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

calling on Diane Gilbert quite so early, but this was the job she’d been given so she might as well get on with it. However, once the morning’s appointment at the BBC was done, she fully intended to speak to Grayson and tell him that baby-sitting the writer was a waste of everyone’s time. It wasn’t as if the woman even showed any gratitude for all the trouble the police were taking on her behalf.

She showered, then spent several agonised minutes peering in dismay at the grey strands (“silver”, according to Jonathan) that seemed to be slowly but steadily replacing her dark brown hair. She would have to try and fit in a hair appointment before Jonathan returned from New York. Leaving the bathroom, she stopped by the kitchen to have a quick slice of toast and a coffee, then drove back to the writer’s house on St Margaret’s Road.

All seemed to be in order. The two uniformed constables were still sitting in their car outside Diane’s house. Bridget tapped on the driver’s window to let them know she was back. The window rolled down.

‘Morning, ma’am.’

‘Quiet night?’ asked Bridget.

‘Dead as a dodo,’ said the officer, then blushed at his unfortunate turn of phrase.

‘Let’s hope it’s not that quiet,’ said Bridget grinning. ‘I’ll just check on her, then you two can be off.’

They gave her a grateful smile. She crunched across the gravel and rang the bell beside the gloss-black front door. The bell chimed deep inside the house, but there was no answer. Bridget peered through the large bay windows to the side of the door, but the curtains were still drawn. If Diane had slept in after Bridget had got up so early, she would be annoyed. Mystified, she stepped back onto the driveway and looked up at the window belonging to the master bedroom. The curtains were drawn there too. She pushed the bell once more, holding it down with her thumb for half a minute, and when there was still no answer, walked round the side of the house to the back door.

The sight that met her stopped her in her tracks.

The back door to the house hung open, swinging on its hinges in the early morning breeze. In the kitchen beyond, shattered glass covered the floor, sparkling in the first light like spilled diamonds.

Bridget sprinted back to the front of the house as fast as she could. The two officers saw her coming and jumped out of their car.

‘What is it, ma’am?’

‘She’s not answering the door. And there’s been a break-in at the back.’

They paled at the news. ‘You want us to break down the front door?’

‘It’s too solid,’ said Bridget. ‘We’ll go in the back way. One of you come with me, and one of you stay here.’ She looked expectantly at the taller of the two, wishing that Jake was with her.

She made her way round to the back of the house again, the big policeman right behind her. This was a crime scene now, but there was no time to worry about contaminating the scene. A woman was in danger. Being careful not to touch anything, Bridget stepped carefully over the broken glass and made her way into the kitchen, calling out, ‘Diane!’

No answer.

She continued on into the house. After quickly checking that the downstairs rooms were empty, she and the constable made their way upstairs. The house was silent.

The door to the master bedroom stood ajar. Bridget pushed it fully open with her gloved fingertips and crept into the room.

The bedroom was dim with the curtains closed, but light enough for Bridget to make out the shape of Diane Gilbert lying in her king-size bed.

‘Dr Gilbert? Diane?’

The woman appeared to be fast asleep. But something wasn’t right. She was too still. There was no rise and fall of the duvet to show that she was breathing. Bridget touched two fingers to Diane’s neck, but felt no pulse. Her skin was cool to the touch.

The writer who had been unafraid to tackle controversial subjects and who had scorned the death threat she had received, was dead. And she had been killed while under Bridget’s protection.

2

‘Anything yet?’ Bridget demanded impatiently.

The forensic medical examiner, Dr Sarah Walker, was beginning her investigation of Diane Gilbert’s body to determine the likely cause of death. Meanwhile, the head of the SOCO team, Vikram Vijayaraghavan – Vik to his friends – and the other Scene Of Crime Officers were busy combing the house and gardens to gather evidence. Bridget knew that the process would take many hours to complete and couldn’t be rushed, but she was itching for one of them to give her some initial clue as to what had happened to Diane Gilbert.

After all, this had taken place while Bridget was in charge of the writer’s safety and security, even though she hadn’t personally been present when the woman was murdered. It was only a matter of hours since she and Jake had escorted Diane home and made sure that everything was in order before bidding her goodnight. Two officers had searched the grounds of the house and had remained on guard all night. And yet someone had broken into the house, murdered its sleeping occupant and escaped without anyone hearing or seeing anything. What had they missed that had allowed such a tragedy to occur?

‘We’ve only just got started,’ said Vik.

Sarah shook her head. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve made my preliminary assessment.’

Unable to contain her energy, Bridget stomped outside, taking care to use the front door this time to avoid having to step over the broken glass in the kitchen.

The officers who had been on duty overnight, PC Sam Roberts and PC Scott Wallis, were in the front garden smoking. They hastily stubbed out their cigarettes when they saw Bridget approaching.

‘Let’s