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

As Bridget headed along Charles Street in search of a taxi or an underground station to take her back to Paddington, she switched her phone back on, hoping to see some updates from her team. But there was nothing from Ffion, Jake, Ryan or Andy.

What she did see was a message from Chief Superintendent Grayson.

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he angry at discovering that she had dashed off to London without informing him first? If so, she was ready with her defence. If she’d hung around at Kidlington waiting to speak to him, she’d have missed her train, and she didn’t think her contact at the Saudi Embassy would have looked kindly on her arriving late. But whether Grayson would see it that way was another matter. She paused on the street corner to read what he had written.

To her surprise, the terse message was neither a reprimand nor a summons to return immediately to Kidlington. Instead, Grayson had made good on his promise to fix her up with a meeting at MI5. He had secured an appointment for her to speak to someone in – she checked her watch – precisely twenty minutes. Oh God, how was she going to get from Mayfair to Westminster in such a short amount of time?

She turned into Curzon Street and was amazed to find that luck was with her. A black cab was just about to move off after dropping a passenger outside the Curzon Arthouse Cinema. She ran into the road and flagged it down before it could drive off.

‘MI5, Millbank, please,’ she called. ‘As quickly as you can.’

The driver’s jaw dropped open. ‘I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to say that to me. Hop in, darling.’

Bridget clambered breathlessly into the back, ignoring the sexist endearment. Now was not the time. The cab was on the move before she had even strapped her seat belt on.

‘Grosvenor Place is blocked right up with roadworks,’ said the cabbie. ‘So we’ll have to take the tourist route. But don’t worry, I know these streets like the back of my own hand.’

There was no point arguing. London cabbies were a law unto themselves. Although technically, Bridget supposed, she was the law. But she would just have to trust that the driver knew where he was going. She tried to relax as the taxi flew down Constitution Hill and circled around Buckingham Palace. The Royal Standard was fluttering in the breeze from the top of the flag pole, indicating that the monarch was in residence.

Bridget studied the map on her phone to see how far away they were from the MI5 offices at Millbank. It shouldn’t take too long if they turned down Buckingham Gate, but to Bridget’s frustration, the driver was heading up The Mall towards Trafalgar Square, a distance twice what she had expected. She rapped on the glass window that separated her from the front of the cab. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Trust me, love. This is the quickest route.’

Bridget had little choice in the matter, so she sat back and tried to focus on the meeting ahead. Grayson’s message had contained scant information about who exactly she was supposed to be meeting, or what they might be able to tell her.

Soon they were passing beneath one of the three great archways of Admiralty Arch, circling the roundabout at the southern end of Trafalgar Square and heading down Whitehall, past Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster. The cabbie hadn’t been lying when he’d said they’d take the tourist route. From the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, past Downing Street to the Houses of Parliament, here was the heart of the British government set out in all its power and glory. The “deep state” according to Michael Dearlove. The very institutions that Diane Gilbert had railed against for all of her adult life. Was it the British state – or its security service – that sanctioned her untimely death? Bridget shivered at the thought as the taxi finally pulled up outside an imposing stone building on the bank of the Thames.

She paid the driver and tipped him generously. Despite the many detours, he had succeeded in delivering her to the doors of MI5 – or the Security Service to give the organisation its proper name – just in the nick of time. She smoothed down her hair, took a deep breath, and looked up at the huge, square building in front of her.

Thames House was vast and imposing, like one of the great edifices that lined Red Square in Moscow. But being in London, there was no room for a grand open space to offset the building’s bulk. Rather, the office block was positioned on a main road running right along the side of the Thames. The river glinted pewter in the spring sunshine, and one of London’s many river buses chugged past, ploughing furrows in the water as it carried passengers downstream towards Canary Wharf and Greenwich.

Bridget located the main entrance to the building and hurried inside. For the second time that day, she was obliged to switch off her mobile phone. This time, however, she was issued with a key to a wall-mounted storage locker where she was able to secure it for the duration of her visit. A security guard then directed her towards a security capsule. She stepped inside and the capsule doors closed behind her. When she emerged on the other side, a man and a woman were waiting for her.

‘Inspector Hart,’ said the man, stepping forwards to shake her hand. ‘Welcome to Thames House.’

The woman nodded at her, but remained silent. They were both dressed in anonymous, dark suits, and could have been accountants or bank managers. Or paid assassins.

‘Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?’ asked Bridget.

The man smiled. ‘John.’

‘Jane,’ said the woman.

‘I see,’ said Bridget. ‘Do you have business cards?’

‘This