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

This time, Bridget and Jake joined in, relieved that the event had come to an end without incident.

The formidable lady in the black trouser suit took to the stage once again, thanking the two speakers for a “simply fascinating” evening, and informing everyone that Diane would be signing copies of her book at the table set up for the purpose at the side of the podium. At least half the audience then reached into their bags and produced copies of the book which they must have purchased earlier, possibly from the Blackwell’s stand at the back of the hall. Maybe a few of them had even managed to wade through its five-hundred-odd pages. They started to form an orderly queue at the table and Bridget realised that the danger was by no means over. None of those bags had been security-checked before their owners had taken their seats. Death threat or not, the Oxford Literary Festival simply wasn’t that sort of event. To Bridget’s knowledge, no writer had ever been attacked while appearing at the festival and she was determined to keep it that way.

‘Come on,’ she said to Jake.

They made their way to the front of the hall and positioned themselves unobtrusively behind the table where the writer was already starting to sign copies of her book with a gold-nibbed fountain pen. Up close, the strong scent of Diane’s perfume was quite distracting.

Bridget studied each reader closely as they presented their book for signing, but none of them looked remotely like a killer and none behaved in any way suspiciously.

After the final book had been signed, only a handful of people remained in the hall. The team from Blackwell’s began packing the unsold hardbacks into boxes. The festival organiser cleared away the glasses and empty bottles of mineral water and realigned the chairs ready for the next day’s event.

Dearlove came over to Diane to say goodbye. ‘You were fabulous,’ he said. ‘Your book deserves to be huge.’

‘You know this isn’t about book sales,’ said Diane. ‘That’s for other people to care about.’

Admirable detachment, thought Bridget. Still, that level of haircare didn’t come cheap, and neither did those clothes and shoes.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a drink?’ Diane asked Dearlove.

‘I’m afraid that I have to get back to London tonight.’

‘Another time, then.’

Bridget waited while Dearlove took his leave of Diane, kissing her warmly on both cheeks. She stepped forward to make her presence known just as Diane stood up from her chair, rising to her full height. Diane glanced down at Bridget as if only just remembering that she was under police protection.

‘Oh, Inspector. You’re still here.’

‘Yes,’ said Bridget patiently. ‘As I explained earlier, we’ll be escorting you back to your home.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, while you’re here you may as well meet my team. These are the people who make all this possible.’ Diane smiled with a modesty that Bridget found somewhat insincere. Throughout her talk, Diane had done her utmost to portray herself as a single-handed campaigner, fighting against the all-powerful and sinister forces of the state. But obviously a book didn’t publish itself, and publicity events like this evening’s talk didn’t happen by magic.

The writer’s entourage gathered around like bees to a honeypot, and Diane introduced each one in turn.

‘This is my publisher, Jennifer Eagleston.’

A large, boisterous woman in her mid-fifties thrust herself forward and shook Bridget’s hand with a firm grip. A huge red tote bag was looped over her shoulder and she wore matching lipstick. ‘I do want to thank you for everything you’re doing to keep Diane safe. It’s really appreciated.’

The publisher sounded genuinely grateful for the trouble the police were taking to protect Diane, which was more than could be said for the writer herself. ‘Not at all,’ said Bridget warmly. ‘All part of the job.’

‘We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her,’ continued Jennifer. ‘Especially not during the week of the book launch.’

‘Quite,’ said Bridget, wondering whether Jennifer’s comment revealed a dark sense of humour, or naked self-interest. The expression on her face offered no clues.

Diane motioned to the second person in the trio. ‘This is my agent, Grant Sadler.’

A rather awkward man dressed in an uncoordinated combination of skinny jeans, white T-shirt and smart jacket acknowledged Bridget with a nod of his head, but unlike Jennifer didn’t offer his hand. He was in his thirties or forties, Bridget guessed, but couldn’t pin down his age more precisely. He stood aloof, and thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, as if striving for a youthful pose. He had a habit of bouncing up and down on the soles of his Converse trainers. Was he nervous for some reason?

‘Great evening, Diane,’ he said to his client. ‘Your talk went really well. It should help to shift some more copies.’ He was closer to forty-five, Bridget decided, but looked like someone desperate not to grow up. ‘There were some good questions at the end, too.’

‘You think so?’ said Diane sharply. ‘Not everyone seemed to appreciate what I was saying.’

‘You mean the guy who thought you were a threat to national security?’ Grant sniggered. ‘Old reactionaries kicking up a fuss like that will help to generate more free publicity. Let’s hope he writes a strongly-worded letter to The Telegraph about it.’

Diane’s upper lip curled in distaste. It was impossible to tell whether her reaction was prompted by the prospect of a letter in The Telegraph or by Grant’s flippant attitude towards the incident. He looked embarrassed, and stood sullenly to one side.

Bridget looked to the third and final member of the group, a woman wearing a long woollen coat covered in dog hairs, and whose thick-soled boots looked better suited for a country walk than a literary festival. Bridget