Preface to Murder by M Morris (funny books to read txt) 📕

‘Exactly.’ By the sound of it, Ffion was now in a car herself and heading out of Kidlington at speed. Bridget heard Jake’s voice in the background. ‘So,’ said Ffion, ‘assuming that Scarlett is really Diane, and Katie is Annabel…’

‘And Tom is Ian Dunn and Jamie is John Caldecott…’

‘Then the upshot is that Diane tricked Annabel into exchanging partners. In the book, Jamie has a fatal flaw, and in real life, John had Huntington’s disease. Back in the early 1980s there was no genetic test available, so John wouldn’t have known whether or not he had it. But he would have known that his mother did, and there was a fifty per cent chance that he would inherit it from her. Now suppose that he proposed to Diane but told her about the risk. From what we know of Diane’s personality, that would probably have been unacceptable to her.’

‘But she would have had no qualms about dumping John on Annabel if it meant that she could get Ian instead,’ concluded Bridget. ‘When I spoke to Ian this morning, he told me that he and Diane were simply better suited to each other, but if what happens in the novel is what happened in real life, then he was lying to hide the fact that he was part of the plan to trick Annabel.’

‘Precisely,’ said Ffion. ‘So Annabel never knew that there had been a conspiracy against her. Not until Stolen in Sorrento was published last month, and the truth was made public.’

‘You’re assuming that Annabel somehow knew about Diane’s novels.’

‘That’s what I’m assuming. And if I’m right…’

‘Then Ian Dunn is in danger too.’

*

The field was muddier than Ian had been expecting. Recent heavy rains and the constant toing and froing of dog walkers and their four-legged friends had churned up the ground, particularly near the entrance to the field which had turned into a quagmire. It was too early in the year for the grass to have started growing back properly. Always a fastidious dresser, Ian flinched at the prospect of walking through the mud, but he’d committed to the walk and was determined to talk to Annabel before he spoke to Daniel and Louise. He ignored the steady accumulation of mud on his expensive Oxford brogues and the hems of his dry-clean-only trousers, and plodded on gamely in Annabel’s wake. So far, they’d discussed when the funeral was likely to take place and whether or not Diane would want to be cremated or buried. Uncontroversial matters. Now it was time for him to broach the subject he’d been putting off for far too long.

He cleared his throat before beginning. ‘What I really wanted to talk to you about was Daniel.’

Annabel produced a muddy tennis ball from one of her voluminous coat pockets and threw it for Oscar to chase. The dog tore across the field as if he’d been propelled from a cannon. ‘What about Daniel?’

‘About whether he’s really my son.’

Annabel said nothing and Ian wondered if she’d heard him properly. She waited for Oscar to return with the ball and drop it at her feet. The dog wagged his tail, eager for another go. Annabel obliged, picking up the ball and throwing it further this time. She didn’t seem to mind the fact that it was covered in mud and dog spit. She had never minded anything that life had sent her way.

‘It’s taken you a long time to work that out, Ian,’ she said. ‘As a doctor I’d have expected you to realise it a lot sooner.’

Ian felt a sense of relief. She had already guessed. That would make everything so much easier. ‘We don’t always see what’s right in front of us,’ he said.

‘You mean we don’t want to see.’

Oscar returned again, his underbelly soaked with muddy rainwater. His legs and bottom half were almost entirely black. This time Ian picked up the ball and threw it with a powerful overarm to the far corner of the field. Undeterred, the little dog set off again, tail wagging with vigour. Life was so much simpler when you were a dog. ‘When did you first realise?’ Ian asked.

Annabel shrugged. ‘I think I always knew. Because Daniel was born so soon after you and Diane were married there was always a good chance that he might have been John’s. He looked like John too. And then he started to develop tremors. Even you must have noticed that.’

‘Yes,’ said Ian. ‘I hoped it was just the stress of life in London, working too hard, worrying about money. But it’s not. Daniel needs to be told the truth. Between us, we can do our best to help him.’

He was expecting Annabel to agree with him wholeheartedly. She was Daniel’s aunt and had always loved her nephew. But she lapsed into a strange silence.

‘We have to tell him the truth, don’t we?’ he prompted.

‘How much truth do you want to tell him, Ian?’

‘What do you mean?’

This time when Oscar returned and dropped the ball at her feet, Annabel ignored it. ‘I thought you might be too ashamed to admit everything.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Ian, although it was obvious what Annabel meant. Somehow, she must know everything.

‘I think you do,’ said Annabel. ‘If not, let me spell it out. John asked Diane to marry him in Italy, but he explained to her that his mother had Huntington’s disease and that there was a fifty per cent chance she had passed it on to him. He told her that Huntington’s was an incurable disease, and that if he had it, he would expect to be dead before the age of fifty. He also explained that any children they might have together would have a fifty per cent chance of inheriting the disease. I think you know what Diane’s