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

he heard the professor threaten to fire Diane if she carried on the way she was. Everyone stressed how much Al-Mutairi is concerned about reputation. He doesn’t want the institute to become associated with controversial viewpoints. Whereas Diane Gilbert seemed to go out of her way to embrace radical politics.’

‘What about Professor Al-Mutairi himself? Did you ask him about the argument?’

‘We would have, but he was away from Oxford for a meeting.’

‘How convenient for him,’ said Bridget. She turned to Ffion. ‘How are you getting on with the phone and laptop?’

‘Still working on the phone,’ said Ffion. ‘There’s a lot to go through. But hopefully I’ll move onto the laptop later today.’

‘Good. Where are we with the toxicology report?’ Bridget was met with blank stares. ‘Okay, Ryan, I’d like you to get onto the lab and chase it up. Go over there in person if you have to, and make sure they’re dealing with it as top priority. We need to know exactly what it was that killed her.’

‘Righto, ma’am,’ said Ryan.

‘And Jake, could you check out Diane’s bank accounts and phone records?’

‘Sure.’

‘Andy, have a dig around and find out all you can about Diane’s political affiliations. Was she involved with any groups, formally or informally? Who were her connections? I’m particularly interested in radical organisations, the kind of people who want to overthrow the status quo.’

Andy made a note in his notebook and Bridget checked her watch. It was time to be off if she was going to catch her train.

‘What about me, ma’am?’ asked Harry.

‘Just help out with anyone who needs it,’ said Bridget, wishing she had something more definite for the eager young DC to get stuck into. ‘I’m going to London now,’ she told her team. ‘I’m following up a lead from Michael Dearlove, the journalist who interviewed Diane Gilbert at the literary festival.’

They looked at her expectantly, obviously curious about what she would be doing in the capital.

‘It’s a long shot, but I’m going to speak to someone at the Saudi Embassy.’

Ryan whistled. ‘Are you sure they allow women in there?’

Bridget wasn’t sure if this was a serious question, or Ryan’s idea of a joke. She hoped she wasn’t about to cause a diplomatic incident. ‘Well, I’ve got an appointment, so they better had.’

‘Good luck, ma’am,’ said Jake.

‘Thank you.’ She had a feeling she was going to need it. ‘And if anyone makes any progress, text me.’

She supposed that she really ought to let Grayson know where she was going. This was presumably just the kind of thing he’d meant when he’d asked to be kept informed, but when she peered through the glass walls of his office, he was on the phone, and she really didn’t have time to hang around.

Twenty minutes later, as she hurried across the footbridge that led from the long-stay car park to the station entrance, she was suddenly filled with a sense of alarm. What if someone from the Saudi Embassy really had killed Diane Gilbert? She would be walking straight into the wolf’s lair. Dearlove hadn’t revealed to her the identity of his mysterious contact, but if the man she was about to meet knew enough to be of any use, he was almost certainly involved in the plot himself. Jake’s solidly reassuring presence came into her mind, and she wished that she’d had the sense to bring him with her. But it was far too late for that now. Her train would be leaving Oxford in five minutes.

17

The Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia was located on Charles Street in the heart of Mayfair. The grand, Palladian-style building with its perfect proportions and symmetrical design ranged over three floors with huge Venetian windows and a double-layered pillared portico that looked out onto formal flower beds and immaculate lawns. Bridget couldn’t help but be reminded of a tiered wedding cake. The impending marriage of Ben and Tamsin was still obviously playing on her mind. In front of the white-painted building, the green flag of Saudi Arabia fluttered gently from a flag pole, but the wind wasn’t strong enough to lift it high.

Bridget had arrived just in time for her appointment, having taken a taxi across town from Paddington station. She was slightly surprised to discover two uniformed British police officers on duty outside the gates to the embassy. The officers were wearing black bulletproof vests and were armed very visibly with automatic rifles. Bridget approached them and showed her warrant card. ‘Any trouble here?’ she enquired.

‘Just routine, ma’am,’ said the senior officer, a sergeant. ‘Part of our normal protection duties here in the capital. Nothing to be concerned about.’

Bridget nodded, hoping that was true. She wondered if the officers’ presence had anything to do with Diane Gilbert’s death, but decided that it was probably just normal. London was permanently on heightened alert for terrorist incidents these days. It was reassuring to know that friendly forces were stationed immediately outside the embassy, although she knew they had no legal power to enter the grounds or the building, even to prevent a crime taking place. Once inside, Bridget would be entirely on her own, and at the mercy of a foreign power.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the metal gates that led from the street and made her way to the grand entrance.

While the exterior of the building was classically refined, the reception hall of the embassy was – in Bridget’s opinion at least – excessively ornate, with polished marble floors, an ornamental ceiling formed from scrolling and curving plasterwork, and gilded touches applied to any surface that may have felt left out of the general opulence. A young woman wearing a dark jacket, her hair covered with a scarf, sat behind the mahogany desk, and two men in black suits stood on guard beside the front door. There was no