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

He replaced the watering can on the windowsill next to a bottle of plant food and gestured for her to take a seat. ‘I assumed this wasn’t a social call.’ He kept his voice light, although he was unable to conceal an underlying trace of anxiety. He took his seat opposite hers and leaned back, interlocking his long fingers.

Bridget didn’t allow him any time to get comfortable. ‘Where were you on Thursday night? The night that Diane was killed.’

‘Am I a suspect all of a sudden?’

‘If you could just answer the question, please.’

‘Of course. I worked late that evening. There was a paper I wanted to finish before the weekend.’

‘What time did you leave your office?’

‘I would say around ten-thirty. And then I walked back to my home on Walton Street.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘I’m afraid not. I live alone.’

‘What about your neighbours? Might they have seen you returning home?’

‘I doubt it. Student houses either side, you see. They’re either out late or listening to loud music.’

‘And no one saw you leave work?’

‘I believe I was the last person to leave the building.’

So, no alibi. And yet the professor didn’t seem overly concerned by the fact. He seemed to be relaxing as the interview went on. Bridget needed to pierce Al-Mutairi’s polished exterior and find out what lay beneath. She had briefly glimpsed his anger during her previous visit. Now she tried to stoke it.

‘A number of your members of staff have reported hearing you arguing with Diane in the days before her death.’

He nodded. ‘That may be true. We often disagreed.’

‘And yet you were her boss. Was shouting at her the appropriate way of dealing with a disagreement?’

Al-Mutairi refused to rise to the bait. ‘If I raised my voice, I regret doing so. But Diane did just as much shouting as I did – more in fact. She was a very difficult woman to manage. She refused to see reason.’

‘Did you threaten her?’

‘I am not prone to making threats.’

‘A witness says that they overheard you say that you would fire her.’

‘They may have misheard. Or misunderstood. I would certainly not make such a threat.’

Bridget persisted. ‘Following that meeting – or should we describe it as a “row”? – Diane sent you an email. In it she wrote that if you tried to fire her she would expose you. Do you recall receiving such a message?’

Al-Mutairi’s face betrayed nothing. ‘I seem to remember that I did. But I have no idea what she may have been alluding to. As I recall she didn’t spell out what she intended to expose me for.’ There was a glint of amusement in his eyes now.

Bridget changed tack. ‘You’ve made it very clear that you didn’t see eye to eye with Diane’s political views. Do you think that she was a threat to national security?’

‘Since you ask, yes. I think that Diane and her ilk are potentially harmful to the stability of western democracy.’

‘Harmful enough that it’s worth silencing them once and for all?’

‘Now you’re putting words into my mouth,’ said Al-Mutairi, becoming nettled for the first time in the interview.

‘How about sending a death threat as a means of frightening her off? Making her think twice about the line she was pursuing?’

‘Knowing Diane as well as I do, I would say that for someone of her convictions and temperament, a death threat would most likely spur her on to take an even stronger line.’

‘Are you sure about that? She was persuaded to accept police protection, so she must have been worried, even if she didn’t like to admit it.’

Al-Mutairi shrugged. ‘I don’t know what she really thought about the death threat. But whatever she thought, I can assure you that it didn’t come from me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now is there anything else? I’m meeting one of my doctoral students in five minutes.’

How convenient. But perhaps this was an unsubtle sign that he wanted her out of his office. Bridget remained in her seat. ‘That still gives us five minutes. Now, it would help us with our enquiries immensely if you could provide me with a sample of your handwriting.’

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t query her request. ‘Very well.’ He opened his desk drawer and reached inside, drawing out a pad of lined writing paper. ‘What should I write?’

‘Anything you like.’

‘In English or in Arabic?’

‘English, please.’

He picked up a silver fountain pen and wrote a few lines of flowing text in blue ink. When he had finished he slid it across the desktop towards her. ‘Will this do?’

Bridget scanned the sheet of paper. It contained several lines of beautifully handwritten prose. She placed it into a protective folder and rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Professor Al-Mutairi. I’ll see myself out.’

Outside his office she paused to read what he had written.

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars. Khalil Gibran.

22

Bridget dropped off the note that Professor Al-Mutairi had written, asking Jake to get it across to forensics as quickly as possible. No doubt she would have to wait until the following day before they could tell her whether Al-Mutairi’s handwriting matched that of the death threat, and Bridget was tired of waiting for answers. The financial authorities in the Cayman Islands may be dragging their feet over disclosing details of the mysterious Per Sempre Holdings, but perhaps there was an easier and quicker way to unearth the source of Diane Gilbert’s money. Bridget tapped the number of Diane’s publisher into her phone and waited patiently for the call to connect. It was answered on the second ring.

‘Jennifer Eagleston speaking, who is this?’ In the background Bridget could hear traffic and the sound of