Equinox

by Michael White

  The young man began to get out of his seat.

  Monroe lowered himself wearily into the chair opposite. He leaned forwards with his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes. 'Professor Lightman. . you know him well?' he said.

  Bridges looked uncomfortable. 'Yes, yes. I, er, help him out at the library.'

  'And at his home?'

  'Yes, he pays well.' Bridges allowed himself a brief smile.

  'Quite,' Monroe said, his face blank. 'When did you see him last?'

  'Last night, about seven o'clock, at his house in

  'I know where he lives, Mr Bridges.'

  Bridges gave a nervous cough. 'Do you have anything new on his disappearance?'

  Monroe appraised the young man on the other side of the table. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit, but his long greased-back hair only emphasised his cadaverous look. He was unhealthily thin and his skin was exceptionally pale, as though he spent more time than was good for him in libraries and laboratories.

  'How long have you known Professor Lightman?'

  'About two years. I met him when I was working on my PhD. Before that I was at Cambridge.'

  'I see. And Russell Cunningham? How well do you know him?'

  'He's a first-year in the department, one of my charges for practical work. Not a terribly good student, to be honest — too many distractions. What's Cunningham got to do with anything?'

  'How well do you know him?'

  Bridges paused for a second. 'Not well at all. We meet up in my office once a fortnight so that I can assess his progress. Apart from that I see him around the department sometimes. I can't say he's my type, really.'

  Monroe raised an eyebrow. 'That's an odd thing to say'

  'To be honest, I think he's wasting his time in Oxford. Should be doing something in the City. I think he's here because of his daddy. Men like Nigel Cunningham send their sons to Oxford to enhance their own image. He's a trophy son.'

  'So, you don't really like the boy?'

  'I didn't say that. I just. .'

  'Resent people like him.'

  'I wouldn't even say resent… I find people like Cunningham uninteresting.'

  'OK,' Monroe said, with a sigh. 'Can you account for your whereabouts at the times of the recent murders?

  'WHAT?' Bridges looked utterly shocked. 'I thought you asked me here to help find Professor Lightman.'

  'I did. But we're exploring any possible connections. Russell Cunningham is a suspect. .' 'He is?'

  '. . And you work with him. You also work with Professor Lightman. Can you tell me where you were on 20/21 March between 7.30 p.m. and 3 a.m.?'

  Bridges fiddled with his ear lobe. 'I was in London throughout the day on the twentieth — a Monday, yes? I went to the Royal Society of Psychologists meeting on Pall Mall.'

  'And you were back in Oxford when?'

  'Around ten or ten-thirty, I think. I was in a room with at least fifty other psychologists at 7.30 p.m.'

  'What a dreadful thought. And what about the night of Wednesday, 22 March? Were you in Oxford then?'

  Bridges glanced down at the table. 'Wednesdays I supervise a 7.30 p.m. practical group, so I would have been working late at the Psychology Department, until about eight-forty-five, nine maybe.'

  'You had a class the Wednesday before last?'

  'Yes.'

  'And the class lasts an hour?' Bridges nodded.

  'Did anyone else see you there after eight-thirty?'

  'There were still a few people about after the class ended. Rankin left earlier, about eight, I think. He passed by the lab for a few words. The students always vanish almost immediately the class is over, but a few of the other post-docs were around.'

  'I see. So, technically, you could have killed the second and third victims.'

  Bridges turned pale. 'Why do you even suggest something so ridiculous?'

  'Your office is only a five-minute drive away.'

  'But that's absurd! Lots of places are only a five-minute drive away. Why would I murder anyone? What possible motive. .?'

  'Calm yourself, Mr Bridges. I didn't say you did commit the murders. I simply remarked that you could have committed them.'

  Bridges eyed Monroe with growing hostility. 'Is there anything else you want to ask me, Detective Chief Inspector?'

  'No, thank you, Mr Bridges. Not at this precise moment. You've been most helpful.' Monroe stood up. 'There is just one more thing you could do for us, though. Would you be so kind as to provide a DNA sample?'

  As Monroe left Interview Room 3, a junior forensics officer came in with a DNA test kit and walked over to where Bridges was sitting.

  It was quieter now in the corridor. Two football fans were being held in the cells and the rest had been sent back to Watford three hours before the game was due to start in Headington. On the way to his office, Monroe stopped at the main desk.

  'Hornet?' he called to the young PC who was sitting at a computer terminal.

  'Yes, sir?'

  'How are the interviews going with the female students?'

  Hornet checked a large notebook on the counter. 'Greene, Matson and Thompson are running parallel interviews in 4, 5 and 7. We've had in. .' he ran his finger down the page, '. . let me see. . ten, eleven.. fourteen girls, including the three in there at the moment.'

  'OK.' Monroe tapped the book with the tips of his fingers, lost in thought.

  Back in his office, Monroe was glad to close the door on the outside world. He felt unsettled by what was happening. His junior officers had been elated by what they had found at Cunningham's apartment the day before, but there was something not quite right about it. The kid was obviously disturbed, but that didn't make him the killer. Whoever had murdered the three girls and Simon Welding was a pro, not some pervy rich kid with too much time on his hands. And what was he to make of Bridges? The man was as jumpy as hell, but that just seemed to be the way he was. He didn't feel convinced that Bridges was hiding anything.

  Bridges could have committed the later murders, Monroe reasoned. But that didn't help; all the murders had been committed by the same person, surely? If Bridges hadn't carried out the first killing then he must be in the clear.

  And then Monroe started to think about what Forensics had thrown up. A piece of leather arid some plastic. No leads had come from those. Then there was the blood trace found at the scene of the second murder, but it couldn't be matched with anything on the police databases.

  Moving some papers from his desk, Monroe tried to find the report from the lab. It was at the bottom of a pile. The second page showed the read-out from the spectrum analyser, the DNA fingerprint from the tiny speck of blood found in the house close to where Jessica Fullerton's body had been found. He stared at the collection of lines and blocks of colour on the page. This was someone's profile, he thought to himself, the unique DNA signature of someone in this world, someone who was probably not far away from where he was sitting — someone living in this city. But without a record to match it against, it would be of little or no help.

  Monroe tossed the paper onto the desk and reached for the phone.

  'Hornet,' he snapped. 'Get me Howard Smales at MI5, a.s.a.p, and route the call through to my office.'

  He picked up the read-out from the DNA analyser again and was following the pattern of peaks and troughs when the phone rang.

  'Howard,' he said warmly. 'Yes, yes, it has been a while. . Oh, you know, same old thing. . Yes, I heard. . congratulations. So look, Howard, I was wondering if I could ask a favour. . Between you and me it is to do with the mur- Yes.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'Well, yes, I have a sample, but it doesn't match with anything on our. . No, I know. . Well, would you? No, no, I can get it over right away. . And. . yes, there is some urgency … I know, but that's the way the old team operates, I'm afraid. None of your government love-ins and not much dosh either. . No. . That would be great. . Thanks, Howard, I owe you one.'

  Chapter 35

  Near Woodstock: 30 March, 2 p
.m.

  Philip only managed to grab a couple of hours' sleep before he was needed at the police station in Oxford. Four hours later, after snatching a take-out chicken sandwich from a bakery near Carfax, he was driving back to Woodstock when his mobile rang.

  'How's it going?' It was Laura.

  'Oh, awake, are we?'

  She sighed down the line. 'Actually, I was up and about soon after you left. I went to James Lightman's house. I was hoping to catch Bridges, but he wasn't there.'

  'Apparently, Monroe's found a new link between the victims,' Philip said. 'I didn't see him myself, and everyone I spoke to was very cagey — seems like the DCI has locked down on this one. But all the murdered girls were the subjects of some sort of psychological profiling carried out by a research team at the uni last year.'

  'Really?' Laura sounded excited. 'Profiling? What kind. .?'

  'I couldn't get many details. Apparently, it was a voluntary thing, a day of tests in exchange for a fifty-quid book voucher or something like that. Forty or so girls took part.'

  'No names?'

  'Only Monroe and a couple of other officers have the list. . couldn't find out a thing. Everyone's clammed up. Where are you, by the way?'

  'Near your place, just coming into Woodstock.'

  'I'm not far behind you. See you at home.'

  A few minutes later Philip pulled into the drive. He was surprised to see Laura standing at the kitchen door. She looked harried.

  'What is it?'

  'You've had a break-in.'

  He followed her quickly through the dining room into the living room. His computer was in pieces that were scattered across the floor. Papers were strewn everywhere, bookcases had been overturned, a couple of his mother's paintings hung at odd angles. Philip sat down on the back of a sofa with his arms folded and surveyed the damage in silence before letting out a heavy sigh as he felt his anger mount.

  'I'm sorry, Philip,' Laura said suddenly

  'Sorry? Why?'

  'I was the one who dragged you into this mess.

  Me and my crazy ideas. And now everything Charlie left us has gone.'

  'What makes you think that?'

  'Well, just look,' she replied and waved at the mess. 'This wasn't done by a bunch of kids or an opportunist thief, was it?'

  'I'm sure you're right,' Philip replied. 'But you don't have to worry about Charlie's stuff. I had a feeling something like this might happen. . and I took the precaution of keeping it all with me. It's in the car.'

  Chapter 36

  Victoria Coach Station, London: 30 March, 5 p.m.

  Gail Honeywell, skin tanned, hair bleached blonde by Greek spring sun, dumped her rucksack on the floor of the waiting room at Victoria Coach Station, carefully avoiding the still-moist chewing gum and the dark smudge of what she hoped was chocolate. Fishing out her phone card she took two paces to the nearest payphone. Surprised to hear a dial tone, she keyed in her boyfriend's number and waited as the connection was made.

  'Ray,' she said excitedly. 'Hi, I've made it to London. Listen, I haven't got long on this card. No, it was great. Professor Truman is just so relaxed, and I think we did some good work. It's just … six weeks away is too long. I can't wait to get home. I can't wait to see you. .' Through the filthy, semi-opaque glass she could see coaches turning and reversing, passengers getting on and off. A

  uniformed driver passed by the door; the room was empty.

  'I'm catching the five-thirty from here. Should get into Headington about six-forty. No, look, you don't have to come to meet me — it's football night, isn't it?. . Yeah, yeah. No, Ray, I haven't. . what murders? No, God, really? Shit, you're kidding. And he knew her? Yeah, yeah. No, OK, if you really don't mind … No, silly. God, I've missed you too. I loved it, but I'm glad to be back.' She was quiet for a moment, listening. Then she said. 'Yeah, no, cool. Look, OK. . See ya. . love y-' And the card — expired.

  Gail replaced the receiver and picked up her bag just as a uniformed driver stuck his head round the door. 'You catching the five-thirty for Oxford, love?' he asked.

  Gail nodded.

  'Got a seat on the five-oh-nine if you want it. Old lady feels sick, decided to 'ave a cuppa tea and catch a later one — want it?'

  'Thanks,' she said. 'Great.'

  The Acolyte sat in the black Toyota outside the house where Raymond Delaware lived. That afternoon he had made the final decision to use Gail Honeywell. She did not have the ideal medical profile, but the other two choices were more problematic. Ann

  Clayton was in France for the Easter vac and at 7.14, the precise time for the procedure, Sally Ringwald would be in a room with six hundred other people during an award ceremony organised by the university's Theology Department.

  An archaeology student, Gail Honeywell had been in Greece for the past six weeks on a dig, but an hour earlier the Acolyte had confirmed that she had arrived back in Britain that afternoon. The admin officer of the Archaeology Department had verified that the entire team was returning today, and he had seen the record on the cross-channel-ferry database to which he had quite easily gained access. Then, using the tap he had planted two weeks before, he had listened to the call Gail Honeywell had made to Ray Delaware from a callbox in London. She would be getting off the coach at the junction of Headington Road and Marston Road in St Clements at around six-forty. That, the Acolyte knew, would give him some leeway. The coaches were fairly reliable, and he would be prepared.

  At 6.09 Raymond Delaware left the house on South Parks Road, earlier than the Acolyte had expected. It was no more than a mile and a half from the house to the bus stop, a route that would take him across the University Parks and along a quiet leafy lane called Mesopotamia Walk, which skirted a narrow tributary of the Cherwell. It was a favourite walk for the couple, and the Acolyte knew it well. On more than one occasion he had followed them along the path.

  The Acolyte watched Raymond Delaware head east along the street and cursed aloud. The young man wanted to get to the bus stop early. 'Missing his girlfriend, no doubt,' the Acolyte thought with disgust as he pulled away from the kerb and drove dangerously fast along South Parks Road. At the end, he turned right into St Cross Road and then into Manor Road, a dead end which led through an iron gate onto a meadow to the west of Mesopotamia Walk.

  He had less than ten minutes to prepare. Jumping out of the car, he had the presence of mind to make sure that he did not catch the pocket of his Ermanegildo Zegna jacket op the door handle. Then he paced round to the boot and withdrew a large zippered bag and an organ-carrier identical to the one he had used to transport Samantha Thurow's kidneys a week earlier. Keeping his head down to avoid being identified precisely by any nosy residents who might happen to be looking out of their windows, he headed for the gate.

  The Acolyte was exceptionally fit and although the organ-transporter weighed more than fifteen kilogrammes and the field was waterlogged he made good speed and found shelter among some trees. It was silent except for the sound of distant traffic and nearby birdsong. He checked his watch. It was 6.14 and the insipid sun was low in the cloudy sky. It would be dark within half an hour, but he didn't have that long. He would have to take some risks.

  He placed the box on the damp earth and unzipped the bag. It took him no more than a minute to dress in the plastic suit and to pull on the gloves and visor. The Acolyte checked his watch again and waited silently, slowing his breathing and calming himself by using the tantric exercises he had practised for many years.

  On the coach, squeezed in next to an overweight man in a business suit, Gail Honeywell had grown steadily more bored and uncomfortable. She read a novel half-heartedly and stared out of the window at the grey London suburbs before the coach reached the motorway, and then later at the green fields under a dull sky smothered by heavy dark clouds.

  Ten minutes onto the motorway and the man sitting next to her dozed off to sleep. He had a newspaper on his lap, and Gail lifted it gingerly and began to read. The big news story of t
he day was a threatened rail strike. This competed for attention with another scandal brewing in the royal family and the sexual indiscretions of a backbench Labour MP. On the dig, they had hardly seen a newspaper and had had no TV. The radio was all in Greek and none of the other students or lecturers had cared to know what was happening in the world beyond their little heaven in the dust of Athens.

  On page four she found a brief mention of the murders that Ray had described on the phone, but it told her little.

  Gail put the paper back in the man's lap and went back to staring out of the window. For a moment she missed the sunshine of Greece and the work she loved. But then she thought of Ray — kind, gentle Ray. If ever a man was husband material, he was, she mused. She couldn't wait to see him again.

  Raymond Delaware crossed the bridge over the Cherwell close to Parson's Pleasure, a gated and fenced-off stretch of the river which, for more than a century, had been reserved as a nudist sanctuary for the private use of the dons. It was quiet at this time; a dreary Friday evening. The clouds were heavy with rain and most of the students still in Oxford were either watching early-evening soaps on TV, making for the pub or grabbing a snack on The High or along Cornmarket Street.

  Ray had missed Gail more than he'd ever believed he would. The six weeks they had spent apart had seemed like an age. He knew now that she was someone special, someone more important than the other girlfriends he had had during his first two years at university. He didn't like to think too far ahead or to get too serious, but at the same time he could not deny his emotions.

  Within a few moments he had reached the wide tree-lined path that ran between the river on one side and the sodden fields on the other. Ray and Gail had walked along here on so many occasions. They loved it most in the deep winter, in January when it was freezing cold and they had to wrap up against the wind and the sleet. Last winter, Oxford had seen the heaviest snowfalls in anyone's memory and parts of the Cherwell had frozen over. This path had looked like a fantasy landscape, and even now, with the trees dripping wet and the air heavy with an approaching cloudburst, it still possessed an indefinable charm.