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

‘She refused to marry him.’

‘Of course she did. An offer like that would never be acceptable to Diane. She had to win at everything. Marriage was no different. John was naïve if he imagined a different outcome.’

Oscar yapped, and Annabel kicked the ball away into the long grass.

‘So then she came to you, Ian, with a proposal of her own.’

Ian blanched at the accusation, but it was useless to deny it. Somehow, Annabel already knew the truth. ‘She told me that John had asked her to marry him,’ he admitted, ‘but she had turned him down because she had fallen in love with me.’

‘And you believed her?’

‘She seemed sincere.’

‘Oh yes, Diane was always good at appearing sincere. So what did you say to her?’

‘I told her I was flattered, but that I was planning to ask you to marry me.’

Annabel held his eyes, but there was little warmth in them. ‘But you never did ask me.’

‘No. Diane persuaded me that John would be a better match for you. I spoke to John, and he thought so too. And so we agreed to tell you what we’d decided.’

‘Yes,’ said Annabel. ‘Poor little Annabel, no one thought to ask her what she wanted, she would surely go along with everyone else. Diane gave orders and you and John scurried to obey.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ protested Ian.

‘It was! Diane tricked you into thinking you were in control, but she was always the one pulling your strings. She may not have intended to get pregnant by John, but she planned everything else right down to the last detail.’

Annabel was right. Ian knew it. But even now he tried to hide his shame. ‘You didn’t have to accept John’s proposal,’ he said. ‘No one forced you.’

‘What choice did I have? I thought you loved me, but suddenly you were with Diane. Besides, John was such a sweet man. He explained to me all about the risk of Huntington’s, but that didn’t matter to me. I was willing to take the chance. Diane knew that I would.’

Ian breathed hard, turning the facts over in his mind. ‘Have you always known that Diane was behind the swap?’

‘No. I had no idea. She made sure that she covered her tracks. But then a few weeks ago I found out.’

‘How?’

‘I read a book. Stolen in Sorrento. It explained everything.’

Ian shook his head. ‘How can a book explain what happened almost forty years ago?’

‘Diane wrote it.’

‘What?’

‘She wrote romance books and published them online using a pseudonym. You never knew? That was another of her secrets. She was really very good at keeping parts of her life hidden, wasn’t she? But not quite good enough.’

A light rain had begun to fall, and Ian shivered, but it was less from the cold and more from the story that was unfolding before him. He had come here thinking that he would be the one in control of this conversation, but Annabel had always been two steps ahead of him. He was struggling to keep up with her, just as he had stumbled across the muddy ground in her wake. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Annabel, her voice cold and hard. ‘All you need to know is that Diane underestimated me. She had no idea what I was capable of. I think you underestimated me too, Ian.’

*

When Bridget arrived at Annabel’s house, the silver Lexus Coupé parked on the roadside told her that Ian Dunn had already arrived. A marked police car had pulled up behind it, and two uniformed officers were waiting for her by the front door of the cottage.

She strode up the garden path, noting the big hydrangea bushes she had seen on her first visit. Of course. Hydrangea plants flowered blue when planted in acid soil or treated with ericaceous feed. When summer came, these bushes would be covered in giant blue blooms, no doubt.

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone here, ma’am,’ said one of the waiting officers.

‘Have you looked inside?’

‘No. The house is locked, front and back.’

‘Break down the door,’ said Bridget. ‘A man’s life is in danger.’

When Bridget had set off from Old Headington, she had been in pursuit of Ian Dunn, but it was now clear that Annabel was the killer. The fictional story that Ffion had outlined to her matched the known facts so well that Bridget was certain the novel wasn’t really a work of fiction but a thinly-veiled account of what had actually taken place in Italy.

The two constables exchanged glances, then one went to the car and returned with a red metal battering ram. It took him two attempts to break down the front door, and then he was in. The officers entered the cottage and Bridget followed. While one of the men went upstairs and the other checked the kitchen, Bridget put her head around the door to the front lounge. The room appeared much as it had when she’d visited Annabel to break the news of her sister’s death. Copies of gardening magazines. Mismatched cushions and throws. A dog basket in one corner. Could this really be the home of a cold-blooded and calculating murderer?

The constable who had broken down the door came down the stairs. ‘All clear up there.’

Bridget proceeded to the kitchen. ‘Look at this, ma’am.’ The second officer was pointing to a box of syringes that had been left out on the worktop.

Of course. Annabel had nursed John at home during the last days before he died. She must have kept hold of the syringes she had used to give him his painkillers. There was a plastic bottle next to them that Bridget recognised immediately. It was the same brand of plant food that Vanessa used. Rich in phosphorous, magnesium and potassium for all acid-loving plants.