Preface to Murder M Morris (good novels to read in english .txt) đ
- Author: M Morris
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This time, Bridget and Jake joined in, relieved that the event had come to an end without incident.
The formidable lady in the black trouser suit took to the stage once again, thanking the two speakers for a âsimply fascinatingâ evening, and informing everyone that Diane would be signing copies of her book at the table set up for the purpose at the side of the podium. At least half the audience then reached into their bags and produced copies of the book which they must have purchased earlier, possibly from the Blackwellâs stand at the back of the hall. Maybe a few of them had even managed to wade through its five-hundred-odd pages. They started to form an orderly queue at the table and Bridget realised that the danger was by no means over. None of those bags had been security-checked before their owners had taken their seats. Death threat or not, the Oxford Literary Festival simply wasnât that sort of event. To Bridgetâs knowledge, no writer had ever been attacked while appearing at the festival and she was determined to keep it that way.
âCome on,â 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 Dianeâs 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 Blackwellâs 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 dayâs event.
Dearlove came over to Diane to say goodbye. âYou were fabulous,â he said. âYour book deserves to be huge.â
âYou know this isnât about book sales,â said Diane. âThatâs for other people to care about.â
Admirable detachment, thought Bridget. Still, that level of haircare didnât come cheap, and neither did those clothes and shoes.
âI donât suppose youâve got time for a drink?â Diane asked Dearlove.
âIâm afraid that I have to get back to London tonight.â
âAnother time, then.â
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.
âOh, Inspector. Youâre still here.â
âYes,â said Bridget patiently. âAs I explained earlier, weâll be escorting you back to your home.â
âOh, yes, of course. Well, while youâre here you may as well meet my team. These are the people who make all this possible.â 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 didnât publish itself, and publicity events like this eveningâs talk didnât happen by magic.
The writerâs entourage gathered around like bees to a honeypot, and Diane introduced each one in turn.
âThis is my publisher, Jennifer Eagleston.â
A large, boisterous woman in her mid-fifties thrust herself forward and shook Bridgetâs hand with a firm grip. A huge red tote bag was looped over her shoulder and she wore matching lipstick. âI do want to thank you for everything youâre doing to keep Diane safe. Itâs really appreciated.â
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. âNot at all,â said Bridget warmly. âAll part of the job.â
âWe wouldnât want anything to happen to her,â continued Jennifer. âEspecially not during the week of the book launch.â
âQuite,â said Bridget, wondering whether Jenniferâs 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. âThis is my agent, Grant Sadler.â
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 didnât offer his hand. He was in his thirties or forties, Bridget guessed, but couldnât 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?
âGreat evening, Diane,â he said to his client. âYour talk went really well. It should help to shift some more copies.â He was closer to forty-five, Bridget decided, but looked like someone desperate not to grow up. âThere were some good questions at the end, too.â
âYou think so?â said Diane sharply. âNot everyone seemed to appreciate what I was saying.â
âYou mean the guy who thought you were a threat to national security?â Grant sniggered. âOld reactionaries kicking up a fuss like that will help to generate more free publicity. Letâs hope he writes a strongly-worded letter to The Telegraph about it.â
Dianeâs 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 Grantâs 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
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