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

‘I expect so.’ But Ffion knew that she didn’t want to leave Oxford, even if staying meant that she would lose Marion. It wasn’t just the prospect of promotion that was keeping her. She had good friends in Oxford, like her housemates, Claire and Judy. Work colleagues too – Bridget, Andy, Harry and even Ryan.

And then there was Jake. The two of them had been through so much together. First as colleagues, then as friends, then, briefly, as lovers.

The thought of leaving him and the rest of the team behind and going somewhere brand new felt like a punch to her gut. She pushed away her dessert untouched.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Marion.

Ffion could hardly remember the last time she had cried. She hadn’t cried when she left Wales. She hadn’t even cried when she split up with Jake. But now tears were streaming down her cheeks.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I can’t go with you. I’m not leaving Oxford.’

38

‘I do think I deserve some credit for solving the case,’ said Vanessa.

‘Oh, really? What makes you think that?’

Now that the investigation was over and Bridget had been given some time off, she had made good on her promise to accompany Vanessa to visit their parents for a few days. The drive down to Lyme Regis was giving the two sisters some much-needed time to talk and to try to settle their differences.

‘Well,’ said Vanessa, ‘if it hadn’t been for me, you would never have worked out how the victim was killed. I think I made a rather decisive contribution.’

‘I think I was the one who worked out that Diane Gilbert was poisoned with plant food,’ said Bridget. ‘I don’t remember you telling me that.’

‘Perhaps I would have done, if you’d given me the facts. I think that perhaps you overlook my usefulness.’

‘You know that I can’t discuss my work with you,’ said Bridget. Vanessa had never previously paid the slightest attention to her work, and had always turned her nose up at any mention of the word “murder”, so perhaps this newfound interest could be interpreted as a growing acceptance of her job as a police detective. As gratifying as that might be, Bridget certainly didn’t want to encourage Vanessa to start poking her nose into her investigations. ‘Let’s just say that a serendipitous set of circumstances came together just at the right moment.’

‘Well, all right,’ said Vanessa. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt to say “thank you”.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bridget grudgingly.

They lapsed into silence as the Range Rover swallowed up the miles on the dual carriageway.

‘So, are you looking forward to the wedding?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Chloe is,’ said Bridget, sidestepping the thorny issue of Ben and Tamsin. ‘But she has her exams coming up in the next month or two. She ought to be revising, not thinking about weddings and clothes. And I don’t think she should be spending so much time with Alfie either.’

‘He seems like a very nice boy,’ said Vanessa. ‘And Chloe is more sensible than you give her credit for. She’s growing up so quickly.’

‘She’ll be sixteen in June,’ said Bridget. ‘Sixteen!’

‘What a lovely age. The whole world ahead of her! Do you remember what you were like at sixteen?’

‘Barely.’ At sixteen, Bridget had dreamed of travelling the world and marrying a wealthy Italian count. Or becoming a professor of History at Oxford, and discovering some long-lost ancient document in the depths of the Bodleian Library. She had done none of those things. Now she realised with a start that she didn’t even know what Chloe’s hopes and aspirations were. She couldn’t even recall when she had last asked her daughter such a question. Time was slipping through her grasp and she was powerless to stop it.

‘I’ll be forty next year,’ she said to Vanessa. ‘How can that be possible?’

Vanessa snorted. ‘Forty? Don’t worry about it. At the grand old age of forty-two, I can assure you that birthdays are all in the mind.’

‘Birthdays are not just in the mind,’ said Bridget. ‘And even if they were, that wouldn’t make them any less worrying. If anything, I’d say it’s all the more reason to worry.’

‘Well, now you’re just being silly.’

At the sign for Andover, Vanessa signalled left and turned off the A34 onto the A303. To either side, the road was lined with a thick layer of trees and shrubs. Ahead, the tarmac stretched straight as a dart towards the horizon.

‘So,’ said Bridget, turning finally to the purpose of their journey. ‘What’s your strategy for Mum and Dad?’ She was sure that Vanessa would have one. Before leaving her career to have children and fill her time with domestic affairs, Vanessa had managed large projects for a big company. Strategy and planning had been as normal to her then as the school run and after-school violin lessons were now.

‘Well, for now, we just need to make sure they can manage day to day. But long-term we need to move them back to Oxford, obviously. We can’t keep driving down to Dorset every time there’s an emergency. Besides, they need somewhere much smaller and easier to manage. A nice retirement home would suit them well, perhaps even an apartment. There’s really no need for them to have to look after a garden at all.’

‘I think Dad enjoys his gardening,’ said Bridget.

Vanessa cast a scornful glance her way. ‘That’s all very well in theory, but he doesn’t have the time or the energy any more. I had to mow the lawn and cut back the worst of the shrubs last time I was down there. Easter is the time of year when the gardening workload begins to get heavy, and so far Dad hasn’t really done a thing. It’s going to get out of hand