Preface to Murder by M Morris (best books to read for success .txt) 📗

Daniel’s claim wasn’t too much of a surprise. It tallied with what Ian had told Bridget himself.

‘Louise claims that being childless is a blessing,’ Daniel continued, ‘but that’s just another lie! Why do you think she chose to become a paediatrician? She adores children, and she and Dad were desperate to have a family of their own. They even had fertility treatment. But it never came to anything. So there you have it. More lies. And yet another reason for Louise to feel resentful and inadequate.’ He paused a moment to gather his breath. When he spoke again, his tone was more measured. ‘I know you don’t like me, Inspector. You think I’m nothing more than a spoilt brat and a money grabber. But let me tell you something. I would never do what my father has done to Louise. He may not have intended her any harm, but at times he treated her as if all that mattered was her ability – or her inability – to conceive. I would never put my own girlfriend under that kind of pressure.’

His words finally out, Daniel allowed his lawyer to lead him from the room.

31

Bridget rose early on Friday, unable to sleep once the first light peeped around the curtains and the birds began their morning songs. So many things were bothering her about the case, and not just the fact that she had still been unable to solve it. There was something she was missing regarding Diane’s family. Daniel’s passionate declaration about his father’s desire for more children, and the inability for him and Louise to start a family had set her thinking. She mulled her idea over in the shower, and decided to drive to Diane’s house before going into Kidlington. There was something she wanted to check.

She parked in her usual spot just outside the house, exactly where Sam and Scott had been stationed on the night of the murder. Looking at the house and grounds, she could now read the sequence of events that had taken place that night. The door at the rear of the property opening silently at the turn of a key; the intruder walking up the garden path leaving no marks behind; unlocking the kitchen door and creeping upstairs; and then injecting the sleeping victim with the poisoned syringe. Diane’s eyes might have opened briefly, taking in her killer’s identity. But she was dead within seconds, leaving the murderer to retrace their steps, stopping just long enough to break the glass in the back door. It had been a meticulously planned murder – audacious, even – to commit the crime knowing that two uniformed police officers were on watch at the front of the house.

Bridget was confident that she had worked out the exact sequence of events. But she still didn’t know whether this was a politically-motivated assassination or a personal matter. If the latter, had it been driven by hate, a desire for revenge, or greed? If she could unlock that mystery, the identity of the killer would surely be revealed at last.

In Diane’s living room she went to the shelves and located the red photograph album that documented the road trip around Italy that Diane had taken with Annabel and their respective partners in April of 1983. It was clear from Diane’s laptop password – Neapolitan – that the occasion held deep personal significance to her. What had happened during that three-week vacation that had been so important?

Bridget flicked quickly through the pages until she found the photograph of the two couples seated around the outdoor table in Naples, the great peak of Vesuvius glowering ominously behind them.

When she had first looked at this picture she had been charmed by the palazzo-style villa and the allure of pasta and wine spread out beneath a fiery sun. Now she ignored the setting and concentrated on the four people in the photograph.

Two couples. Diane and Ian. Annabel and John. They would have been in their early twenties at the time, not long out of university, or in Ian’s case, still only halfway through his long medical training to become a doctor. Diane and Ian had got married just two months after this picture was taken, Annabel and John the year after. Two of the four were now dead; one was widowed; one divorced and remarried. All had been touched by tragedy in some way.

The four people in the photograph were seated around a perfectly square table, the two sisters opposite each other and the two future husbands to either side. The photographer must have been standing diagonally to the table to fit everyone in the shot. Four young people eating, drinking and smiling in each other’s company. A perfectly innocent moment captured in time.

And yet there was something odd about the picture. The more Bridget studied it, the more she sensed that she was right. She closed the album and took it with her to Kidlington. Before jumping to any conclusion, she wanted to get a second opinion.

It was no surprise to find Ffion already at her desk, a freshly brewed mug of herbal tea steaming beside her.

‘I’d like you to take a look at this photograph,’ said Bridget, opening the album. She pointed to Annabel’s late husband, John Caldecott. ‘Does he remind you of anyone?’

Ffion studied the photograph intently. She slowly nodded. ‘You can see the similarity in the shape of the brow. The eyes are the same too.’

‘I’m not just imagining it, am I?’ said Bridget.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

The implications were already racing through Bridget’s mind but she waited for Ffion to say the name out loud.

‘Daniel Dunn,’ she said at last. ‘Daniel looks just like John Caldecott.’

*

Before long, the rest of the