Preface to Murder Read online

  ‘Come on,’ she said to Jake.

  They made their way to the front of the hall and positioned themselves unobtrusively behind the table where the writer was already starting to sign copies of her book with a gold-nibbed fountain pen. Up close, the strong scent of Diane’s perfume was quite distracting.

  Bridget studied each reader closely as they presented their book for signing, but none of them looked remotely like a killer and none behaved in any way suspiciously.

  After the final book had been signed, only a handful of people remained in the hall. The team from Blackwell’s began packing the unsold hardbacks into boxes. The festival organiser cleared away the glasses and empty bottles of mineral water and realigned the chairs ready for the next day’s event.

  Dearlove came over to Diane to say goodbye. ‘You were fabulous,’ he said. ‘Your book deserves to be huge.’

  ‘You know this isn’t about book sales,’ said Diane. ‘That’s for other people to care about.’

  Admirable detachment, thought Bridget. Still, that level of haircare didn’t come cheap, and neither did those clothes and shoes.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a drink?’ Diane asked Dearlove.

  ‘I’m afraid that I have to get back to London tonight.’

  ‘Another time, then.’

  Bridget waited while Dearlove took his leave of Diane, kissing her warmly on both cheeks. She stepped forward to make her presence known just as Diane stood up from her chair, rising to her full height. Diane glanced down at Bridget as if only just remembering that she was under police protection.

  ‘Oh, Inspector. You’re still here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bridget patiently. ‘As I explained earlier, we’ll be escorting you back to your home.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, while you’re here you may as well meet my team. These are the people who make all this possible.’ Diane smiled with a modesty that Bridget found somewhat insincere. Throughout her talk, Diane had done her utmost to portray herself as a single-handed campaigner, fighting against the all-powerful and sinister forces of the state. But obviously a book didn’t publish itself, and publicity events like this evening’s talk didn’t happen by magic.

  The writer’s entourage gathered around like bees to a honeypot, and Diane introduced each one in turn.

  ‘This is my publisher, Jennifer Eagleston.’

  A large, boisterous woman in her mid-fifties thrust herself forward and shook Bridget’s hand with a firm grip. A huge red tote bag was looped over her shoulder and she wore matching lipstick. ‘I do want to thank you for everything you’re doing to keep Diane safe. It’s really appreciated.’

  The publisher sounded genuinely grateful for the trouble the police were taking to protect Diane, which was more than could be said for the writer herself. ‘Not at all,’ said Bridget warmly. ‘All part of the job.’

  ‘We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her,’ continued Jennifer. ‘Especially not during the week of the book launch.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Bridget, wondering whether Jennifer’s comment revealed a dark sense of humour, or naked self-interest. The expression on her face offered no clues.

  Diane motioned to the second person in the trio. ‘This is my agent, Grant Sadler.’

  A rather awkward man dressed in an uncoordinated combination of skinny jeans, white T-shirt and smart jacket acknowledged Bridget with a nod of his head, but unlike Jennifer didn’t offer his hand. He was in his thirties or forties, Bridget guessed, but couldn’t pin down his age more precisely. He stood aloof, and thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, as if striving for a youthful pose. He had a habit of bouncing up and down on the soles of his Converse trainers. Was he nervous for some reason?

  ‘Great evening, Diane,’ he said to his client. ‘Your talk went really well. It should help to shift some more copies.’ He was closer to forty-five, Bridget decided, but looked like someone desperate not to grow up. ‘There were some good questions at the end, too.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Diane sharply. ‘Not everyone seemed to appreciate what I was saying.’

  ‘You mean the guy who thought you were a threat to national security?’ Grant sniggered. ‘Old reactionaries kicking up a fuss like that will help to generate more free publicity. Let’s hope he writes a strongly-worded letter to The Telegraph about it.’

  Diane’s upper lip curled in distaste. It was impossible to tell whether her reaction was prompted by the prospect of a letter in The Telegraph or by Grant’s flippant attitude towards the incident. He looked embarrassed, and stood sullenly to one side.

  Bridget looked to the third and final member of the group, a woman wearing a long woollen coat covered in dog hairs, and whose thick-soled boots looked better suited for a country walk than a literary festival. Bridget couldn’t guess what her role in the world of books might be. ‘Do you work in publishing too?’ she enquired.

  ‘Heavens, no,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a teacher. I don’t have anything to do with all of this’ – she waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the empty podium – ‘I’ve just come along to support Diane.’

  ‘This is my younger sister, Annabel,’ explained Diane rather dismissively. ‘She hasn’t even read my book, she’s just here to be polite.’

  ‘I have read it,’ said Annabel, although Diane had already turned away from her sister and was busy quizzing her agent about something.

  ‘Well, I’m sure that Diane appreciates your support,’ said Bridget.

  The medieval hall was now empty of visitors, and the festival organiser was hovering by the arched doorway that led out of the building, casting meaningful glances at her wristwatch. The talk had finished half an hour ago at nine o’clock. The leaded windows of the Divinity School were now black.

  The publisher, Jennifer, tapped Diane on the arm. ‘I’ll be picking you up at six-thirty sharp tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.’ She turned to Bridget. ‘Diane’s doing an interview on Radio 4’s Today programme. She needs to be at BBC Radio Oxford by seven on the dot.’

  ‘Yes, I’m well aware of that,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ll be attending too.’ That had been part of Grayson’s brief to her this morning. Watch her until the festival is over.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Jennifer, ‘So, in that case, I for one am going to call it a night. Early start in the morning.’ She air-kissed Diane on the left cheek then adjusted the tote bag on her shoulder and strode from the hall, her heels clipping briskly on the stone floor.

  Diane gazed around at the now almost empty hall. ‘How dull. Annabel, do you want to join me for a drink? How about you, Grant?’

  Her sister shook her head. ‘Not for me, thanks. I need to get home to see to Oscar. He’s my Jack Russell terrier,’ she added for Bridget’s benefit.

  Grant bobbed up and down on his shoes. ‘I think you should take Jennifer’s advice and turn in. It’s an early start tomorrow.’

  Diane scowled at their lack of enthusiasm, but Bridget felt a strong sense of relief. Attending the literary festival was one thing, but the prospect of following the writer into a crowded pub and watching out for potential threats wasn’t an appealing one.

  ‘So,’ said Grant, ‘I’ll say goodnight.’ He embraced his client awkwardly, then left the hall, pulling out his phone and thumbing the screen as he went.

  Now only Diane and Annabel remained.

  ‘Can we give you a lift?’ Bridget asked the writer’s sister. It seemed only polite to offer, although her brief was solely to ensure that Diane Gilbert got home safely.

  Annabel shook her head. ‘Thanks, but don’t worry about me. I’ve got my bicycle with me. I always cycle everywhere.’

  Outside, the enclosed quadrangle of the Bodleian was all dark. Although it was just after Easter and well into spring, the air was growing chilly under the clear skies. The bronze statue of the library’s founder, Thomas Bodley, glinted in the moonlight. Bridget paused for a moment, stealing a quick glance up at th
e darkened windows of the upper reading room. As an undergraduate, she had spent countless hours researching and writing her laboriously handwritten essays either here or in the even older library of Merton College – already centuries old when Thomas Bodley founded his eponymous institution. She recalled the archaic declaration she had been obliged to make on first becoming a reader, including the promise “not to bring into the Library or kindle therein any fire or flame.” Happy days. How little she had known of life back then, despite all those hours of learning.

  Diane was striding across the quad towards an archway, and Bridget hurried after her. She caught up as Diane skirted the outside of the festival marquee next to the Sheldonian Theatre. The marquee, fitted out with bookshelves and tables piled high with shiny new titles, was a book lover’s paradise. Bridget resolved to return and spend some time there when she could grab a spare half hour.

  Once Diane Gilbert’s whirlwind publicity tour is over. Just two more days.

  On Broad Street, the two sisters hugged and said their farewells. Annabel unlocked her bicycle and cycled off, her coat flapping somewhat precariously as she went.

  Bridget had managed to leave her car right opposite the Sheldonian, her trusty police parking permit strategically employed. Her car, a red Mini convertible, suited her five-foot-two frame perfectly. Jake, on the other hand, always had a little trouble squeezing himself inside, and Diane was going to find the car equally awkward. They should probably have brought a larger vehicle, but Jake’s bright orange Subaru seemed singularly inappropriate for the task.

  Gentleman as he was, Jake managed to squeeze himself into the back seat of the car, while Diane tried awkwardly to fold her long legs into the front, fiddling with the controls in a futile attempt to increase the legroom.

  Bridget watched her struggle with a certain satisfaction. ‘Sorry,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The seat’s already pushed back as far as it will go.’

  Now that the talk was finished and the period of greatest danger was over, Bridget’s mood began to lighten, even though the scent from Diane’s perfume was almost overwhelming in the confined space of the car. At this time of the evening it wouldn’t take long to drive the short distance up the Banbury Road to Diane’s house, and with any luck there would still be enough time for Bridget to watch at least some of her boxset. As for the gateau and wine, she felt she’d earned them.

  ‘You live alone?’ she asked Diane as she turned the Mini out of Broad Street, passing the King’s Arms where the pavement tables were packed with drinkers braving the cold evening.

  ‘Yes,’ said Diane. ‘It suits me.’

  I’m sure it does. Diane didn’t appear inclined to pursue the conversation, and Bridget didn’t feel that the rewards from making small talk with the writer were likely to be worth the effort, and so they drove in silence up Parks Road and the Banbury Road before turning left into St Margaret’s Road.

  ‘It’s just here,’ said Diane, indicating a house on the right.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bridget through gritted teeth. ‘I already know.’

  Diane seemed to have no appreciation of the amount of work and planning that went into an operation of this type. She seemed to be under the impression that Bridget and Jake were just casually hanging out with her for a few hours and had nothing better to do with their time. Gateau, thought Bridget wistfully.

  She drew the car to a halt outside a large, detached Victorian house set well back from the road behind a high brick wall crowned with a hedge. A marked police car was stationed in front of the house.

  Diane scowled when she spotted the car. ‘Is that for my benefit?’

  ‘Two police officers will be out here all night for your protection,’ Bridget explained.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  Bridget was asking herself the same question. But the Deputy Commissioner certainly thought so, or he wouldn’t have allocated so many resources to the operation. Bridget still wasn’t sure what Grayson’s personal opinion on the matter was, but he had no choice other than to bow to his superior’s request, just as she was bowing to hers.

  The two uniformed officers left their car and approached the Mini. Both were young, but seemed keen enough. Bridget got out to greet them.

  ‘We’ve already checked the garden and garage,’ said the taller of the two, a local lad with a warm Oxford burr to his voice. ‘All clear.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bridget didn’t envy the two men having to spend the whole night sitting in a car outside the house. At least they were unlikely to encounter any trouble. The leafy street was so quiet it was hard to imagine anything untoward happening in this tranquil setting.

  Diane ignored the two policemen and marched up the driveway, her sharp heels sinking into the gaps between the gravel chips, and Bridget followed in her sensible low-rise shoes.

  The house was grand, built over three floors, with tall chimneys just visible in the darkness, and decorative stone work set against red brick, illuminated by a pair of outside lights. Three stone steps led up to the front door. Diane turned her key in the lock and pushed it open to reveal a generously-proportioned entrance hall.

  Once inside, Jake made his way up the stairs while Bridget went through to check each room on the ground floor. The house seemed far too big for just one person, and Bridget wondered how Diane could afford it on a lecturer’s salary. It wasn’t as if her book was an international bestseller.

  The house looked as if it had been decorated by an interior designer. Everything was of the highest quality, fitted and coordinating, but the overall effect left Bridget feeling cold. As she ran her hand over the granite worktop of the ultra-modern kitchen with its chrome fittings and stainless-steel appliances, she decided that Diane Gilbert was welcome to the place. Bridget preferred her small, cluttered cottage any day.

  Jake met her back in the hall. ‘All clear upstairs,’ he confirmed.

  Diane was standing by the lounge door. ‘Well, Inspector, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’ll be seeing you both again in the morning.’

  Bridget would have preferred not to have to get up quite so early, and could probably have delegated the job to one of her juniors, but she was making a concerted effort to be a better boss this year, and that included doing her fair share of drudge work so that Jake and the rest of her team got the time off they deserved. It was the only one of her New Year’s resolutions to have made it past the end of January. ‘I’ll be here at six-thirty,’ she informed Diane.

  ‘If you must.’ Without a word of thanks or farewell, Diane ushered them out through the front door and locked it behind them.

  Bridget crunched crossly across the gravel back to the car, Jake at her side. ‘What a woman,’ she muttered. ‘I’m quite tempted to kill her myself.’

  ‘I expect that’s against regulations, ma’am,’ said Jake drily.

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘You don’t think the threat’s serious, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, she doesn’t seem to be taking it seriously. But it’s not for us to question why. We simply have to do our job.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Anyway, can I give you a lift home?’

  He took a moment to consider her offer, then shook his head. ‘Thanks, but a walk will do me good. It’ll clear my head after listening to that talk.’

  ‘You won’t be rushing back home to read her book then?’

  ‘I think I’ll pass.’

  They wished each other goodnight, and after speaking once more to the uniformed constables, Bridget drove the short distance to her small house in Wolvercote, just north of Oxford.

  Ten minutes later she was curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine and a plate of gateau balanced dexterously in one hand. It was a well-practised manoeuvre. With her free hand she pressed play on the remote and settled back to enjoy an episode of the glamorous American soap she’d recently become addicted to. Just what she needed after a long and tiring day. But twenty minutes into the show she found h
er eyelids too heavy to keep open. Admitting defeat, she crawled upstairs to bed. It was going to be an early start next morning.

  *

  The alarm woke Bridget rudely at five-thirty am. She groaned and rolled over, then forced herself out of bed before sleep could reclaim her. It seemed unnecessary to be calling on Diane Gilbert quite so early, but this was the job she’d been given so she might as well get on with it. However, once the morning’s appointment at the BBC was done, she fully intended to speak to Grayson and tell him that baby-sitting the writer was a waste of everyone’s time. It wasn’t as if the woman even showed any gratitude for all the trouble the police were taking on her behalf.

  She showered, then spent several agonised minutes peering in dismay at the grey strands (“silver”, according to Jonathan) that seemed to be slowly but steadily replacing her dark brown hair. She would have to try and fit in a hair appointment before Jonathan returned from New York. Leaving the bathroom, she stopped by the kitchen to have a quick slice of toast and a coffee, then drove back to the writer’s house on St Margaret’s Road.

  All seemed to be in order. The two uniformed constables were still sitting in their car outside Diane’s house. Bridget tapped on the driver’s window to let them know she was back. The window rolled down.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’

  ‘Quiet night?’ asked Bridget.