‘Why would someone want to kill a writer?’ Bridget asked. Diane Gilbert wasn’t exactly a household name. At least Bridget hadn’t heard of her before.
Grayson drew his eyebrows together, nodding gently as if he had asked himself the same question. But he was clearly under pressure to carry out the wishes of his superiors. ‘Apparently her newly-published book has attracted some controversy. I suggest that you familiarise yourself with its contents before the talk begins.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bridget had so little time to read these days that the prospect of burying her nose in some obscure academic’s latest publication held little appeal. But attending the Oxford Literary Festival sounded like a better gig than many of the jobs she was required to do as DI. At least she would be indoors, in the gorgeous surroundings of the Divinity School, and hopefully very far from any likely criminal activity.
She had considered going to the literary festival with Jonathan when the programme had been released earlier in the year. She’d almost booked tickets to go to the Sheldonian to see an award-winning, best-selling author of historical fiction who had just published the long-awaited final instalment of her trilogy. But she’d been too busy at work, and when she finally got round to visiting the festival’s website, all the tickets for that event had sold out. Now here she was, and although she was technically working, and the event wasn’t one she would personally have chosen, the venue was very much to her taste. She would never tire of Oxford’s glorious university buildings, and the Divinity School was surely one of the jewels in its crown. Now, with the last light quickly fading outside, she allowed her gaze to roam over its incredible ceiling. Gothic in style, and five centuries old, it was a masterwork in stone – a mass of soaring arches, intricately interconnected swirls and hanging pendants. The uplighters located around the edge of the hall accentuated its curved forms with light and shadow.
Standing at her side, Bridget’s detective sergeant, Jake Derwent, shifted his weight from one foot to another and clasped his big hands behind his back. Even Diane Gilbert with her stick insect legs and her stilettos couldn’t compete with Jake’s six-foot-five frame.
Bridget had asked him to accompany her to the literary festival for no better reason than he was good company. Unlike her, Jake seemed genuinely to have had no plans for the evening, other than “a beer, a curry and a game of football on the telly”, and they were now positioned together at the back of the hall. Standing head and shoulders above her, and with his thick ginger beard, the young sergeant had attracted a fair amount of attention, especially from the ladies in the audience. Diane Gilbert, too, had seemed slightly less dismissive of Jake than she had of Bridget, and the tips of the young sergeant’s ears had turned a delicate shade of salmon when she referred to him sarcastically as her handsome protector.
Nearby, a table piled high with glossy hardback editions of Diane Gilbert’s book was being staffed by a team from Blackwell’s bookshop, who were obviously hoping to sell a large number of copies to the festival-goers. Bridget wondered whether they were being over-optimistic with their teetering display of hardbacks. Bridget had picked one up and scanned the blurb on the back of the dust jacket while waiting for the talk to begin. The book was titled A Deadly Race: How Western Governments Collude in Sales of Arms to the Middle East and purported to lay bare the shameful facts of the British and American governments’ dealings with countries such as Saudi Arabia. Bridget noted that Michael Dearlove had provided a quote for the cover. ‘This book will make you rethink everything you know.’ But at nearly five-hundred pages long, Bridget wasn’t sure she had the time or the patience to reconsider anything, especially not matters of national security. It wasn’t the security of the nation that was Bridget’s responsibility, merely the safety of one person. Besides, the densely-packed words had seemed to blur as she flicked through the book’s many pages. She blinked and tried to focus on the narrow typeface, but it was no good. She wasn’t even forty – surely she didn’t need reading glasses already!
She had returned the book to the pile, obviously disappointing the eager young man from Blackwell’s who had hoped to make a sale. But unless Diane Gilbert presented her with a signed copy as a mark of gratitude – and there seemed scant chance of that, judging by the dismissive reception the academic had given her – Bridget didn’t think she’d be adding this particular publication to the ever-increasing pile of books she intended to read, one day, when she had more time.
Soon, she promised herself. And the exercise and the diet too.
The applause died down and Michael Dearlove opened the proceedings by introducing his guest. Diane Gilbert was a lecturer and researcher at the Blavatnik School of Government in Oxford and although this was her first book, Dearlove seemed to think that it was of considerable importance to the public debate.
Bridget kept one eye on the proceedings, while simultaneously checking out the room for threats. A ruthless killer at the literary festival seemed unlikely indeed, and there were no obvious candidates amongst the largely middle-aged and middle-class audience. The notion that one of the Blackwell’s staff might be a trained assassin with a concealed weapon was equally preposterous. Bridget thought regretfully of the chilled Moscato and chocolate gateau waiting for her back in her cottage in Wolvercote. Her evening in front of the TV, though not exactly life-improving, appeared to
