Preface to Murder, M Morris [best selling autobiographies TXT] 📗

me, I was concerned too. This didn’t seem like just your usual internet troll. The fact that it had been delivered to her home address showed that the sender knew where she lived. Who would have access to that kind of information?’

Bridget chewed at her chicken. ‘Who do you think might have sent it?’

Grant took a sip of his coffee, drinking it black and unsweetened. ‘I would have thought the answer to that was obvious.’ He cast a nervous glance around the coffee shop and leaned in close to Bridget, lowering his voice. ‘Diane Gilbert was a pain in the British government’s backside. My guess is that they instructed the security services to do away with her.’

‘Is that a serious suggestion?’

‘Absolutely. Have you read her book?’

‘Not all of it,’ said Bridget, thinking of Ffion back at the office, diligently speed-reading her way through the enormous tome. ‘It’s quite long, isn’t it?’

Grant shot her a slightly scornful look. ‘I think you’ll find it’s detailed and meticulously researched. By the time you reach the end, you’ll come to the same conclusion as me.’

Bridget would have to wait for Ffion’s synopsis of the book before she could possibly take a view on the plausibility of Grant’s allegation regarding the security services, so she decided to try a different tack.

‘What did you do last night after the literary event finished?’

‘Me? Why are you asking? I thought you invited me here to talk about Diane.’

‘I did,’ said Bridget. ‘But I’m investigating her murder. So perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what you did.’ When he remained silent, she sought to reassure him. ‘It’s just a routine question. I’ll be asking everyone I speak to the same thing.’

‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘I didn’t do very much. After the talk finished, there didn’t seem much point in hanging around, so I had a quick pint at the White Horse and then went back to my hotel and watched rubbish TV for the rest of the night.’

The White Horse was a tiny pub situated directly opposite the Sheldonian Theatre on Broad Street and next to Blackwell’s bookshop. ‘Did you meet anyone you knew in the pub?’ Bridget asked.

‘No,’ said Grant with a scowl.

‘And what time did you get back to the hotel?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did anyone see you return?’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever stayed in a Travelodge, but it’s not the sort of establishment where a gloved and suited porter welcomes the guests at the front door and bids them goodnight. But maybe the receptionist will remember me coming back. They might even have CCTV footage of me. All part of the surveillance state.’ He drank the rest of his coffee and replaced the cup on the saucer with rather a loud clatter. ‘Look, are we done here? I have people I need to see.’

‘We’re done for now. But will you be remaining in Oxford in case I need to talk to you again?’

‘I’ll be here for another day or two.’

‘Thank you, Mr Sadler. Please do let me know when you plan to leave.’

‘Sure. Whatever.’ He scraped back his chair and stood up, then walked away from the table, leaving Bridget to pay the bill.

8

Bridget was halfway back to St Giles’ when her phone rang. It wasn’t a number she recognised. ‘Detective Inspector Bridget Hart?’

A man’s voice came over the line, deep but smooth and well-spoken. ‘This is Ian Dunn, Diane’s ex-husband. I understand from Annabel that you’d like to speak to me.’

‘That’s right,’ said Bridget. ‘Thank you for calling me, Mr Dunn’

‘No problem. I just wanted to let you know that our son, Daniel, has arrived from London. He’s with me now, and we’re both available to speak to you if it’s a good time.’

Bridget thanked him and assured him that it was a perfect time. She noted down the address he gave her, and hurried back to her car.

St Andrew’s Road was located in Old Headington, very convenient for the John Radcliffe hospital where, according to Annabel, Ian worked as a consultant. Bridget parked her Mini behind a silver Lexus Coupé and walked up the short garden path to a rather charming ivy-clad, three-storey Georgian house. Tulips, hyacinths and bluebells were in full bloom in the neatly tended borders of the front garden, and a magnificent magnolia took pride of place in the centre, its branches swathed in delicate pink-white flowers. It was the sort of place where you might expect to find the parson from a Jane Austen novel.

No parson opened the door however, but a tall man in his early sixties with a full head of silver-grey hair and a neatly groomed beard. His eyes were a striking blue. ‘Ian Dunn.’ His good looks were matched by his charming manner. He held out a hand and gave Bridget a gleaming smile. ‘Thank you so much for making the time to come and see us, Inspector. It is Inspector Hart, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Bridget, accepting the handshake. ‘And it’s no trouble at all. It’s part of my job to speak to as many people as possible who were connected to the victim. It helps me to build up as broad a picture as I can. But first, may I offer my condolences. The news must have come as a rather nasty shock.’

‘It did,’ said Ian, stroking his beard with one hand. ‘But of course we’ll be more than happy to answer any questions you might have about Diane. Come on in. We’re just through here.’

Bridget stepped over the threshold and followed Ian through a door to the right of the entrance hall. She found herself in a perfectly proportioned, high-ceilinged sitting room decorated in a sunny shade of yellow. The walls were hung with equally colourful oil paintings of Tuscan landscapes and Mediterranean hillside villages.