Preface to Murder M Morris (good novels to read in english .txt) 📖

sounded tired but upbeat. Was there really an urgent problem, or was this just her sister’s histrionics? Bridget’s thumb hovered briefly over the quick dial shortcut but then she caught sight of the receptionist approaching.

‘Dr Dunn can see you now.’

Bridget put her phone away, feeling as if she had just been granted a stay of execution. She followed the woman into a consulting room where Ian Dunn was seated behind a large desk on which sat a computer, a phone and an in-tray of case notes.

He rose to greet her. ‘Inspector Hart, this is a surprise.’ His professional manner was polished, but Bridget detected a wariness behind his eyes. No one enjoyed a visit from a police officer, especially not at their place of work. ‘Please, take a seat. Has there been a development with the case?’

‘Possibly,’ said Bridget. ‘I have some questions for you that might seem a little indelicate.’

He gave her a resigned smile. ‘I break difficult news to people every day as part of my job. I like to think that I’d be able to handle a little indelicacy.’

Bridget wondered if he’d already guessed what she was about to ask. Perhaps he had been waiting patiently for her to arrive at the obvious conclusion.

‘It’s about your son, Daniel. I’ve met him on a few occasions now and I can’t help noticing that he seems a little… clumsy. He drops things. He spills his tea. Now, I realise he’s just received a terrible shock, but he’s a young man and this… clumsiness, for want of a better word, seems unusual.’ She stopped and waited for a response.

Ian was gazing beyond her, as if lost in some distant memory. Then he nodded his head and shifted his focus back to her. ‘I wondered if you’d notice. But you’re a detective, so of course you have good observational skills. If you’d met Daniel just a year ago perhaps you wouldn’t have seen it, but now it’s becoming too pronounced to ignore.’

‘Huntington’s disease?’

‘Early-stage. At least, that’s my guess. He’ll need to be tested to be certain.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘I noticed the earliest signs a few years ago, but I tried very hard to convince myself that I was wrong.’

‘But now you don’t think you are?’

‘In my professional capacity as a doctor, no. But as a father, I would give anything to be wrong.’

‘But that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it?’ said Bridget gently. ‘Is Daniel really your son? Or is John Caldecott his biological father?’

Ian gave a prolonged sigh, perhaps in relief that the secret he had borne for so long was finally out. ‘I’ve long suspected that John was Daniel’s father. To be honest, I began to wonder almost as soon as he was born. His hair colouring, his appearance, his personality traits… Even the timing of his birth cast doubts in my mind. But I pushed all those misgivings to one side and loved Daniel as dearly as any father loved a son. I was the one who brought him up. I was his father in every sense that mattered.’

‘And yet, if you had doubts about whether Daniel was really your son…’ Bridget struggled to find a sympathetic way to phrase what she wanted to say, but couldn’t.

Ian saved her. ‘Then Diane must have cheated on me. With her own sister’s husband – or boyfriend at the time. You think I was jealous of John? That I felt betrayed by Diane?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wasn’t as simple as that,’ said Ian.

‘Would you care to explain?’

He looked as if he was battling with himself over whether to reveal some deep, dark secret. After a moment or two he seemed to come to a decision. ‘We swapped,’ he said abruptly.

‘Swapped?’

‘We swapped partners. On holiday, in Italy. The country of love and passion.’ His voice was flat and deadpan, the antithesis of passionate. ‘When we set out on that trip, I was dating Annabel, and John was with Diane. By the time we returned, Diane and I were engaged, and Annabel and John were a couple.’

Bridget’s mind flashed to the photograph of the two young couples seated around the dining table in the shadow of Vesuvius. Who was dating who when that photograph was taken? It was impossible to tell from the photograph alone. Naples had been the final stop on their grand tour of Italy. They had left England with one configuration and returned with another. It had all the hallmarks of one of Mozart’s comic operas. But even comic operas had a dark vein running through their heart. In this case, a seed had been planted back then that would one day flower into tragedy.

‘So Diane was already pregnant with John’s child when you swapped partners?’

Ian spread out his hands. ‘That would be the logical deduction.’

‘But how did this swap happen?’

Ian gave a short laugh. ‘You could explain it as a moment of madness, I suppose. Blame it on the wine and the sun. But the truth is more rational. All four of us got on very well, but as we travelled down through Italy, Annabel and John always wanted to go hiking up hillsides, whereas Diane and I preferred visiting churches and museums. It gradually became apparent that we were better suited with each other’s partners. The swap was natural. We were all happy with the arrangement.’

‘I see,’ said Bridget. ‘But how can I be sure you’re telling the truth?’

‘About what?’

‘About you being happy with the outcome of this romantic mix-and-match?’

‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at,’ said Ian, amused. ‘You think that I’ve secretly harboured a life-long resentment at being paired with Diane. Maybe you think that when I finally realised Daniel wasn’t my son, I exploded with jealousy. Like a volcano simmering for years – decades even – before erupting with fatal consequences. You think