Preface to Murder

to continue to put butter on your bread, and then smarten yourself up and get down to the studio to do those interviews.’
The line went dead.
*
Since returning from the Blavatnik School of Government, Jake had spent his afternoon immersed in the dispiriting world of social media. It seemed that an outspoken writer on a controversial topic was destined to receive a torrent of abuse. It was shocking what some people were prepared to write when they believed themselves to be untraceable and unaccountable. There were a lot of haters out there, but none of their abhorrent outpourings went as far as the death threat Diane had received by post.
After several hours trawling through Twitter, Jake realised that he was in danger of becoming mired in defamation and loathing. There was only so much antagonism a guy could take, even when it was directed at someone else. He yawned, stretched, and switched off his computer. He’d put in a long shift the previous day too, watching Diane Gilbert give her talk at the Bodleian, and then he’d been called unexpectedly early that morning with the shocking news that she was dead.
He couldn’t help feeling a little responsible for the writer’s murder. They still didn’t know how the killer had gained access to the property. Had the murderer secretly been hiding somewhere inside the house – perhaps even in one of the rooms that Jake had searched? He shuddered at the idea that his own negligence might have led to a woman’s death. But, no. The intruder hadn’t been lying in wait. They’d broken in through the back door during the night. If anyone was to blame, it was surely those two constables who’d been watching the house. Diane’s murder had taken place right under their noses. As uncomfortable as he might feel about the situation, Jake was very glad he wasn’t in their shoes.
On the other side of the incident room, Ffion snapped shut the big, hardback edition of Diane Gilbert’s book that she’d been reading. She’d been totally absorbed in her task all day and hadn’t noticed Jake surreptitiously watching her. At least he didn’t think she had. Her green eyes had remained firmly on the book, flicking across the words at lightning speed, and the rate at which she turned pages was astonishing. How could she absorb so much information so quickly? These days Jake hardly ever read a book at all. The last proper book he remembered reading from cover to cover was John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men which he’d had to study for his English GCSE. He’d done a play as well – An Inspector Calls – and had quite enjoyed it. It might even have been one of the reasons he’d decided to become a police officer. Righting the wrongs of the world, and all that. He hadn’t got on so well with Shakespeare though – too many words that weren’t proper English. Now he lived in a city where books outnumbered people a hundred-fold. Even Ryan, that dark horse, had lent him a thriller to read, but it was still sitting on his bedside cabinet, unopened. At nearly six hundred pages long, it was likely to stay there until Ryan asked for it back. At least Of Mice and Men had been short.
Ffion stood up, stretching her arms above her head, and Jake found his eyes drawn inexorably to her long, slender, catlike form. Green eyes. Leather trousers. Spiky blonde hair. He knew the details by heart, but still couldn’t turn away.
‘Good book?’ he ventured, not wanting to be caught staring at her with his mouth open and nothing to say.
His working relationship with Ffion was back on a more even keel in recent months. Things had lurched briefly off course after a short-lived and ultimately disastrous romantic detour and for a while they had barely spoken. In fact he had seriously considered leaving Oxford entirely and moving back north to Yorkshire. He was still feeling his way tentatively through the minefield of their relationship, and any suggestion of anything more than friendship was strictly off limits, but for the most part he and Ffion could hold normal conversations again. Although with Ffion, no conversation was ever completely normal.
‘Diane Gilbert argues her case well,’ she said, lifting the heavy book off the table and brandishing it in Jake’s direction, ‘although she uses long words when shorter ones would do just as well, and her sentences are unnecessarily convoluted. That’s why the book is so long. I think she could probably have said everything in half the number of pages.’
‘You wouldn’t recommend it as bedtime reading?’
‘I prefer books where the author’s personal biases aren’t so evident.’ Ffion rattled off a list of books that she’d read recently and that Jake had never heard of. The titles sounded heavy-going. ‘What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘What do you like to read?’
Was she teasing him? She must have noticed during their brief time as a couple that his flat wasn’t exactly stuffed with works of literature. Or books of any kind, in fact.
‘I like, um…’ he offered lamely. What did he like? He liked to watch a football match on the telly. ‘Plenty of action,’ he suggested. ‘Something exciting with a good twist at the end.’ Maybe he ought to try that thriller Ryan had recommended. He might surprise himself.
‘I prefer non-fiction,’ said Ffion. ‘I like learning new things and challenging my preconceptions.’ She started to pull on her green biker’s jacket.
Jake rose from his seat. ‘Off home? I was just leaving too.’ He hesitated. Wisdom cautioned him not to say any more, but when had wisdom ever been any fun? ‘Are you doing anything tonight? Do you fancy a drink? Just as friends, I mean. You could tell me what I should be reading.’ He ventured a half-smile of encouragement.
‘No, sorry,’ said Ffion. ‘I’ve got a date tonight.’ She zipped up