Monroe remained icy cool. 'I am of course well aware of the seriousness of the situation. And we do have our own theories. I am grateful for you sparing the time. Now, if you'll excuse me. .'
'What. .!' Laura exclaimed. 'You're going to ignore everything I've said, and the next murder is scheduled for just after nine? In. .' She quickly checked her watch. 'Just over an hour?'
'I'm afraid I am, Ms Niven. My resources are limited. I have a team of twenty officers following up what I think are more, let us say, orthodox lines of inquiry. Besides, what exactly do you expect me to do?'
It was a good question, of course. Both Laura and Philip had each thought about it in the car without ever broaching the subject. Even if their ideas were right, and the Chief Inspector had bought into them, what good did this information do right now?
'Look,' Monroe said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 'Ms Niven, I appreciate your concern. I'm sure you have only the best intentions, but. .'
'It's OK.' Laura grabbed her bag and got to her feet. 'Sorry to have troubled you. We'll let you follow your own leads. I just hope you're right.'
As a scowling Detective Chief Inspector Monroe pushed open the swing-doors to the CSI lab, Head of Forensics Mark Langham turned to his chief technician with an 'Oh shit, he's in one of those moods' expression.
'This had better be good,' Monroe snapped.
Langham said nothing but led the way to a white plastic and glass table in the centre of the room. The top of the table formed a light-box, and lying flat on the glass was a sheet of plastic about a foot square that looked like an X-ray photograph. In the centre of the image was a black-and-white shape about three inches long, a quarter-oval with tiny dots and dashes around the edge.
'What is it?' Monroe asked..
Langham placed a lens over the image. 'Take a closer look.'
Monroe put his eye to the lens and moved it around the plastic sheet.
'A partial print,' Langham remarked matter-of-factly. 'The marks around the edge. . stitching. Expensive shoes.'
Monroe straightened. 'Handmade?'
'Quite possibly.'
'Anything else about them?'
'From this partial it looks like a size ten, standard width.'
'Where was this?' Monroe asked. He sounded considerably happier suddenly.
'Near the house, close to where the punt had been moored.' Langham handed Monroe some black-and-white prints of the impression just discernible in the mud. As Monroe studied them, Langham walked around the table to a workbench. The pressed-steel top was spotless. On the surface and against the wall stood a row of machines, all digital displays and clean plastic lines. In front of these were two Petri dishes.
'We found these inside the print.' Langham plucked a fragment from the dish with a pair of tweezers. 'Leather, high-quality, new'
'And what's this?'
Langham picked up a similar-sized piece of green material from the other dish. 'Plastic. A variant on polypropylene, to be precise. But this is top-end stuff too, an expensive cross-polymer, extremely lightweight but very strong.'
'And it was in the print?'
Langham nodded. 'And in microscopic quantities along a trail leading from the first-floor bedroom in the house to the mooring at the back of the ground floor.'
'Can you get anything more on this plastic? How special is it?' Monroe asked.
'Unfortunately, it's not that unusual, and there're no markings on the fragments we've found so far. A nice piece an inch square with a manufacturer's mark on it would be good.'
'Yeah, and your wife's going to beg you for sex tonight.'
Langham laughed and took a step back to the first Petri dish. 'We may have more luck with this. You won't find too many handmade shoes using this type of leather in Woolworths.'
Monroe took the tweezers and lifted the scrap of leather up to the light. It looked completely unremarkable, a brown sliver no more than a couple of millimetres long.
'I'll check out the database and send someone round the cobblers in town. You reckon these shoes are new?'
'This leather is and the print is remarkably clean. It's possible that the shoes were recently resoled, I suppose.'
Monroe handed the tweezers back to Langham. 'Let's not get our hopes up about this. And. . keep it quiet for the moment, OK?' He strode past him back to the door. 'Good work, Mark,' he said without turning round.
Chapter 16
The Acolyte had waited patiently in the car for almost six hours, rarely taking his gaze from the terraced house at 268 Princes Street. He had watched as those who lived there and their friends came and went. At 6.04 p.m. the two students who shared the house with Samantha's boyfriend, Simon Welding, arrived. They were followed twenty-seven minutes later by two girls, third-year Oxford Brookes University students Kim Rivedon and Claudia Meacher. They all stayed in the house for a further twenty-one minutes and all four left together at 6.52. The Acolyte knew from his surveillance and from his contacts that the two students who lived with Simon Welding at number 268, Dan Smith and Evelyn Rose, and the two girls were not expected home until at least eleven. Simon Welding pulled up outside the house in his battered ten-year-old Mazda at 7.32 p.m. He would not leave the house alive.
At two minutes before nine, the Acolyte stepped — out of the car. He was wearing plastic covers over his shoes and in his left hand he carried a featureless metal box. It had sturdy latches at the front and it was twelve inches long, ten wide and ten deep, a temperature-controlled organ-carrier, one of five that he had commissioned, each made to his personal specifications by a specialist in Austria. In his right hand he carried a small black plastic bag, its zip fastened and locked. He looked each way along the street. At the far end of the street stood a noisy pub, and running perpendicular to Princes Street was the busy Cowley Road, a main artery into the city from the east and London. These features were hidden from view by a bend in the road, making this end quieter and darker. He entered the garden through the wooden gate and moved quickly to the side entrance that led to a passage running along the side of the house and on to the rear garden.
It was very dark in the narrow passage; clouds were obscuring the moon and the steely glow from the nearest street lights made little impact here. Two-thirds of the way along, the Acolyte stopped. He was hidden from the street. He put the box and the bag on the ground, unlocked and opened the zipper of the bag and carefully removed a clear plastic over-suit, gloves, a perspex visor and a hood from inside. With great care he pulled on the suit and pressed together Velcro fasteners around his neck, wrists, ankles and waist so that every inch of his body was covered. He checked his watch through the plastic. It was 9.04.
At the back of the house the garden was unkempt and overgrown. The Acolyte stepped carefully, silently towards the door of the kitchen that led directly from the garden. He stopped there to listen for any sounds from inside the house. He could hear nothing except distant strains of music that seemed to be coming from upstairs.
He moved through the kitchen and into the hall and took the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. All his senses were heightened — he was ready for anything. After reaching the landing he checked each of the rooms to make sure he was alone with his prey and then he moved towards the front bedroom. He could make out the music now — the Allegro of Schubert's String Quartet in D minor, one of his favourites. At the door he stood listening for any human sounds over the music. He could just detect heavy breathing, the occasional moan. Easing the door open, he could see into the room.
Samantha was on top, her back arched, face to the ceiling. Simon, his hands at her small firm breasts, was gazing at her expression of ecstasy. The Acolyte shivered almost imperceptibly, feeling a wash of emotions — jealousy, disgust, fascination. Together they produced a rush of sexual energy that shivered down his spine. He felt himself stiffen. Then, knowing he could not wait a moment longer, he lowered the metal case to the floor, removed a scalpel from his pocket, unsheathed it and took three rap
id steps forward, reaching the end of the bed before either Simon or Samantha were aware of his existence.
In one deft movement, he pulled Samantha's head back and slit her throat with a single slash of his scalpel. He cut through her jugular, sending blood spouting across the room, before pushing the blade down further, slicing her larynx muscles. The emerging scream was silenced immediately and the girl fell to the floor clutching her throat, blood gushing between her fingers. She looked up at the Acolyte, her eyes huge, trying unsuccessfully to understand.
Simon was paralysed by shock and the Acolyte took advantage of the second or two this gave him. He slashed at the young man's throat with such force that he almost decapitated him, cutting through his neck from ear to ear. Blood hit the Acolyte's visor and he wiped it away. Simon Welding's body convulsed and dark blood spewed from his mouth, covering his face in a red liquid mask.
Leaving him to writhe on the soaked sheets, the Acolyte leaped from the bed and crouched down beside Samantha. She was still alive. The Acolyte could not spare a second. He placed a hand on her forehead and another under her neck, and with a single twist he snapped her spine between her top two vertebrae, C-l and C-2. She went limp instantly.
He retrieved the metal carrier and placed it at his side. Then he rolled Samantha onto her front. In two simple movements he opened her body, making nine-inch incisions either side of her spine. Pulling apart the flesh, he could see her ribcage. Removing a battery-powered surgical saw from a zippered pouch in his plastic suit, he cut through the bones in seconds. Prising apart the ribs, he then used his scalpel to carefully sever the vessels and tubes leading to the left and right kidneys.
Opening the organ transporter, the Acolyte felt the cold on his hands. He could see the freezing air spill over the sides of the box. He heard a loud gurgling sound from the bed and then silence as Simon Welding shuddered and died.
The Acolyte placed his gloved hands inside Samantha Thurow's warm body. Slowly removing each kidney, he placed them in individual clear plastic bags, sealed them and placed them delicately inside the transporter. From a pocket at the side of the box he removed a metal coin. Carefully, he placed the coin in the right-hand opening in Samantha's back. He then closed the lid of the organ box and set the combination on the lock. Removing a detergent-infused wipe from a pocket in the oversuit, he cleaned his gloved hands and removed the blood from the handle and the top of the metal box before returning the wipe to his pocket. Placing a protective shield over the blade of his scalpel, he put this in the same pocket.
At precisely 9.13, nine minutes after entering the house, he was once more in the dark narrow passageway alongside the house. He removed his visor, gloves, one-piece oversuit and shoe covers, taking great care not to allow a trace of blood or a particle of tissue to reach his skin or his clothes. Putting on a second pair of clean plastic gloves and replacing the shoe covers with fresh ones, he removed a small bag from his trouser pocket and placed inside it the oversuit, visor, gloves, the first pair of shoe covers, the scalpel and the wipes. He then removed the second pair of gloves, slipped them into the top of the bag and sealed it. Picking up the organ transporter, he moved quickly to the front of the house. Crouching low, he checked the street. A young couple were walking towards him just two houses closer to Cowley Road. He ducked down. They passed by, the girl giggling.
As the couple reached the end of the street and turned out of sight, the Acolyte checked to left and right again. It was clear. He moved quickly but calmly over the low wall of the garden. Opening the boot of the Toyota with a key rather than the remote, he placed the organ transporter inside and used two leather straps to secure it in place. Then he laid the plastic bag next to it, closed the lid of the boot and walked around to the driver's door. Once inside, he removed his shoe covers and placed those in a plastic bag which he put on the seat. He cleaned his hands with a wipe and added this to the bag. Thirty seconds later he was driving towards the centre of Oxford humming along to a Beethoven piano sonata, feeling very pleased with his night's work.
Chapter 17
Oxford: the evening of 11 August 1690
It was six o'clock as the coach descended Headington Hill a mile beyond the city walls, and the weather was still unbearably hot. At the Bear Inn, a manservant carried Newton's case up the winding staircase and asked if he wanted a meal brought to his room. After he left, Newton could rest, enjoy the isolation and reflect on the past twenty-four hours.
He had ridden wildly out of Cambridge, thrashing his poor horse. But after changing mounts twice, first at Standon Puckeridge and again at Great Hadham, he had completed the journey in little over four hours, reaching the capital not long after midnight. As usual, he had travelled using the name Mr William Petty, and as such he had spent the next few hours at the Swan Tavern in Gray's Inn Lane in the City of London.
All through the journey and in the quiet hours in
London Newton had contemplated the task ahead of him, and had recalled time and again the horror that he had left behind in Cambridge. He still could not fully understand what had possessed Wickins. Maybe, he speculated, it was some power within the sphere that had this effect on some people. One thing he knew for certain was that the strange incident in his laboratory had exaggerated his already highly tuned sense of danger. Enemies could be waiting for him at every turn, he realised. He could trust no one. So, to help confuse any potential rival, any others who thought that they could steal the priceless orb, he determined to do everything he could to throw them off his scent. Having first ridden to the capital, he had decided that from there he would take the coach so that he would arrive in Oxford in the same fashion as most other travellers. The scratch on his face caused by Wickins still stung but there was little he could do to hide the welts. By wearing a subtle disguise, he would do all he could to keep himself to himself. Roused from a restless doze by a servant at 4 a.m., he had resumed his onward journey to Oxford, arriving in the city some thirteen hours later.
Now, here at the Bear Inn, Newton suddenly felt exhausted and needed to sleep, but excitement kept him awake and active. He swallowed some broth and read by the evening light, watching dispassionately as a rat scurried across the wooden floor. As arranged, at ten o'clock sharp he heard his friend approach along the corridor outside and tap quietly on the bedroom door. Walking to the door and opening it, he saw Nicolas Fatio du Duillier. With his black cascading curls du Duillier looked younger and more handsome than he had been in Newton's memory; and they had only been apart for three weeks. Newton beckoned him to enter and the younger man stepped forward, with a broad smile. The two embraced.
'Your face,' Fatio said, full of concern.
"Tis nothing,' Newton replied impatiently and turned away.
'You look distressed, my friend. Something has happened?'
'Some minor incident in Cambridge. Nothing with which to concern yourself, my good Fatio. Now, have you made ready?'
T have done my best, sir. It is not an easy thing you ask. The standard works bear little fruit, but I believe I have done as much as any man could. Landsdown and I have been here two weeks now, and we have harvested all that is required. I check the caskets daily and, although we cannot waste a second, I have faith that all will be well.'
Newton studied du Duillier's pretty young face. 'That is good news.'
'The treasure is safe?'
'Of course it is. Now, let us go through the procedure once more.'
Thirty minutes later they left the inn together.
It was a short walk to the college and they completed the journey in silence. There they were met by a third man whom they always referred to as Mr Landsdown. He was even taller than Fatio du Duillier, but muscular rather than slight. His hair was greying at the temples. They each gave a slight bow. 'It is good to see you,' said Landsdown. 'You have everything?'
Newton tapped his overshirt just below his left shoulder. 'All is well.'
'Then we should proceed. Follow me.'
; Landsdown led them across the quad and through a doorway that took them to a long narrow passageway with many doors to left and right. At the fourth door on the left the three men stopped. Landsdown removed a key from his breeches and turned it in the lock. Taking hold of the door handle, he eased it round and pushed gently.
Directly ahead of them stood another door. This was open and through it they could see a steep, narrow stone staircase leading down into darkness. At the top of the stairs a torch was positioned in a wall bracket. Landsdown lifted it and stepped forward into the opening.
They went down a short flight of steps and found themselves in a room filled with racks and shelves containing many hundreds of bottles of wine, port and brandy: the college wine cellar. Landsdown took them to the far end of the vault and stopped at the wall. It was cold and wet to the touch. Landsdown ran his palm slowly across the wall. He held the torch close to the stone but seemed to be guided more by touch than by sight. After a moment his hand stopped moving and his finger looped around a small dark metal ring, its circumference no greater than that of a guinea coin. He pulled it firmly and they all heard a sound like a heavy weight falling. Very slowly, a panel opened in the wall to reveal an opening no broader than a man's shoulders.
Landsdown turned to his companions. 'Well, gentlemen, our evening's work is about to begin. Are you ready to proceed?'
Chapter 18
At five a.m. Philip's house possessed a particular charm that had been largely absent from Laura's life for at least two decades. In Greenwich Village, five a.m. was not so very different from any other hour. From her apartment she could hear traffic noise, including sirens and the blare of car horns, throughout the day and the night. It was background mush and she only really noticed it when it was no longer there. Here, in this sleepy Oxfordshire village, in the pre-dawn, the cars of New York were as real to her as Pinocchio.
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