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

She had already heard their story once, but a retelling would do no harm. Perhaps there was something she – or they – had missed the first time.

The two constables exchanged glances. They were both clearly distraught at what had happened, and no doubt fearful of the prospect of facing a disciplinary hearing, but right now Bridget was less interested in assigning blame than in finding out what had happened. However much she may have personally disliked Diane Gilbert, she was still Bridget’s responsibility. More to the point, a fellow human being had lost their life.

The officer who had accompanied her into the house – PC Sam Roberts – was the first to speak. ‘It’s like we said last night, ma’am. We arrived about fifteen minutes before you did yesterday evening. We walked all around the property, checking that the doors and downstairs windows were locked, looking in the garage, and searching the grounds. There was no one here, and no signs of any disturbance.’

‘And you didn’t fall asleep or leave your post at any time?’ She knew from experience how easy it could be to snatch a quick shuteye when on an all-nighter, especially when the job in question appeared pointless.

‘No, ma’am,’ said the other officer. ‘We were here the whole time, and we had a clear view of the house and the driveway. No one entered or left. I swear.’

Bridget studied the two men’s faces. From their haggard appearance she was inclined to believe that they really had stayed awake all night.

The only entrance to the property was via the gravel drive that led from the street. A tall side wall separated the house from its neighbours.

‘If no one came through the front entrance,’ mused Bridget, ‘could they have gained access from the rear of the property?’

Scott shook his head. ‘No, ma’am. There’s a door in the rear wall at the back of the garden, but it was locked last night, and it’s still locked now. No one came in that way.’

‘Then could they have been hiding in the garden last night?’ The garden was large and the shrubbery extensive.

‘No,’ said Sam. ‘We searched the grounds thoroughly before you came. If there had been anyone there, we’d have found them.’

‘But somebody got inside, murdered the occupant, and then escaped again. They even broke the glass in the back door without you hearing anything.’

The two men paled further, if that was possible. But the story they told was the same as before, and Bridget didn’t think they were concealing anything from her.

‘All right, you can go home. I’ll need a written report from both of you. But get some sleep first.’

There was no need to throw a ton of bricks at them. She would soon have Grayson doing that to her, no doubt. She had already had to deal with the flak from Jennifer Eagleston, the publisher, who had inconveniently arrived within five minutes of Bridget discovering the body. Initially, Jennifer had been thoroughly shocked by the news, although not, Bridget noted, as visibly upset as she might have been. Perhaps Bridget wasn’t the only one to have felt a personal animosity towards the dead writer and academic.

But on learning what had happened, the publisher’s shock had very quickly given way to anger, all traces of the gratitude she had expressed to Bridget the previous evening burned away by outrage. ‘I thought you people were supposed to be keeping her safe! Wasn’t that the point of all this police protection?’ She waved an accusatory hand in the direction of the police car still parked on the street in front of the house. Her nails were painted the same crimson shade as her lips.

It was perfectly understandable that Jennifer was angry, but not entirely fair to place the blame for everything at Bridget’s feet. ‘We’ll be conducting a full enquiry into what happened,’ she said, ‘but I can assure you that uniformed officers remained on duty outside Diane’s house all night.’

‘For all the good it did!’

Bridget waited for Jennifer to calm down a little before asking any questions. ‘Can I ask if you’ve noticed anything unusual about Diane recently?’

‘Apart from her receiving a death threat, you mean?’

‘Apart from that. Has there been any change in her behaviour?’

‘Well, in truth I didn’t know Diane all that well,’ conceded Jennifer. ‘Not personally, I mean. Obviously, we’d met a number of times, and had plenty of telephone and email discussions, especially in recent months as we neared publication. But no, I hadn’t noticed anything odd about her.’

‘Did she talk to you about the death threat?’

‘She showed me the letter when it arrived, but she didn’t seem unduly worried about it.’

‘What did you talk about, then?’

‘Her book. She was passionate about it, and there’s a lot for a writer and a publisher to discuss when a new book is launched. The type of book Diane writes is never the easiest to sell. That’s why it’s so important to get the marketing right.’ She checked her watch, as if remembering where she was supposed to be. ‘Oh God, BBC Oxford are waiting for us to arrive. What am I going to tell them?’ she asked, as if Bridget might have any bright ideas.

Well there certainly wasn’t going to be an interview on Radio 4 now, although the airwaves would have plenty to talk about once news of Diane’s death was announced. But that was the last thing Bridget wanted to happen. It was always a sensitive time when a body had only just been discovered, the cause of death not yet established, and the next of kin still to be informed. Bridget urged Jennifer to be discreet for now and to tell the BBC that Diane was indisposed.

The publisher nodded her agreement while rummaging in her copious tote bag for her phone.