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

A couple of armchairs and a brown leather sofa covered in scatter cushions were arranged around a centrepiece Persian rug in vivid shades of red and cream. The effect was warm and welcoming.

‘Please let me introduce my son, Daniel.’

A dark-haired man of around thirty years of age stepped forward from where he’d been standing by the window. ‘Daniel Dunn,’ he said, shaking Bridget’s hand.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Dunn,’ said Bridget.

The young man, who bore a striking resemblance to Diane, was wearing a smart, dark suit and looked as if he’d just stepped from the office. ‘Thank you. And please call me Daniel. “Mr Dunn” sounds too much like my father.’

‘Daniel, then,’ agreed Bridget.

‘Please do take a seat,’ said Ian, gesturing to the leather chair nearest the window.

Bridget was about to sit down when a strikingly glamorous woman with tanned skin and glossy dark hair tumbling over her shoulders entered the room, carrying a tray loaded with a cafetière, china cups and saucers, a jug of cream, some sugar in a small bowl and a plate of biscuits. She set the tray down on an antique chest and rose again to greet Bridget.

‘This is my wife, Louise,’ explained Ian.

Standing in heels, Louise was at least as tall as her husband, if not an inch or so taller. She was also perhaps twenty years younger than Diane Gilbert. ‘Louise Morton,’ she said, shaking Bridget’s hand. ‘I kept my own surname when I married Ian. For professional reasons, you understand.’

‘Professional reasons?’

‘I’m a paediatrician at the John Radcliffe. That’s where Ian and I met.’

‘I see.’

Ian began pouring cups of coffee. ‘Annabel explained the circumstances of Diane’s death when she phoned this morning,’ he said. ‘Needless to say, it’s come as a terrible shock to all of us. Annabel is taking the death of her sister particularly hard. They were very close.’

‘Of course,’ said Bridget. She declined the offer of biscuits – mentally awarding herself a gold star for resisting temptation – but gratefully accepted a cup of coffee with real cream.

When everyone was settled, she began her questioning. ‘Mr Dunn –’

‘Ian, please.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. No doubt smiling to put patients at their ease was a skill he’d had many years to master.

‘Ian, then. If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with some background on your relationship with the deceased.’

‘Of course.’

‘Let’s go back to the beginning. How did you and Diane first meet?’

‘I actually met Diane through her sister. I knew Annabel from university – we were both involved in student politics, and of course Diane had very strong political interests too. She was always much more committed to the cause than either of us, I have to say. It’s a very long time since I went on a protest march. But at the time it was a shared interest that helped to bring us together.’

‘And how long were you married to Diane?’

‘Twenty-five years. But we divorced ten years ago.’

‘Do you mind if I ask why?’ The question wasn’t strictly necessary, but so far Ian hadn’t shown any reluctance to talk about his personal life, and Bridget wanted to draw as much information out of him as possible.

‘I don’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘There was no big bust-up, no extra-marital affairs, no dramatic falling-out. We just drifted apart, without really noticing it. Diane had her career, I had mine. Suddenly our silver wedding anniversary was on the horizon and when our parents – who were all still alive at the time – suggested we should do something special to celebrate, we both realised that we had no desire to throw a lavish party or even to go out for a romantic dinner together. Diane always believed in brutal honesty, so when we sat down to talk about our relationship, we came to the conclusion that it was over and there was no point pretending otherwise. We hadn’t made the time for each other and by then it was too late. Daniel had grown up and left home. He didn’t need us anymore. So we agreed to separate and eventually got a divorce. There were no histrionics or recriminations, just an amicable parting of the ways.’

How civilised, thought Bridget, recalling her own acrimonious split from Ben. ‘And you met your current wife at the hospital?’

Ian reached across the sofa and took Louise’s hand in his. ‘Louise is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ he said, ‘except of course for my son, Daniel.’

Daniel, who was sitting rather sullenly, sunk into an armchair, elbows resting on the sides, his neck disappearing into his shoulders, acknowledged the compliment with the slightest nod of his head.

‘And how long have you two been married?’ asked Bridget, looking from Ian to his gorgeous new wife.

‘Seven years,’ said Louise, smiling.

‘And we’re very happy together,’ said Ian, giving her hand a squeeze.

‘Do you have any children of your own?’ Bridget asked.

Louise shook her head, making her glossy chestnut hair bounce on her shoulders. ‘No. But perhaps it’s a blessing. I see so much suffering amongst young people in my work at the hospital. I couldn’t bear it if a child of my own ever fell seriously ill.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Bridget. As a police officer, she was all too aware of the many and diverse ways that a teenage girl might become a victim of crime, and had been unable to stop herself picturing Chloe in each situation. From car crashes to kidnapping to murder, Bridget had lived each scenario a thousand times in her imagination. She had paid less attention to the possibility of serious or terminal illness. Perhaps that ought to feature more prominently on her list of parental concerns.

She turned back to Ian. ‘After the divorce, how was your relationship with Diane? Oxford isn’t such a