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

Bridget drove as fast as she could to the Blavatnik School of Government and dashed up the spiral stairs to the professor’s office, bursting inside without knocking.

Professor Al-Mutairi looked up from his desk in surprise. ‘Inspector Hart, what can I do for you?’

‘I need to see the food that you give to your plants.’

He gave her a bemused look. ‘Are you planning to take up horticultural pursuits? I can highly recommend it. Growing plants is an excellent way to counter the stress of modern life.’

He rose from his chair and walked over to the windowsill. A small bottle of plant food stood next to the dazzling display of yellow flowers. He handed it over to her and turned to study his beloved plants. ‘Rhanterium epapposum is a fascinating species. It’s adapted for the harsh climate and the saline conditions of the shores of the Arabian Gulf. It flowers in spring and then sheds all its leaves as the desert heat grows in intensity. During the summer it has all the appearance of being dead. Then, when the first rain of late autumn falls, it returns to life and resumes its growth. When I first brought these specimens to this country, I didn’t know whether they would take, but in fact they are thriving. I must say, I am rather proud of them.’

But Bridget didn’t share the professor’s interest in desert flora. She quickly scanned the bottle, searching for the proof she needed. Phosphorous, magnesium and potassium.

But the label on the bottle told a different story. Rich in nitrogen. She read through the rest of the ingredients, but none of them matched the chemicals listed in the toxicology report.

‘Is that what this food contains?’ she demanded. ‘Nitrogen?’

The professor looked puzzled. ‘Why? What were you expecting?’

‘Phosphorous, magnesium and potassium!’ yelled Bridget in exasperation.

Al-Mutairi shook his head. ‘You are confusing these with ericaceous plants. Desert soils are strongly alkaline, so ericaceous plant food would be detrimental to their growth. That is not at all what they need.’

‘Then do you have any ericaceous plants in your garden at home?’

‘Sadly not,’ said the professor. ‘I really don’t have time to maintain more than my little window garden here.’

Bridget returned the bottle to the shelf, her spirits deflated.

‘I would love to spend more time talking with you about gardening and horticulture, Inspector,’ said Al-Mutairi, ‘but I do have other tasks to be getting on with.’

Bridget looked up at him, studying his features. Perhaps Al-Mutairi was innocent of Diane’s murder, but she was confident that he was hiding one secret. ‘I know what you did,’ she told him. ‘I know the truth about you that Diane Gilbert threatened to expose.’

A cold look spread across his face and she knew that she was right. ‘Really? And what truth might that be?’

‘That you work as an informant for MI5.’

Professor Al-Mutairi’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Is that a statement of fact, Inspector, or are you inviting me to confirm or deny your conjecture?’

‘Is it true?’

He tugged gently at his beard before responding. ‘Let me just say this. Diane Gilbert was a danger to the national security of this country, and also a threat to peace in the Middle East. Someone needed to watch her.’

‘And you took it upon yourself to be that someone?’

He smiled broadly then, all traces of his earlier displeasure gone. ‘It strikes me that if I tried to deny it, you would simply refuse to believe me.’

‘I expect so,’ said Bridget.

‘In that case, Inspector, there is nothing more for us to discuss. Now, I really do have pressing matters to attend to, so I will wish you good day.’

*

Diane Gilbert had taken great care to conceal her second life as a writer of steamy romance. A secret pseudonym. An encrypted laptop. An off-shore company. She hadn’t told anyone in her family or her professional world about this lucrative source of income.

Ffion, who knew a thing or two about leading a double life, was intrigued by the extraordinary lengths Diane had gone to in order to conceal her activity. And why? To protect her academic reputation. It might be the twenty-first century, but old-fashioned snobbery was still alive and kicking, especially in the world of academia where colleagues were often viewed as rivals. Ffion could well imagine the glee on Professor Al-Mutairi’s face if he found out that Diane had stooped so low as to write commercial fiction, and romance at that. No wonder Diane had kept her secret so close to her chest.

But to her fans, Diane’s alter ego Lula Langton was famous. She enjoyed a large global following, desperate to read the latest instalment from their favourite author. Lula had her own website where readers could discover her books and sign up to Lula’s newsletter, ensuring they never missed a new release. But the About page, which would normally display a photograph of the author with an informative resumé, was deliberately vague. It featured a rear-view image of a woman walking barefoot on a beach – it could have been anyone – and a bio that focused almost exclusively on reviews of her books – ‘sensual’, ‘scintillating’, ‘sexy’, and ‘seductive’ were popular adjectives – and on their bestseller status – Lula Langton is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of red-hot, contemporary romance. There was actually nothing about Lula Langton herself. But that was no surprise, since Lula didn’t exist.

Diane’s laptop had one of the best-organised filesystems that Ffion had ever encountered. Folders and files were all named so that it was easy to navigate the contents of the hard drive. A spreadsheet entitled Writing and Publishing Schedule provided insight into Diane’s rigorous planning process, containing a detailed plan for the