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

‘Heavens, no,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a teacher. I don’t have anything to do with all of this’ – she waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the empty podium – ‘I’ve just come along to support Diane.’

‘This is my younger sister, Annabel,’ explained Diane rather dismissively. ‘She hasn’t even read my book, she’s just here to be polite.’

‘I have read it,’ said Annabel, although Diane had already turned away from her sister and was busy quizzing her agent about something.

‘Well, I’m sure that Diane appreciates your support,’ said Bridget.

The medieval hall was now empty of visitors, and the festival organiser was hovering by the arched doorway that led out of the building, casting meaningful glances at her wristwatch. The talk had finished half an hour ago at nine o’clock. The leaded windows of the Divinity School were now black.

The publisher, Jennifer, tapped Diane on the arm. ‘I’ll be picking you up at six-thirty sharp tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.’ She turned to Bridget. ‘Diane’s doing an interview on Radio 4’s Today programme. She needs to be at BBC Radio Oxford by seven on the dot.’

‘Yes, I’m well aware of that,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ll be attending too.’ That had been part of Grayson’s brief to her this morning. Watch her until the festival is over.

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Jennifer, ‘So, in that case, I for one am going to call it a night. Early start in the morning.’ She air-kissed Diane on the left cheek then adjusted the tote bag on her shoulder and strode from the hall, her heels clipping briskly on the stone floor.

Diane gazed around at the now almost empty hall. ‘How dull. Annabel, do you want to join me for a drink? How about you, Grant?’

Her sister shook her head. ‘Not for me, thanks. I need to get home to see to Oscar. He’s my Jack Russell terrier,’ she added for Bridget’s benefit.

Grant bobbed up and down on his shoes. ‘I think you should take Jennifer’s advice and turn in. It’s an early start tomorrow.’

Diane scowled at their lack of enthusiasm, but Bridget felt a strong sense of relief. Attending the literary festival was one thing, but the prospect of following the writer into a crowded pub and watching out for potential threats wasn’t an appealing one.

‘So,’ said Grant, ‘I’ll say goodnight.’ He embraced his client awkwardly, then left the hall, pulling out his phone and thumbing the screen as he went.

Now only Diane and Annabel remained.

‘Can we give you a lift?’ Bridget asked the writer’s sister. It seemed only polite to offer, although her brief was solely to ensure that Diane Gilbert got home safely.

Annabel shook her head. ‘Thanks, but don’t worry about me. I’ve got my bicycle with me. I always cycle everywhere.’

Outside, the enclosed quadrangle of the Bodleian was all dark. Although it was just after Easter and well into spring, the air was growing chilly under the clear skies. The bronze statue of the library’s founder, Thomas Bodley, glinted in the moonlight. Bridget paused for a moment, stealing a quick glance up at the darkened windows of the upper reading room. As an undergraduate, she had spent countless hours researching and writing her laboriously handwritten essays either here or in the even older library of Merton College – already centuries old when Thomas Bodley founded his eponymous institution. She recalled the archaic declaration she had been obliged to make on first becoming a reader, including the promise “not to bring into the Library or kindle therein any fire or flame.” Happy days. How little she had known of life back then, despite all those hours of learning.

Diane was striding across the quad towards an archway, and Bridget hurried after her. She caught up as Diane skirted the outside of the festival marquee next to the Sheldonian Theatre. The marquee, fitted out with bookshelves and tables piled high with shiny new titles, was a book lover’s paradise. Bridget resolved to return and spend some time there when she could grab a spare half hour.

Once Diane Gilbert’s whirlwind publicity tour is over. Just two more days.

On Broad Street, the two sisters hugged and said their farewells. Annabel unlocked her bicycle and cycled off, her coat flapping somewhat precariously as she went.

Bridget had managed to leave her car right opposite the Sheldonian, her trusty police parking permit strategically employed. Her car, a red Mini convertible, suited her five-foot-two frame perfectly. Jake, on the other hand, always had a little trouble squeezing himself inside, and Diane was going to find the car equally awkward. They should probably have brought a larger vehicle, but Jake’s bright orange Subaru seemed singularly inappropriate for the task.

Gentleman as he was, Jake managed to squeeze himself into the back seat of the car, while Diane tried awkwardly to fold her long legs into the front, fiddling with the controls in a futile attempt to increase the legroom.

Bridget watched her struggle with a certain satisfaction. ‘Sorry,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The seat’s already pushed back as far as it will go.’

Now that the talk was finished and the period of greatest danger was over, Bridget’s mood began to lighten, even though the scent from Diane’s perfume was almost overwhelming in the confined space of the car. At this time of the evening it wouldn’t take long to drive the short distance up the Banbury Road to Diane’s house, and with any luck there would still be enough time for Bridget to watch at least some of her boxset. As for the gateau and wine, she felt she’d earned them.

‘You live alone?’ she asked Diane as she turned the Mini out of Broad Street, passing the King’s Arms where the pavement tables were packed with drinkers braving