Preface to Murder

couple waving at their friends just before stepping into a Volkswagen Beetle decorated with balloons and ribbons. But there was no sign of a man’s presence in the house. No coat or shoes in the hallway, only Annabel’s brightly-coloured hats and scarfs hanging on pegs, and a pair of pink wellies caked in mud.
Bridget perched on the edge of a sofa draped with a patchwork quilt thick with white dog hairs. The bright yellows, reds and blues of the quilt seemed to encapsulate the feel of the room – ramshackle and patched together with mismatched accessories. Curtains, rugs and cushions were all joyously uncoordinated. If it wasn’t for the fact that she had the worst news in the world to break to Annabel, Bridget would have felt much more at ease here than she had in Diane’s meticulously styled and coordinated house.
When Annabel reappeared, she had removed her overcoat and changed out of her walking boots into a pair of slippers. Bridget waited until she was seated in an armchair before breaking the news as gently as she could.
For a moment Annabel said nothing, but threw her hand across her mouth in stunned disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked at last. ‘It was my sister?’
‘Yes,’ said Bridget. ‘Although we will need a family member to make a formal identification.’ She wondered if Annabel would be in a fit state to identify the body herself.
Annabel stood up, then rushed from the room uttering an incoherent cry. Bridget followed her into the hallway, but Annabel had locked herself in a downstairs cloakroom. Through the door Bridget could hear the sounds of sobbing.
When Annabel emerged some ten minutes later, her eyes were red and puffy, her face blotchy. She held a scrunched-up roll of toilet paper in her hands.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ asked Bridget.
Annabel nodded dumbly and Bridget went to the kitchen in search of tea, milk and sugar. As soon as she opened the kitchen door, Oscar dashed out. Bridget didn’t try to stop him. The dog would be a comfort to Annabel, muddy paws and all.
Teabags and sugar were on the counter by the kettle and Bridget found some colourful, mis-matched mugs on the draining board. When she returned to the living room bearing two mugs of strong, heavily sugared tea, Annabel was hugging the dog to her like a child, her face buried in the soft fur on the top of his head.
Bridget placed the tea on the table and resumed her place on the sofa.
After a minute Annabel recovered her poise enough to speak. ‘How did Diane die?’
‘We’re not sure at the moment,’ said Bridget. ‘There was evidence of a break-in at the back door, so we’re treating her death as suspicious.’
‘Murder?’ Annabel breathed the word as if not daring to speak it aloud.
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem report before we can say with any certainty.’ Bridget knew how much grieving relatives craved answers to help them make sense of their loss, but she knew too of the dangers of jumping to conclusions or engaging in speculation. She would say nothing about the pinprick until she knew her facts. ‘Did Diane suffer from any medical conditions, such as high blood pressure or heart problems?’ It was still possible that the shock of discovering an intruder in her house had caused Diane to suffer a cardiac arrest.
Annabel shook her head. ‘Diane? No. She was always fit as a fiddle. She hardly suffered a day’s illness in her life.’
Annabel seemed to be getting over her initial shock and Bridget gauged that it was safe to ask a few more questions. ‘Are you aware that your sister recently received a death threat?’
Annabel’s face fell. ‘Yes, of course, she showed me the letter. She wouldn’t have done anything about it, if it wasn’t for me. She didn’t think it was worth taking seriously but I told her not to be so stupid. I don’t think she would have listened to me alone, but Jennifer, her publisher, and Grant, her agent, both agreed with me, so that’s when she took it to the police.’ She cast her eyes down at the dog. ‘Not that that did any good. She still ended up dead.’ Her shoulders began to tremble again.
‘I’m truly sorry about that,’ said Bridget, ‘and I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to find out what happened to your sister. Besides yourself, is there anyone else we need to inform about her death?’
Annabel put a hand to her forehead. ‘God, what am I thinking of! It must be the shock, making me so forgetful. Diane has a son in London. His name is Daniel. He’ll need to be told, and Ian too.’
‘Ian?’
‘Ian Dunn, Diane’s ex-husband. He lives in Oxford. He’s a consultant at the John Radcliffe hospital.’
‘I see. What sort of relationship did Diane have with her ex-husband?’
Annabel frowned at the suggestion implicit in the question. ‘Oh, don’t start imagining that Ian might have killed Diane. He’s a good man and their relationship was perfectly amicable. He and Diane divorced around ten years ago, and he remarried a few years back.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bridget. ‘But I do have to ask these questions. What about Daniel? Did he get on well with his mother? He lives in London, you say?’
‘He’s grown up. But he still sees – saw – Diane regularly.’
‘Will anyone else need to be notified?’
‘University colleagues, I suppose. But no other family. Our parents passed away some years ago.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Bridget, glancing up at the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘Is there anyone who can provide you with some emotional support?’
Annabel’s gaze followed Bridget’s, then returned to the dog sitting on her lap. ‘It’s just me and Oscar now,’ she said, patting the dog’s side. The animal’s ears twitched