Daniel was goi
ng to need all the help and support that Ian could provide, both as a father and as a medical man. It would come as a huge shock to Daniel, and a double blow to discover that not only was Ian not his real father, but that he was suffering from an incurable wasting disease.
Ian needed to explain and apologise to Louise too for all the heartache he’d made her endure. She knew nothing about the swap that had taken place in Italy. It had happened so long ago and perhaps Ian had always been embarrassed by what, as the years crept by, looked increasingly like the folly of youth. Now he saw what a coward he’d been in not telling his new wife the whole truth about his past. He’d tried to bury it, but like a long-dormant volcano it had now erupted in spectacular fashion. The only decent thing to do was to try and sort out the mess he had helped create.
But before he embarked on those two most difficult conversations he needed to speak to Annabel. This involved her just as much as Daniel or Louise. He didn’t think the news about John being Daniel’s father would come as a great shock to her. As he’d explained to DI Hart, he was pretty certain she already knew the truth. But he was still nervous about tackling the subject. How would she feel about the matter? He had no idea, because he had never dared to raise it.
She had good reason to feel bitter towards him. If he had married her, as he had once fully intended, then she would never have had to endure the heartache of losing John. It was pretty clear that she had come off a lot worse than him in the bargain. Now the messy truth of their relationships was going to be exposed for all the world to see.
The one consoling thought was that she couldn’t possibly know the whole truth. For if she ever discovered that, the knowledge would surely kill her.
*
Bridget listened with a growing sense of disbelief as Ffion explained the plot of Diane’s latest novel. Ffion had already dispatched a response car and promised to meet Bridget in Marston.
‘So the book’s called Stolen in Sorrento and it’s about two sisters on holiday in Italy with their boyfriends, Jamie and Tom.’
‘Got it,’ said Bridget, negotiating the narrow, twisting lanes of Old Headington.
‘When they set out from England, the two couples are very much in love, but it’s obvious to the reader that not all is quite as it seems. The eldest sister, Scarlett, is the dominant one. She’s a manipulative person who always gets her own way. She rather despises her younger sister, Katie, who has always looked up to her, and bosses her around all the time. Scarlett is ruthless and ambitious. She plans to become a journalist and change the world. Katie loves animals and wants to be a vet.’
The Mini bounced over a speed hump and skirted around the edge of Headington Cemetery. Bridget gripped the wheel tightly and pressed her foot to the floor. ‘Can you just cut to the important bit?’ she asked Ffion.
‘I’m coming to it. Here’s what happens. By the time they reach Sorrento, which is their final destination, Scarlett has decided that Jamie is a loser – there are all kinds of reasons why he’s unsuitable – and that she’d much rather have Katie’s boyfriend, Tom.’
‘Right,’ said Bridget, ‘and Katie prefers Jamie, and so they all agree to swap.’
‘No,’ said Ffion. ‘That’s not what happens. In the book, both sisters want Tom, and so Scarlett realises that in order to engineer a swap she’s going to have to convince Jamie and Tom that it’s in their best interests too.’
‘How does she do that?’
‘By telling them lies and being devious. I haven’t got time to explain all the details. Anyway, to cut to the chase, Scarlett tricks the two men into going along with her plan, and so they sit down one night for dinner and bring it all out into the open. At first, Katie is upset, but because Jamie and Tom are both so keen on the idea, she gradually comes round to it.’
‘So Scarlett gets exactly what she wants,’ said Bridget, ‘and Katie never finds out that it was really her sister who orchestrated the whole scheme.’
‘Exactly.’ By the sound of it, Ffion was now in a car herself and heading out of Kidlington at speed. Bridget heard Jake’s voice in the background. ‘So,’ said Ffion, ‘assuming that Scarlett is really Diane, and Katie is Annabel…’
‘And Tom is Ian Dunn and Jamie is John Caldecott…’
‘Then the upshot is that Diane tricked Annabel into exchanging partners. In the book, Jamie has a fatal flaw, and in real life, John had Huntington’s disease. Back in the early 1980s there was no genetic test available, so John wouldn’t have known whether or not he had it. But he would have known that his mother did, and there was a fifty per cent chance that he would inherit it from her. Now suppose that he proposed to Diane but told her about the risk. From what we know of Diane’s personality, that would probably have been unacceptable to her.’
‘But she would have had no qualms about dumping John on Annabel if it meant that she could get Ian instead,’ concluded Bridget. ‘When I spoke to Ian this morning, he told me that he and Diane were simply better suited to each other, but if what happens in the novel is what happened in real life, then he was lying to hide the fact that he was part of the plan to trick Annabel.’
‘Precisely,’ said Ffion. ‘So Annabel never knew that there had been a conspiracy against her. Not until Stolen in Sorrento was published last month, and the truth was made public.’
‘You’re assuming that Annabel somehow knew about Diane’s novels.’
‘That’s what I’m assuming. And if I’m right…’
‘Then Ian Dunn is in danger too.’
*
The field was muddier than Ian had been expecting. Recent heavy rains and the constant toing and froing of dog walkers and their four-legged friends had churned up the ground, particularly near the entrance to the field which had turned into a quagmire. It was too early in the year for the grass to have started growing back properly. Always a fastidious dresser, Ian flinched at the prospect of walking through the mud, but he’d committed to the walk and was determined to talk to Annabel before he spoke to Daniel and Louise. He ignored the steady accumulation of mud on his expensive Oxford brogues and the hems of his dry-clean-only trousers, and plodded on gamely in Annabel’s wake. So far, they’d discussed when the funeral was likely to take place and whether or not Diane would want to be cremated or buried. Uncontroversial matters. Now it was time for him to broach the subject he’d been putting off for far too long.
He cleared his throat before beginning. ‘What I really wanted to talk to you about was Daniel.’
Annabel produced a muddy tennis ball from one of her voluminous coat pockets and threw it for Oscar to chase. The dog tore across the field as if he’d been propelled from a cannon. ‘What about Daniel?’
‘About whether he’s really my son.’
Annabel said nothing and Ian wondered if she’d heard him properly. She waited for Oscar to return with the ball and drop it at her feet. The dog wagged his tail, eager for another go. Annabel obliged, picking up the ball and throwing it further this time. She didn’t seem to mind the fact that it was covered in mud and dog spit. She had never minded anything that life had sent her way.
‘It’s taken you a long time to work that out, Ian,’ she said. ‘As a doctor I’d have expected you to realise it a lot sooner.’
Ian felt a sense of relief. She had already guessed. That would make everything so much easier. ‘We don’t always see what’s right in front of us,’ he said.
‘You mean we don’t want to see.’
Oscar returned again, his underbelly soaked with muddy rainwater. His legs and bottom half were almost entirely black. This time Ian picked up the ball and threw it with a powerful overarm to the far corner of the field. Undeterred, the little dog set off again, tail wagging with vigour. Life was so much simpler when you were a dog. ‘When did you first realise?’ Ian asked.
Annabel shrugged. ‘I think I always knew. Because Daniel was born so soon after you and Diane were married there was always a good chance that he might have been John’s. He looked
like John too. And then he started to develop tremors. Even you must have noticed that.’
‘Yes,’ said Ian. ‘I hoped it was just the stress of life in London, working too hard, worrying about money. But it’s not. Daniel needs to be told the truth. Between us, we can do our best to help him.’
He was expecting Annabel to agree with him wholeheartedly. She was Daniel’s aunt and had always loved her nephew. But she lapsed into a strange silence.
‘We have to tell him the truth, don’t we?’ he prompted.
‘How much truth do you want to tell him, Ian?’
‘What do you mean?’
This time when Oscar returned and dropped the ball at her feet, Annabel ignored it. ‘I thought you might be too ashamed to admit everything.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Ian, although it was obvious what Annabel meant. Somehow, she must know everything.
‘I think you do,’ said Annabel. ‘If not, let me spell it out. John asked Diane to marry him in Italy, but he explained to her that his mother had Huntington’s disease and that there was a fifty per cent chance she had passed it on to him. He told her that Huntington’s was an incurable disease, and that if he had it, he would expect to be dead before the age of fifty. He also explained that any children they might have together would have a fifty per cent chance of inheriting the disease. I think you know what Diane’s answer was.’
‘She refused to marry him.’
‘Of course she did. An offer like that would never be acceptable to Diane. She had to win at everything. Marriage was no different. John was naïve if he imagined a different outcome.’
Oscar yapped, and Annabel kicked the ball away into the long grass.
‘So then she came to you, Ian, with a proposal of her own.’
Ian blanched at the accusation, but it was useless to deny it. Somehow, Annabel already knew the truth. ‘She told me that John had asked her to marry him,’ he admitted, ‘but she had turned him down because she had fallen in love with me.’