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

arrived at Kidlington half an hour later, looking flustered. But as always, her armour of red lipstick and scarlet nail varnish were firmly in place. She clutched her enormous tote bag in front of her like a shield.

‘This way, please,’ said Bridget, ushering her into the interview room so recently vacated by Grant Sadler.

Jennifer took a seat, glancing nervously around the spartanly furnished room. She folded her hands neatly in front of her. Bridget had never seen the woman looking so meek. ‘What is it you’d like to know?’ she asked.

‘I would like to know,’ said Bridget, ‘exactly what you did after leaving Diane’s talk at the Divinity School on the night of her death.’

‘Ah,’ said Jennifer. ‘You’ve been talking to someone. Might I ask who?’

‘Please could you just answer my question, Miss Eagleston.’

‘Well, I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ said Jennifer. ‘I had a meeting with Grant Sadler and Michael Dearlove.’

‘A secret meeting,’ said Bridget.

Jennifer snorted. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, that’s a very melodramatic way of putting it. It was an informal conversation, that’s all.’

‘And what was the purpose of this conversation?’

‘We were just talking about a book Michael wants to write. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘Except that Michael has an agent who represents him, and so Grant should never have introduced him to you.’

‘Well, these contractual terms can be rather vague,’ said Jennifer. ‘Like I said, we were just a few friends having a chat over a drink.’

‘Can you confirm where this meeting took place, and at what time you left?’

‘It was at the White Horse. Do you know it? It’s a charming little pub on Broad Street. And I guess we must have finished, oh, I’m not sure when. Time flies when you’re in good company, don’t you think?’

‘What is your best estimate of the time?’ asked Bridget through gritted teeth.

Jennifer frowned. ‘Elevenish. Maybe a little earlier, maybe a little later.’

The time tallied roughly with Grant’s own account. Not that Jennifer Eagleston could be counted as a very reliable witness.

‘And what did you do after the meeting?’

‘I walked back to my hotel.’

‘And the other two? Grant and Michael?’

‘Michael needed to drive back to London, and I assume that Grant went straight back to his hotel.’

Bridget gazed at her across the table. ‘What would you say if I told you that it was Grant Sadler who wrote the death threat that was sent to Diane?’

Jennifer’s eyes opened wide in shock. She opened her mouth to speak, but for once, no words came out.

*

 

Three people had met in secret immediately before Diane’s death, and it didn’t take Bridget long to track down the third participant in that meeting. A quick search on the Oxford Literary Festival’s website revealed that Michael Dearlove was currently hosting an informal question and answer session at Blackwell’s marquee next to the Bodleian. Bridget got into her car and set off for central Oxford.

By the time she arrived, the session was finishing, and the audience members were drifting off to browse the tables of books on display beneath the large canopy of the marquee. Michael Dearlove was chatting politely to an old lady but gave the impression that he was keen to get away. Perhaps he had somewhere else to go, or more likely he was simply gasping for another cigarette. Bridget decided to rescue him.

‘Ah, Inspector Hart,’ he exclaimed as she approached. ‘I was just about to leave.’

‘Perhaps you could spare me a little of your time before you dash away.’

‘Of course. Anything I can do to assist the police with their enquiries.’

The old lady took the hint and allowed Bridget to guide the journalist away. Once outside he immediately lit up, inhaling deeply as if his life depended on it. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘that’s better. I’d forgotten how quickly this stuff gets a grip on you.’

Bridget waved the smoke away with one hand. She was quickly losing patience with Michael Dearlove and his cigarettes. ‘I have some more questions to ask you.’

‘Fire away,’ said Dearlove. ‘You don’t mind if we take a stroll, do you?’ He set off along the same path they had walked last time she’d spoken to him, in the direction of Radcliffe Square. ‘So, what is this about?’

‘It’s about your meeting with Grant Sadler and Jennifer Eagleston.’

‘Oh, right. That meeting. It’s hardly a police matter, is it?’

‘I’m interested in establishing the facts, since it took place on the night of the murder.’

Dearlove stopped and faced her. ‘You can’t think that one of us had anything to do with her death, do you? That’s ridiculous! I’ve already told you what I think.’

‘You did. In fact, you were very quick to point the finger at the security services. If I recall, you also advised me that I would have no hope of getting anyone associated with the security services to talk to me.’

He puffed at his cigarette. ‘Well, did they talk?’

‘They talked. Although obviously they denied any involvement.’

‘Obviously.’

‘So now I’m exploring an alternative line of enquiry.’

‘Are you suggesting that I might have killed Diane?’ A genuine anger animated him now. He seemed affronted by the idea.

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Bridget. ‘But I’d like to hear your account of the meeting that took place that night.’

They turned into Radcliffe Square, and Dearlove took a moment to stare up at the golden pillars and arches of the Camera, crowned by the green-grey leaden dome of its roof. ‘God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s almost enough to make you want to throw in your principles and join the elite.’

‘It didn’t take much for you to throw in your principles, did it, Mr Dearlove?’

He cast a look of annoyance in her direction. ‘Look, this meeting, it’s not such a big deal. The fact