Preface to Murder

by M S Morris

  ‘And you believed her?’

  ‘She seemed sincere.’

  ‘Oh yes, Diane was always good at appearing sincere. So what did you say to her?’

  ‘I told her I was flattered, but that I was planning to ask you to marry me.’

  Annabel held his eyes, but there was little warmth in them. ‘But you never did ask me.’

  ‘No. Diane persuaded me that John would be a better match for you. I spoke to John, and he thought so too. And so we agreed to tell you what we’d decided.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annabel. ‘Poor little Annabel, no one thought to ask her what she wanted, she would surely go along with everyone else. Diane gave orders and you and John scurried to obey.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ protested Ian.

  ‘It was! Diane tricked you into thinking you were in control, but she was always the one pulling your strings. She may not have intended to get pregnant by John, but she planned everything else right down to the last detail.’

  Annabel was right. Ian knew it. But even now he tried to hide his shame. ‘You didn’t have to accept John’s proposal,’ he said. ‘No one forced you.’

  ‘What choice did I have? I thought you loved me, but suddenly you were with Diane. Besides, John was such a sweet man. He explained to me all about the risk of Huntington’s, but that didn’t matter to me. I was willing to take the chance. Diane knew that I would.’

  Ian breathed hard, turning the facts over in his mind. ‘Have you always known that Diane was behind the swap?’

  ‘No. I had no idea. She made sure that she covered her tracks. But then a few weeks ago I found out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I read a book. Stolen in Sorrento. It explained everything.’

  Ian shook his head. ‘How can a book explain what happened almost forty years ago?’

  ‘Diane wrote it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She wrote romance books and published them online using a pseudonym. You never knew? That was another of her secrets. She was really very good at keeping parts of her life hidden, wasn’t she? But not quite good enough.’

  A light rain had begun to fall, and Ian shivered, but it was less from the cold and more from the story that was unfolding before him. He had come here thinking that he would be the one in control of this conversation, but Annabel had always been two steps ahead of him. He was struggling to keep up with her, just as he had stumbled across the muddy ground in her wake. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Annabel, her voice cold and hard. ‘All you need to know is that Diane underestimated me. She had no idea what I was capable of. I think you underestimated me too, Ian.’

  *

  When Bridget arrived at Annabel’s house, the silver Lexus Coupé parked on the roadside told her that Ian Dunn had already arrived. A marked police car had pulled up behind it, and two uniformed officers were waiting for her by the front door of the cottage.

  She strode up the garden path, noting the big hydrangea bushes she had seen on her first visit. Of course. Hydrangea plants flowered blue when planted in acid soil or treated with ericaceous feed. When summer came, these bushes would be covered in giant blue blooms, no doubt.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone here, ma’am,’ said one of the waiting officers.

  ‘Have you looked inside?’

  ‘No. The house is locked, front and back.’

  ‘Break down the door,’ said Bridget. ‘A man’s life is in danger.’

  When Bridget had set off from Old Headington, she had been in pursuit of Ian Dunn, but it was now clear that Annabel was the killer. The fictional story that Ffion had outlined to her matched the known facts so well that Bridget was certain the novel wasn’t really a work of fiction but a thinly-veiled account of what had actually taken place in Italy.

  The two constables exchanged glances, then one went to the car and returned with a red metal battering ram. It took him two attempts to break down the front door, and then he was in. The officers entered the cottage and Bridget followed. While one of the men went upstairs and the other checked the kitchen, Bridget put her head around the door to the front lounge. The room appeared much as it had when she’d visited Annabel to break the news of her sister’s death. Copies of gardening magazines. Mismatched cushions and throws. A dog basket in one corner. Could this really be the home of a cold-blooded and calculating murderer?

  The constable who had broken down the door came down the stairs. ‘All clear up there.’

  Bridget proceeded to the kitchen. ‘Look at this, ma’am.’ The second officer was pointing to a box of syringes that had been left out on the worktop.

  Of course. Annabel had nursed John at home during the last days before he died. She must have kept hold of the syringes she had used to give him his painkillers. There was a plastic bottle next to them that Bridget recognised immediately. It was the same brand of plant food that Vanessa used. Rich in phosphorous, magnesium and potassium for all acid-loving plants.

  But there was no sign of Annabel or Ian.

  Jake’s orange Subaru screeched to a halt in the road just as Bridget was leaving the cottage. Jake and Ffion jumped out. ‘Any sign of them, ma’am?’ asked Jake.

  ‘They’re not here. But I think I know where they might be.’

  She turned to give instructions to the two officers. ‘You two stay here. Call me if anything happens. The suspect is a woman in her late fifties with long grey hair, probably wearing a wool coat. A sixty-year-old man will be with her. Oh, and probably a dog too.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said to Jake and Ffion. ‘I hope you don’t mind getting muddy.’

  *

  ‘It was the death threat that gave me the idea,’ said Annabel. ‘After I read Diane’s book, I was so angry that I went straight round to her house to confront her. But before I could say anything, she showed me the letter she’d received and asked me what she should do about it. It was almost like a sign from above. That’s when I decided how I was going to pay back Diane for what she’d done to me.’

  ‘But it was you who advised her to call the police.’

  ‘Yes. Because that was the sensible course of action, wasn’t it? Good old Annabel, always dependable, always doing the right thing. But this time I decided to do something completely unexpected.’

  Ian didn’t need to ask what Annabel had done. He understood, and his blood ran cold. As cold as the rain that was now falling steadily, making the sodden field even muddier than it already was. Oscar returned once more, bedraggled and forlorn, tail no longer wagging. He dropped the soggy tennis ball at Annabel’s feet, but even he didn’t seem to expect any more fun and games. They were the only walkers left in the field. Everyone else had gone home when it first started to rain. Ian wanted to get away too. He wanted to run as fast as he could away from his sister-in-law but he seemed to be frozen in this godforsaken mud bath of a field, the rain pouring down his face.

  ‘The keys,’ he whispered. ‘You didn’t lose them at all.’

  ‘No,’ said Annabel. ‘I used them to get into Diane’s house. Then I put them in your kitchen and told you I’d lost them.’

  ‘You planned everything,’ muttered Ian.

  ‘Yes.’ She thrust her hand into one of the over-sized pockets in her coat and started to rummage around. What the hell did she keep in there apart from muddy tennis balls and doggie poop bags?

  He didn’t have long to wait before he found out.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he cried. ‘Annabel. What are you doing?’

  ‘Putting things right.’ She unscrewed the protective cap from the syringe she now held, revealing the sharp needle beneath. The syringe was filled with some kind of pale liquid. She looked up at him. ‘Diane betrayed me, Ian. But she couldn’t have done it without your complicity. Even John tricked me, although he never meant me any harm. Now they’re both dead. So that just leaves you, doesn’t it?’

  36

  Bridget turned sharply into
the field and swore loudly as her feet skidded in the mud, depositing her on her bottom. It didn’t hurt much – she was well padded in that area – but it didn’t do much for her dignity. How was she going to look, making an arrest with her backside caked in muck?

  Jake reached down to help her back to her feet.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, wiping her muddy palms on her trousers. ‘Now let’s find them.’

  The field was quite large, but virtually empty, so it didn’t take long to spot two figures standing at the far end next to a line of trees. A small dog was running around them, sniffing the ground, as if looking for somewhere to do his business. What was the dog’s name? Ah, yes. Oscar.

  Ffion was already making strides across the field. ‘Go with her,’ Bridget instructed Jake. ‘Don’t wait for me.’

  Jake set off and Bridget did her best to keep up in the rain which was coming down harder than ever. The field was becoming a quagmire.

  *

  Ffion was well used to running across Port Meadow in all weathers and was quite capable of making her way across a muddy field. By the time she was halfway to the distant corner where Annabel and Ian were talking, Bridget and Jake had fallen some distance behind. She turned to see them scrabbling around in the mud.

  It looked like it was going to be up to her to make the arrest. No matter. Since she was the one who had found the truth buried in Stolen in Sorrento it seemed only fair that the collar should be hers. She approached Ian from behind, keeping Annabel clearly in view.

  ‘Police!’ she shouted.

  Through the rain, she could see that Annabel held something in her right hand. An object made from metal and plastic. She realised what it was and called out a warning to Ian, but he seemed frozen in place, unable to move. ‘Run!’ she shouted, but it was only Annabel who moved.

  *

  Rain ran down Ian’s face, seeping through his clothes, and drenching him to the skin. The water was falling in torrents, collecting in ever-widening pools of water on the sodden ground. He felt like he was standing in a lake. His smart shoes were sinking deeper into the mud with every passing second. He tried to lift one foot, but the mud sucked at him, holding him fast like the roots of a tree.

  Annabel advanced towards him, those damned walking shoes of hers ideal for these conditions. She squelched across the grass, the needlepoint of the hypodermic syringe drawing closer with every step.

  ‘Annabel,’ he said, but quickly fell silent. The words he ought to have said to her had been firmly bottled up nearly forty years ago, and now it was far too late to say them. He remembered the hurt on her face back in Naples when he and John had first broached the idea of swapping partners. He might as well have plunged a dagger into her breast.

  ‘You betrayed me,’ she said now. ‘You deceived me. You must have known that I would have done anything for you, Ian. We could have been happy together, but you threw my love back in my face.’

  ‘I…’ he didn’t know what to say. Every word she spoke was true. He was a liar and a coward and a wretch.

  The sound of a Welsh woman’s voice carrying over the pounding of the rain was so unexpected that he was jolted out of his misery and back to the real world. ‘Run!’ shouted the woman, and Ian knew what he had to do. He might not deserve it, but he knew what he wanted – to live, to get away from this dreadful place and back into Louise’s arms.

  He tried to turn, but the mud claimed his shoe as soon as he took a step. He abandoned it, and staggered forwards, one noisy step after another. He might have got away, but suddenly there was a barking and a rushing of white fur and black mud. Oscar dived for his leg, and sank his tiny teeth through the fabric of his trousers.

  Ian shouted and flailed his arms, trying to keep his balance, but there was nothing he could do to prevent himself falling forwards into the muddy water. The dog was anchored to his leg, shaking its head, teeth tearing through skin. Ian cried out again, and turned himself over.

  Rain pelted down, driving into his face like a waterfall. He could barely see a thing. Then Annabel loomed over him, the hypodermic in her hand. She dropped to her knees and thrust it into his chest.

  *

  Ffion raced across the slippery ground as Annabel closed in on her prey. The dog was attached like a limpet to Ian’s leg. No matter how much he tried to shake himself free, the animal clung on, holding him fast. Dog and captive had both turned a Stygian black as they rolled in the bog.

  Ffion put on a final burst of speed just as Annabel caught her victim and plunged the needle into his flesh.

  She had no need to think. Her Taekwondo training took over, and she flew into a flying side kick. Launching herself into the air, she closed the remaining few feet and kicked out with her left foot. Her heel connected with Annabel’s jaw, knocking her away from Ian’s prone form. By the time Ffion had landed on the ground, Annabel was lying on her back, moaning in agony.

  The dog immediately left Ian’s leg and ran to his mistress, licking her with his long tongue and whining urgently. Registering that Annabel would live, Ffion left them to it, and knelt down beside Ian.

  He was gasping for breath, his eyes half-closed. The hypodermic needle was stuck in his chest, but the syringe was still up. Annabel hadn’t had time to depress the plunger. Ffion plucked it out and stuck it in the soft ground where it could do no harm.

  Ian opened his eyes. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘You saved me!’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ said Ffion. ‘But if you want to put in a good word on my behalf, don’t let me hold you back.’

  *

  By the time Bridget reached the scene, she felt like she’d been dropped fully clothed into a swimming pool, and an unheated one at that. The torrent of rain had eased off now and was back to a normal spring shower. But everyone present was soaked to the skin, Oscar included.

  Bridget was relieved to see Ian Dunn sitting up, apparently unharmed, and Annabel on the ground, incapacitated. The woman was clutching her jaw while the dog stood defensively at her side, barking viciously at anyone who tried to approach.

  Jake went over to the dog and reached out a cautious hand. ‘There, there, boy, no need to bite. I’m friendly.’

  The dog yapped at him.

  ‘His name’s Oscar,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Oscar, is it?’ said Jake. ‘Good dog, Oscar. Good dog!’

  Incredibly, the soothing words succeeded in winning the animal over, and soon the little dog was licking Jake’s palm.

  Bridget and Ffion helped Annabel to her feet. Unarmed and dazed, she posed little threat now, and there was no need to handcuff her. ‘Annabel Caldecott,’ said Bridget, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Diane Gilbert and the attempted murder of Ian Dunn.’

  37

  ‘DI Hart, you’ve done well,’ said Grayson. ‘I’d like you to know that I had complete confidence in you all along.’

  ‘You did, sir? Thank you.’ A hot shower, a change of clothing and a sweet cup of tea had restored Bridget to her usual self. With the perpetrator behind bars, she could afford to relax, even in Grayson’s presence. ‘So I assume there’ll be no need for an enquiry now into what went wrong?’

  ‘I don’t think that would tell us anything useful,’ said Grayson, ‘especially since the death threat turned out to be a hoax. The two constables who were suspended from duty, PC Sam Roberts and PC Scott Wallis, have returned to work, and all complaints against them have been dropped. It would appear that they did nothing wrong, and told the truth throughout.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I believe they did.’ Bridget was pleased to hear that Sam and Scott had been vindicated, and gratified to know that she had been right to trust their account of their conduct. It was good to hear Grayson praise her too, but it would have been better if he could have expressed his support for her while the investigation was underway. ‘Would you really have brought in DI Baxter to take over from me?’ she enquired.

  Grayson looked suitably sheepish. ‘Not willingly, but som
etimes certain actions become necessary. You’ll understand that one day if you ever reach the lofty heights that I currently occupy.’

  Bridget raised an eyebrow. Was the Chief teasing her, or did he really think she had the potential to step into his shoes and become Chief Superintendent one day? She had been a DI for less than a year. Ahead lay the ranks of Detective Chief Inspector and Detective Superintendent, should she ever make it that far. ‘Sir? Does this mean that I can expect a promotion soon?’

  ‘Baby steps, DI Hart. These things take time. In the meantime, is there anything you need from me?’

  ‘There is one thing I’d like to request, sir. Time off. There are some personal matters I need to attend to.’

  *

  Bridget left the station with Grayson’s blessing. But there were still a few loose ends for her to tie up.

  Grant Sadler had been charged over the hoax death threat, and news of the hoax had inevitably leaked to the press. According to Grant, sales of the book would quickly dry up now that there was no juicy publicity to further them. Bridget spared a moment to think of all those freshly-printed books that would now be destined for the pulping machine. Such a waste of paper. But no doubt Professor Al-Mutairi would be quietly celebrating.

  Grant himself was close to despair. ‘That’s it, then,’ he told Bridget. ‘My career as an agent is as good as over. Who will sign with me now? No one, that’s who!’

  Bridget refrained from reminding him that he had engineered his own misfortunes. Even though Grant had wasted a great deal of her time, it seemed unsavoury to gloat over his downfall. ‘What about Michael Dearlove?’ she asked. ‘I thought you’d agreed a book deal with him and Jennifer.’

  Grant’s face turned sour. ‘When Jennifer found out that I was behind the death threat, she cut me out of the deal and signed Michael directly. It’s my own fault, I suppose, for acting on his behalf when I wasn’t even his agent. So that’s it. I’m finished.’