Preface to Murder

turgid prose in her mind’s eye, its narrow letters wavering before her, and shuddered.
‘Whoever sent the death threat,’ said Ffion, ‘must have wanted to stop Diane publishing her book. So why wait until the book was already published before sending her the letter?’
‘Perhaps they didn’t know about it until then,’ said Ryan.
Ffion continued as if Ryan hadn’t said anything. ‘And surely they should have realised that when news of the murder gets out, sales of the book will probably go through the roof. Everyone will want to know what was so controversial about her writing that she had to die for it.’
‘True,’ said Bridget.
A lot of things weren’t adding up in this case. But the main question now was where to start. She would have to wait for the post-mortem and the toxicology report, as well as Vik’s SOCO team to complete its investigations. The examination of the death threat letter was still being undertaken by forensics. In the meantime, all Bridget had at her disposal was good old-fashioned detective work.
‘Andy, I’d like you and Harry to start making door-to-door enquiries in St Margaret’s Road. Find out if anyone saw or heard anything out of the ordinary last night.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Ryan, coordinate with Vik and organise a team to carry out a fingertip search of the garden and the neighbouring properties. Look for anything that might indicate how the intruder gained access.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Ryan.
‘Jake, you and I are going to pay a visit to the Blavatnik School of Government and speak to Diane’s colleagues. And Ffion?’
‘Yes?’
Bridget passed her a copy of A Deadly Race.
‘You want me to read it?’ Ffion didn’t seem at all daunted by the prospect. She picked up the heavy book and flicked through it, her green eyes darting lightly across the dense text. ‘Just over five hundred pages. I can give you a summary by the end of today.’
Bridget beamed at her.

6
The Blavatnik School of Government occupied a starkly futuristic building on Walton Street. Bridget recalled that the uncompromising design of the building in the heart of historic Oxford had attracted both praise and protest. The glass façade of the circular structure reflected the elegant stone columns of Oxford University Press directly opposite, and it stood in striking contrast to the adjacent neoclassical church that was now Freud’s café-bar and which had featured in one of Bridget’s recent cases. Modern architecture wasn’t truly to her taste, but the Blavatnik School was certainly a dynamic and exciting addition to Oxford’s university buildings. At least, Bridget mused, if you didn’t appreciate the appearance of the Blavatnik itself, you could always admire the reflections of the more traditional architecture in its glass windows.
She and Jake were met in reception by a tall, good-looking man of Arabic appearance. His neatly-combed hair was black and flecked with grey, his dark olive skin was clean-shaven, and his confident manner and smart, sober suit gave the impression of someone at the pinnacle of their career.
‘Detective Inspector Hart.’ He bowed gravely as he took her hand and for a brief moment Bridget thought he was about to kiss it. ‘I am Professor Mansour Ali Al-Mutairi and it is my honour to welcome you to the Blavatnik School of Government, although of course I wish it could have been in happier circumstances.’ He turned to Jake, giving him a more vigorous handshake. ‘Sergeant, welcome. Shall we?’ He gestured towards a wide spiral staircase with smooth stone sides that reminded Bridget of a toboggan run. As they climbed, she found herself gazing up at the glass-fronted upper storeys and through the huge window that commanded a view over Walton Street.
‘This is a very impressive building,’ she said.
‘Indeed,’ said Professor Al-Mutairi. ‘It has been designed to facilitate collaborative working’ – he gestured to one of the many seating areas where small groups were gathered around tables – ‘but it also borrows heavily from Oxford’s architectural traditions and heritage.’
‘Really?’ said Bridget, who had failed to spot any obvious similarities with the city’s historic buildings.
‘Just so. The circular shape reflects that of the Sheldonian Theatre,’ said Professor Al-Mutairi. ‘And the vertical spacing of the glass panels is identical to the spacing of the stone façade of the Bodleian Library.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Bridget. She risked a look at Jake, who appeared nonplussed by this comparison of what, to a casual observer, might seem to be three strikingly different buildings. Professor Al-Mutairi’s private office – more glass and stone – was located on the third floor with an excellent view of the eighteenth-century Radcliffe Observatory on the far side of an empty plot of land. Professor Al-Mutairi followed Bridget’s gaze to the beautifully-proportioned building with its octagonal tower.
‘Ah yes, the Radcliffe Observatory. Built to enable men to turn their gaze to the stars and planets. A worthy occupation, continuing the long tradition of astronomy pursued by Muslim scholars in the medieval world.’
‘Quite.’ Bridget shifted her attention to a row of tall, bushy plants growing in ceramic pots along the inside of the windowsill. The shrubs were not particularly attractive, being mainly bare, with tiny spiky leaves, and stood in marked contrast to the clean lines of the building. But every stem was adorned with bright yellow flowers, each one like a miniature sunburst. ‘I see that you’re quite green-fingered, Professor Al-Mutairi.’
‘Rhanterium epapposum,’ said the professor fondly. ‘In Arabic we call it Al-Arfaj. It is the national flower of Kuwait, and reminds me of my home. Actually, it is not so difficult to grow. I feed the plants once a fortnight, otherwise they like to be left alone. My greatest challenge is persuading the cleaning lady not to keep watering them.’
A smile crinkled his face, and he took his place behind a large, tidy desk and gestured for Bridget and Jake to make themselves comfortable in a pair of leather chairs. Jake took