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

‘What do you mean?’

‘When you said that you and Ian had no children of your own, you told me that it was a blessing. But in fact it was a source of great anguish to you.’

Louise shook her head angrily. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I think I do, though, Louise. I think that in reality you longed for a child, and that you married Ian believing that since he already had a son, he would make an ideal father for a child of your own. Then, when you were unable to conceive, you blamed yourself.’

A single tear began to roll down Louise’s cheek.

‘I can only begin to imagine the sense of sadness you must have felt,’ said Bridget softly. ‘And then, when you realised that Ian wasn’t really Daniel’s father after all –’

‘What?’

‘You must have guessed,’ said Bridget. ‘The clumsiness, the trembling hands. As a doctor yourself, you must have spotted the symptoms of Huntington’s disease and realised that Daniel was really the son of John Caldecott.’

Louise was staring open-mouthed, and Bridget began to have doubts. Still, she pressed on. ‘You must have felt a sense of betrayal at the way Diane had cheated on Ian, then kept the truth about Daniel’s paternity a secret. She didn’t even appear to like her own son. Meanwhile, you had been trying desperately for a baby all those years, blaming yourself, and all for nothing. Diane’s behaviour must have felt like a slap in the face.’

‘No,’ said Louise. ‘It’s not true. I didn’t know any of this. How do you know?’

‘It doesn’t matter how I know,’ said Bridget. ‘But there was one final clue that made the puzzle fit together. Annabel’s missing keys to Diane’s house. I knew that the murderer must have had access to a set of keys, but I didn’t know how they had got hold of them. But you could easily have taken Annabel’s keys when you were at her house, couldn’t you?’

‘No,’ said Louise. ‘I’ve hardly ever been to Annabel’s house. It’s Ian who sees her most. They’ve always been very close. He’s known her even longer than he knew Diane. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘Ian found the missing keys.’

‘What?’ said Bridget. ‘Where?’

‘They were in one of our kitchen drawers. I have no idea how they got there, but Ian discovered them.’

‘When?’

‘When he came home from work an hour ago.’

‘Can you show them to me?’

Louise shook her head. ‘Ian’s got them. He’s taking them back to Annabel. You just missed him. He left about ten minutes before you arrived.’

*

Ian Dunn knocked loudly on Annabel’s front door and was answered immediately by the sound of scampering paws and excited barking from within the house. Oscar. The small, yappy dog had always rather irritated Ian. He wasn’t fond of dogs at the best of times, and the Jack Russell terrier that Annabel had chosen as her companion after her husband died was a particularly boisterous specimen. Always in need of a long walk, the dog was constantly barking, digging in the dirt, and jumping up to place its muddy paws on Ian’s trousers. Not to mention trying to chew his shoes. He was glad that Annabel had the good sense to keep the dog on a tight leash.

According to Annabel, the Jack Russell breed was named after a nineteenth-century parson of that name, who had been an enthusiastic fox hunter and dog breeder. The young Mr Russell, while a student at Exeter College, Oxford, was said to have bought a terrier while out hunting one day in Marston. He regarded the bitch as the perfect fox terrier, and all Jack Russells were supposedly descended from that one animal. Ian rather wished that Jack Russell had fallen off his horse that day.

When Annabel opened the door, the dog rushed out, leaping up and yapping frantically as it always did. Ian bent down to pat the dog, hoping it wouldn’t try to take his fingers off. It jumped up at him, licking his face with its pink tongue.

‘Oh, hello, Ian,’ said Annabel. ‘You’re lucky you’ve caught me. I was just about to take Oscar out for a walk around the field before it rains.’

Ian glanced up at the dark clouds gathering overhead. In his hurry to get to Marston, he hadn’t thought to bring a coat with him. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

Annabel clipped Oscar’s lead to his collar. ‘Of course not. We’d love to have Ian join us for our walk, wouldn’t we, Oscar?’

Ian regarded the woman before him almost as if she were a stranger, taking in the loose grey hair, the old, mud-splattered coat and walking boots. Such a contrast to Diane, who had always presented herself immaculately. And quite unlike Louise, whose beauty and grace seemed so effortless.

I almost married you.

How different his life would have turned out, had it not been for that trip to Italy.

‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ said Ian. He was glad he had caught her going out with the dog. It would be easier for him to do what he had come to do outside, with Oscar as a distraction, than sitting opposite her, face to face in her tiny front room. That’s how much of a coward he was.

‘As long as you don’t mind a bit of mud,’ she said.

He smiled.

‘Wait here a second,’ she said. ‘There’s something I need to do.’

He took Oscar’s lead from her, and held it as the dog tugged vigorously. Annabel ducked inside the cottage but was back a minute later. She pulled the front door shut behind her and took the lead again. ‘This way,’