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

On returning to the station, her luck began to change. After fetching a coffee from the machine, she made her way back to her desk and discovered an official-looking envelope waiting for her. She immediately recognised it as having been sent from the mortuary department of the John Radcliffe hospital. No doubt an email was waiting for her in her inbox, but Dr Roy Andrews still believed in the value of paper. She opened the envelope and found that just as she’d hoped, Roy had pulled out all the stops and completed the post-mortem that morning.

Whilst in person Roy could be accused of being overly fond of the sound of his own voice, on paper he was unfailingly concise. The report’s conclusion was clear and to the point. The victim had died from cardiac arrest. The time of death was estimated to be anywhere between eleven o’clock at night and one in the morning. Although natural causes couldn’t be completely ruled out, the pinprick on Diane’s chest was, as Sarah had suggested, the surface mark from a hypodermic needle that had penetrated all the way to the left atrium of the heart. The post-mortem had been unable to determine the nature of any injected substance, but blood samples had been sent to toxicology and the results would come through in the next few days.

Bridget laid the report aside, marvelling both at the miracles of modern forensic science, and the frustrating delays associated with them. A few days? Damn all weekends and holidays! What was she to do while she waited for the toxicology report?

The surface of her desk was already littered with unfiled reports and documents relating to this and other cases. One day she would work out a system, and her desk would be as clear and empty as Grayson’s. But not today. Next to the discarded post-mortem report was a programme of events for the Oxford Literary Festival. She picked it up and flicked idly through the pages, stopping when she reached Diane’s talk on Thursday evening. This was where it had all started. Just a few days ago, and all had been running smoothly. Then, the protection of a reluctant and ungrateful academic had seemed like an unnecessary waste of Bridget’s time. Now, the artfully-shot photos of the Divinity School seemed to mock her. If she could rewind the clock and start that day again, what would she do differently? Other than remain at Diane’s side throughout the night, it was hard to know.

Her eyes skipped over the text on the page and came to rest on the name of the man who had interviewed Diane that evening. Michael Dearlove, the journalist. Dearlove had been chosen because he was known for his work in the same topics that Diane had written about in A Deadly Race. If anyone could provide fresh insight into why Diane might have been murdered, it was surely him.

Bridget scanned the upcoming events and discovered that Dearlove was interviewing a writer of political biographies right that very minute and was due to finish in half an hour. The talk was taking place at the Oxford Martin School, situated on the corner of Catte Street and Holywell Street, just opposite the Bodleian.

Leaving her cup of coffee untouched, she scooped up her keys and phone and rushed back out to her car.

*

By the time Bridget arrived at the Oxford Martin School, the talk was already over. A steady stream of people was coming down the stairs and she made her way in the opposite direction, ignoring the rude stares of the bibliophiles as she pushed past them. By the time she reached the lecture theatre only a few stragglers remained.

Housed within the old Indian Institute building, the Oxford Martin School was a modern addition to the university, founded with the stated goal to “find solutions to the world's most urgent challenges”. There was nothing like setting yourself an ambitious target, thought Bridget, chastising herself once more over her inability to meet even her modest New Year’s resolutions, though whether her problem was that she aimed too low or too high was anyone’s guess.

The lecture theatre was a much smaller venue than the Divinity School, and clearly reflected the current writer’s place in the pecking order. Nevertheless, the audience must have enjoyed themselves, because the young man from Blackwell’s who Bridget recognised from Diane’s event looked a lot happier than he had done when she had last seen him, and appeared to have sold out all his books.

Bridget spotted Michael Dearlove at the front of the room gathering his notes together. She hurried to catch him before he left.

‘Mr Dearlove?’

He looked up at her, a slight frown flitting across his forehead as he tried to place her. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Bridget Hart.’

His expression cleared. ‘Ah, yes, I knew I recognised you from somewhere. You were Diane’s bodyguard on the night she was murdered.’

Bridget winced at this reminder of her failure to prevent the writer’s death, but judging from Dearlove’s expression, he had intended no malice. He appeared sad, not angry. He put out a hand to shake Bridget’s.

‘Call me Mick. Or Michael, if you find Mick too informal.’

‘Michael then, I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to talk to me about Diane?’

He dropped his notes into a leather briefcase. ‘I’d like nothing better. Diane’s been on my mind constantly since her death. I still can’t believe what happened. But what I want most of all right now is a cigarette. Do you mind?’

Bridget followed him down the stairs and back outside, where he immediately lit up. ‘That’s better,’ he said, inhaling deeply and blowing out a stream of smoke through his nose. ‘I’d given up, but Diane’s death put paid to that. I’ve been smoking like the chimney of a nineteenth-century cotton mill ever since I heard the news. Absolutely shocking.