Equinox
Michael White
Michael White
Equinox
Prologue
Oxford: 20 March, 7.36 p.m.
He cuts the fuel line to the girl's car while she enjoys an early dinner at her friend's house, and then watches the petrol spatter onto the tarmac and run down the hill away from the car, the residue evaporating slowly.
Minutes later he sees her emerge from the house and he follows the car for a quarter of a mile into the country, observing silently as she pulls the dying vehicle to the side of the road.
Flicking off the lights and turning his ignition key to 'off', he allows his own car to glide to a quiet halt fifty yards along the lane behind her. He listens as the girl tries in vain to fire up the parched engine.
He steps out of his car and walks slowly along the lane, keeping out of the moonlight and staying in the tessellated shadows.
She is a mere silhouette, as the lemon lunar radiance spills across the car roof and lights up the branches of trees and the leaves overhead.
The plastic covers over his shoes squelch against the soft turf. He can hear his own steady breathing, which hits the inside of the plastic visor covering his face. He quickens his pace.
The girl stops turning her ignition key and looks around her through the windows, but she doesn't see him in the deep shadows as he walks towards her car.
He sees her pick up her mobile phone from somewhere on the passenger seat. Two more paces and he is at the door. Opening it, he thrusts inside, scalpel first.
The girl screams and her fingers loosen on the phone, letting it slide down her front and onto the floor of the car. In one seamless movement he leans in close and raises his arm. She cannot see his face, obscured as it is by perspex.
The girl starts shaking involuntarily, her mouth open, speechless with terror. As she is about to scream her attacker's free hand comes down hard over her mouth. His face is only a few inches away from hers now — she can see through the visor that his black pupils are huge.
Her pain starts as a pinprick, but in an instant it swells into her chest. In disbelief, she feels liquid spill out of her, soaking her blouse. The metal of the blade feels like it is rearing up inside her neck, pushing on to pierce her brain.
She shudders and a roar comes from her throat. It hits dead air and is swallowed up.
The next thing that flies from her mouth is a stream of blood. Arterial spray flies over the front seat and hits the windscreen.
Seconds later she is dead.
Chapter 1
Laura Niven was led to the door of the Bodleian Library by her old friend, the Chief Librarian, James Lightman. They had been seeing a lot of each other during the past three weeks — her first visit to Oxford in four years. They descended down the steps leading to the street. Laura kissed Lightman on the cheek and he held her at arm's length, considering her. She was tall and slender, dressed in a wide-lapelled crimson jacket, faded blue jeans and suede loafers, her blonde hair done up in a loose bun.
The Chief Librarian shook his head slowly and appreciatively. 'It's been wonderful seeing you again, my dear,' he said. 'Please don't wait so long for the next visit, will you?' His croak of a voice was almost a whisper.
Laura smiled at him, studying the wrinkled, benign face. Lightman looked for all the world like an ageing tortoise, his shell the Bodleian, home to the most magnificent collection of books in the world. She placed a hand on his shoulder before
turning and continuing on down the steps. At the bottom she stopped and looked back, but the old man had gone.
Laura loved this city and felt a twinge in her abdomen at the thought that she would soon be heading home. Oxford had seeped into her blood when she had been here as a student more than twenty years earlier. It had become part of her, just as in her own tiny way she had become part of it, part of that vast, complex human tapestry that was the history of the city.
She turned along Broad Street, strode past the Sheldonian and started to cross over. But she hadn't looked each way: a young woman in subfusc pedalling an ancient black Hercules bike almost ran her over. The cyclist swerved at the last moment, ringing her bell furiously. Laura, feeling strangely exhilarated, watched her wend her way towards St Giles. Twenty years ago that would have been her, deliberately intimidating American tourists.
Perhaps, she thought, she was pining for her youth. But it wasn't just her own personal story, her part in the tapestry that made her love this place. It was. . what? What was it that she loved? She couldn't define it: it was one of those indescribable human feelings, as mysterious as honour, altruism, sentimentality.
When she'd been here as a student Laura had written long letters to her friends in Illinois and South Carolina and to those at home in California about what she had learned. She had boasted about the place because she'd felt that she had become a part of it. To Laura, Oxford was a city of dreams, a super-real place that lavished unmatchable riches upon strangers and breathed fresh air into one's lungs. It was, she thought as she crossed St Giles on her way to the restaurant where she was expected at eight-thirty, quite simply a place that made life worthwhile.
Philip Bainbridge's image of Oxford at the same moment was altogether different. He had come into the city from his house in the village of Woodstock about fifteen miles beyond the old city walls to pick up his daughter Jo from her room at St John's College on St Giles. During the drive in he had seen only the worst aspects of the city. He had been cut up on the dual carriageway by a rusty Rover 216 containing three hyperactive youths from the local estate, Blackbird Leys, a sprawling ghetto only a few miles from the dreaming spires. Then, at a traffic light, he'd been verbally abused by the driver of a Mini Metro who had accused Philip of cutting him up on the slip road off the main route into the city. A few moments later, a drunk had stepped out onto Banbury Road directly in front of his car as he'd pulled away from another set of traffic lights — and it was not yet half past eight in the evening.
But Philip was used to it. He loved this city, warts and all, and had been in love with it since he had come up to read philosophy, politics and economics — PPE — at Balliol in 1980. Now, more than a quarter of a century later, he could never imagine living anywhere else in the world, claiming completely seriously that if Oxford had a Mediterranean climate, it would be a city called Complete Paradise and he could spend eternity there.
And this from a man who spent a great deal of his time contemplating — or rather, being forced to contemplate — the seamier side of the ancient city. He had been a freelance photographer for years, and now he earned most of his income with the Thames Valley police force working as a crime-scene police photographer. During his time in this job he had seen oceans of blood and had witnessed the outer limits of pain. Because of this, he knew that at its heart, in its human soul, Oxford was just the same as South Central LA or the East End of London. He still loved the place but he knew that, like all places in the mortal world, anything divine about Oxford was tainted with the blood and grey matter of many a corpse. That, he understood, was simply the way of the world, be it Venice Beach, Eighth Avenue or The High on an English summer's evening.
Parking on St Giles, he ran over to the porter's lodge of St John's where Jo was waiting for him. She looked incredibly beautiful, an Arthur Rackham painting in faded denim and a Ralph Lauren leather jacket. Her russet hair cascaded in tight natural curls to her shoulders. She had burned-wood eyes, pale skin, high cheekbones and full lips.
'Sorry I'm late.'
'Dad, I know you by now,' Jo replied, with a grin. Her voice was slightly husky — it could shatter the defences of any man who had managed to resist her looks.
Philip shrugged and offered her his arm. 'Good. So, are we ready for din-dins with
mother?' 'Indeed we are,' she replied with a small laugh. They headed down St Giles. 'So, tell me. You missing New York?' Philip asked. 'Not yet.'
'You never talk much about your old life.'
'Not much to say, I guess. And dad, "old life" sounds weird. I've only been here, what? Six months?'
'Feels like a lifetime.'
'Gee, thanks!' Jo turned to Philip with her mouth open.
'I'd close that if I were you.' Jo shook her head and huffed. 'No, it's good here. It felt a little, I dunno, a little claustrophobic in Greenwich Village. Cool place, but you know, apart-ment-too-small-for-suddenly-famous-author-mother-and-teenage-daughter syndrome.'
'Yes, quite a common social disease in one form or another. Glad I don't have to deal with it — one of the perks of being a committed bachelor, I suppose.'
Jo gave him a sceptical look. 'You reckon? Can't outweigh the disadvantages, though, can it? I've told you before, one of my missions before leaving these hallowed halls is to hitch you to a good woman. Someone who'll look after you.'
'Oh, please. You think I need fattening up?' Philip patted his slight paunch.
They crossed the road and walked past the old Quaker Meeting House. The pavement was narrow: rows of metal railings to the left, road to the right. Old bicycles lined the pavement, padlocked to the railings. Along the way, a ragged busker who had made this patch his own juggled oranges ineptly. 'Spare any change?' he slurred hopefully as they passed.
Ahead of them, twenty yards off, they could see Laura waiting for them outside Brown's Restaurant.
Their plates had been cleared and the waitress had topped up their wineglasses. Laura considered the dessert menu sceptically and took a sip of her wine.
They were seated close to the kitchen doors and as staff charged in and out they caught glimpses of the controlled chaos that lay beyond. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted over from the smoking area, and the conversation of. a hundred or so diners created a haze of human voices that interwove with barely audible acid jazz spilling from the sound system.
'We're going to miss you, Laura,' Philip said over the rim of his wineglass, and looked first at her then to their daughter.
Laura's time in Oxford had flashed past and she was due to fly back to New York the next morning. Although she was looking forward to seeing her neat and spacious apartment in Greenwich Village again, another part of her was drawing her in, grounding her here. She would miss Oxford too, and the two people who meant most to her in the world: Philip and Jo.
'Oh, I'm sure I'll be back again soon,' Laura replied, tucking some blonde strands of hair behind her right ear. 'I'll have to keep a check on this one for a start.' She glanced at Jo.
'Yeah, sure — like I need looking after.' Jo gave her mother a rueful look.
'Well, here's to a safe journey,' Philip said and raised his glass. Jo echoed the sentiment, but was easing out of her chair and looking at her watch.
'Hey, mom, I'm real sorry, but I have to split. I was supposed to meet Tom ten minutes ago.'
'That's cool,' Laura replied. 'You run along. Say "hi" to lover boy for me.'
Jo kissed Philip on the cheek. 'I'll see you in the morning, just to check you have your ticket and passport,' she said, turning back to Laura with a wry grin. Then she negotiated a twisting path between the closely packed tables.
At the exit Jo waved goodbye. Gazing across the restaurant, Laura recalled the many times she had sat here in Brown's. It had been a regular haunt during her student days, the venue for her first date with Philip and the place where she had broken the news that she was pregnant with Jo. She loved the never-changing decor — the cream walls and the old mirrors, polished oak floors and enormous palms. Looking across the room she could almost see her younger self at an adjacent table, and a fresh-faced Philip gazing back at her.
'So, has your trip been worth it?' Philip asked. 'Did you find what you were looking for?'
Laura took another sip of wine, placed the glass down and began to play with the stem. 'Yes and no,' she sighed. 'Well, actually, no, to be honest. I feel I've got stuck up a blind alley'
'Oh?'
'Well, you know, it happens.'
'Does this mean you've wasted your time?'
'No,' she said emphatically. 'Just that I'll have to work harder.' Laura paused before going on. 'Well, in fact it's not been good. I think I'll ditch the idea.'
Philip looked startled. 'But it sounded so promising.'
'Yeah, but that's what writing is like. You think something's going to work and sometimes it does. Other times it definitely doesn't.'
After years as a struggling journalist in New York and writing half a dozen novels in her spare time, watching each of them flounder and sink, Laura had suddenly pushed all the right buttons a year earlier. Restitution was a historical crime thriller set in seventeenth-century New Amsterdam. The New York Times had called it 'scintillating'. It had garnered the White Rose Fiction Award and had sold enough to allow Laura to finally quit the day job. The media had taken to her immediately, promoting her on her looks and her career as a journalist who had specialised in covering the grisliest crimes in New York City. Seizing her chance, Laura had launched herself into the next project, a novel set in fourteenth-century Oxford in which the real-life theologian and mathematician Thomas Bradwardine was the central character in a complex plot to murder the king of the day, Edward II.
'So what about the mysterious monk, Bradwardine?'
'Oh, I'm still interested in him. He was never a monk, by the way, Philip.' Laura smiled. 'It's just that I've come to realise that he could never have been involved in a plot to kill the king. He just wasn't the type. He was a deeply religious man who was the greatest mathematician of his time and went on to become Archbishop of Canterbury, but he was no Rambo. Anyway, it's OK, I hadn't gone that far with the idea. Besides, there are plenty of other stories; they're all out there in the ether ready to be grabbed. And I even think that Bradwardine may come back on the radar one day — I'm just storing it all away'
'Sounds like something I would say,' Philip retorted.
'Yeah, well, perhaps I've been too harsh on your odd little personality traits all these years.' Laura leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her wine. As Philip looked away to attract the attention of a waiter, she caught a glimpse of his profile and was struck by the fact that more than twenty years had passed since they'd first met. In that time Philip had hardly changed. Of course, there were now quite a few grey hairs among the unruly mop of dark curls, and his face was podgier, his eyes more tired. But he still had the same confident, world-weary smile that she had found so attractive when he was twenty-two, the same devastating brown eyes.
She had thought so much about him when she was the other side of the world. She had been away so long it almost seemed impossible that they could be sitting here together in this crowded restaurant with the rain splashing against the windows and the massicot glow of the street lights outside.
Seeing Philip now, Laura knew why she had fallen for him in the first place, why she had given herself to him in a way she had never done before or since. For a second, she could not believe that she had walked away from it all.
'Coffee?'
She looked at him blankly. 'Hello! Coffee?'
The waiter was beside the table and Philip was waving a hand in front of her.
'Oh, yeah, ahem. . sorry. I'll have a decaf latte. . thanks.'
'You were miles away. In the land of Bradwardine and the Plantagenets?' 'I guess,' she lied.
'So, what're you going to do?' Philip asked as the waiter walked away.
'Don't really know right this minute. I'm sure I'll think of something.' Laura was being deliberately evasive and Philip knew it. He was about to move the conversation on when his mobile rang. 'Philip Bainbridge,' he said. 'Yes. . Yes.' He sounded uncharacteristically curt on the phone, Laura thought. 'OK, I'm only a mile or two away. I could be there in — what? — fifteen minutes. . yes? OK.' He flipped
the phone shut. 'Problem?'
'No, just a nuisance. That was the station. They want me to take some pictures, an incident near The Perch. They wouldn't tell me anything more. Sorry, we'd better get the bill.'
Chapter 2
Philip didn't have time to drop Laura at his place first. It was freezing in his thirty-year-old MGB and Laura was relieved when she saw the blue lights ahead. They pulled off the road and across a stretch of muddy verge before stopping ten yards from a brightly lit white box-tent about fifteen feet square that marked the location of the crime scene.
Philip killed the engine and Laura looked through the dirty windscreen, as a figure in a white suit with FORENSICS stencilled on the back in green walked past the side of the car towards the tent.
'Laura, you'll have to stay here, I'm afraid. Police personnel only.' Philip got out, went around to the boot, pulled out a sturdy leather bag containing his camera equipment and slung it over his shoulder. He rummaged through the bag as he walked back to the door of the MGB. Fiddling with the lens of his Nikon digital he bent down to the window. 'You'll be OK?' he asked. T don't suppose it will be very pleasant in there, anyway.' And before she could answer, he had turned away.
Laura sat in the car for a few minutes but then curiosity got the better of her. She stepped out onto the mud and made for the flap of the tent. There was no one around to stop her. She would just take a peek, she told herself.
Pulling aside the plastic sheet just a crack she looked inside but all she could see were the backs of two police officers and the Forensics guy crouching down and placing something unidentifiable in a clear plastic wallet with a pair of tweezers. Behind him was a small red car, the doors open, mud splattered up the panels.
Closing the flap, Laura tiptoed around the edge of the tent. She crouched down and put her eye to a gap in the plastic. The car was only a few feet away and she had a clear view straight through the open offside door.
Equinox Page 1