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

Bridget knew that when someone believed that their cause was just, they were capable of anything, even murder. The professor had described to Bridget the cold-blooded execution of his father by Iraqi soldiers. When political convictions were forged through bitter personal experience, the resulting fervour could become toxic. But how could the professor have got hold of Diane’s key? Perhaps he had simply taken them from her office one day and had a copy made. It was as good an explanation as any.

Michael Dearlove, the journalist, had been Diane’s secret lover. If he had been in the habit of staying with Diane when he was visiting Oxford, then it was possible that she had given him his own keys so he could let himself into the house unseen. He had been at the meeting at the White Horse until an hour or so before the murder. That gave him plenty of time to have stopped off at Diane’s house, slipped inside, given her that fatal injection, and then driven home to his wife in London. But what was the motive? Bridget didn’t know of one.

Also at that meeting was Grant Sadler, the disgraced literary agent. Of all the people involved in this case, Grant was the least trustworthy. He had lied repeatedly to Bridget, and only under intense questioning had he finally admitted to sending the death threat. Bridget only had his word for it that Diane was a knowing participant in a publicity stunt. It was just as likely that Grant had made the threat in all seriousness, and then proceeded to carry it out. He had a very strong financial motive, and plenty of opportunity, having lied about his alibi. But how had he managed to obtain the keys to Diane’s house? That couldn’t be explained.

Then there was Jennifer Eagleston, the publisher, always greedy for more money. Cynical, grasping, willing to hold secret meetings and break contractual obligations if it meant she could get what she wanted. She too had no alibi, having left the White Horse at the same time as Michael and Grant. Nobody had witnessed her return to her hotel. She could just as easily have walked to Diane’s house instead. But, as with Grant Sadler, there was the question of the keys. How might Jennifer have got her hands on them?

There was always the possibility that Bridget had allowed herself to become fixated on the matter of the keys. If MI5 or someone working for the Saudi intelligence agency had carried out the murder, they might simply have picked the locks and entered the property without the need for a key. But then why bother to break the glass in the back door? Bridget’s head was beginning to spin with all the unknowns.

One thing she knew for sure – just as Ian Dunn could no longer postpone his difficult conversations about Daniel’s paternity, Bridget couldn’t continue to avoid Vanessa. It was time for her to face a tricky discussion of her own. She returned to her car and set off in the direction of North Oxford.

*

On arriving in Charlbury Road, Bridget was pleased to find Vanessa’s Range Rover parked on the drive outside her house. She was by no means looking forward to seeing her sister, but it would be easier to do it face-to-face rather than over the phone. She strongly suspected that this would be a very one-sided conversation. Vanessa would do most of the talking, and it would be Bridget’s job to listen attentively and take her sister’s concerns seriously.

She rang the bell and waited. After a full minute there was still no answer. But with spring in full blossom and summer on its way, perhaps Vanessa was outside. She was a keen gardener and at the height of the season her herbaceous borders rivalled anything that the Royal Horticultural Society might produce.

Bridget made her way round the side of the house to the extensive garden at the back. The neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly edged lawn were a far cry from her own wild, untangled plot. There was very little chance of Bridget’s tiny garden in Wolvercote improving any time soon. But she had taken heart on hearing on the radio that leaving part of your garden to nature was good for the environment. Weeds were to be welcomed, it seemed. Perhaps she would redesignate a portion of it as a wildlife haven and abandon it to the whims of nature. Who was she kidding? She had basically already done that with the entire plot.

The barking of Rufus alerted Vanessa to Bridget’s arrival. She stood up from where she had been kneeling, a trowel in her hand. From the look of it, she must have stopped off at the garden centre on her way back from Lyme Regis, because four bright-green potted plants were waiting to be assigned their place in the freshly dug border, and a watering can, a bag of compost and a brightly-coloured bottle of liquid fertiliser were on hand to give them the best possible start to their new life.

‘Hi,’ said Bridget. ‘You’re busy.’

‘Weeding helps to calm me down,’ said Vanessa. From the heap of dead weeds in the nearby wheelbarrow, Bridget guessed that Vanessa had needed a lot of calming. ‘And Easter is a time for new beginnings.’

Bridget took that remark as a positive sign. ‘Would you like to go inside and talk?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got time.’ That wasn’t strictly true but this conversation would flow a lot more smoothly if she could show Vanessa that she was making an effort. In any case, Bridget had run out of fresh ideas on the investigation. Every lead she had followed had run into the ground.

‘We can talk out here,’ said Vanessa. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Besides, I want to get these azaleas planted before their roots start to dry out.’

She knelt back on her gardening mat, scooped out a hole