Equinox

Chapter 15

Detective Chief Inspector Monroe's office was as austere as the man himself. His desk filled a third of the room and it was empty except for a top-notch computer, a pair of phones and a tray of pens. There were no pictures on the walls and a single, almost dead spider plant dangled its leaves down the side of a filing cabinet. Two worn chairs were positioned at the corners of the desk facing Monroe's own low-backed PVC swivel chair. But it was none of these things that made the first impression: it was the smell, an unpleasant medley of fast-food odours. Evidently, Laura mused as she took the chair offered her by the DCI, Monroe was a man who thought proper lunches were a waste of time and resources.

A glass wall ran along one side of the room. It offered a view onto the open-plan area filled with workstations, its walls covered with charts. Monitors were flickering and computers were manned by uniformed policemen and plain-clothes officers who were drinking coffee, scrutinising screens, talking with

great intensity and leaning back in their chairs, feet on their desks. Others were surveying papers, running hands through their hair, scribbling on notepads, tapping on keyboards, talking and listening on the phone. It was 7.45 p.m. but it could have been any time of the day or night. The place was over-lit, noisy and abuzz with activity. Whatever the city, police stations, Laura knew from long experience, never slept.

It was almost with a start that she became aware that Monroe and Philip were staring at her.

'So, Ms Niven,' Monroe fixed her with his intense black eyes, 'you have some information that you think may help my investigation.' His voice betrayed only a hint of the scepticism and impatience she was sure he felt. Laura had met his type before — many times, in fact. Monroe was a stereotype, a Brit equivalent of the hardened career cops she had known during her time as a crime reporter. Guys like the detective chief inspector were impervious to most of the weapons she knew she could use to hold her own in male company, immune to the talent for persuasion and ability to get her own way that she could usually employ so effectively. At the same time, she was well aware that the Monroes of the world made the best cops. They were all men who appeared, on the surface at least, to have no home life, no emotional baggage, nothing to weaken or deflect them from the task in hand.

'Yes, I do,' she replied. 'And I think it's important.' 'Well, that is a relief.'

Glancing again at Philip to check his approval that she should tell the full story, Laura began to explain what she had discovered, about the search on almanac.com

and the expected conjunction. The DCI maintained an almost expressionless mask with merely an occasional frown to indicate that he was listening to her at all. When Laura had finished, he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. The sleeves of his jacket had ridden up and they looked so tight it seemed as though the fabric might split at any moment.

'Astrology.' The single word emerged rounded and pure Home Counties, the 'ol' like an echo in a hollowed-out oak. Monroe gazed up at the ceiling.

'I know what you're thinking. Sure, it does sound, well. . odd, I guess. .'

'You believe our killer is working to an agenda written in the stars, a crank who is murdering to a carefully designed plan.'

'Yes.'

'All because of these coincidences you've found?' Laura bristled.

'I know' Monroe raised a hand to silence her. 'I know, Ms Niven — you don't think they are coincidences.'

'Chief Inspector, I think these facts are more than coincidence,' Philip interjected. 'I don't have any faith in astrology, in case you're wondering. And I know that Laura is very sceptical too.'

'Look, Mr Bainbridge, Ms Niven. I understand what you're driving at. I realise that you don't need to be an astrology nut to decide that a killer is operating by the rules of the so-called art. But don't you think you're pinning rather too much on a set of facts that could be explained in any number of different ways?'

On the drive into Oxford, Philip had warned Laura that Monroe was not an easy man to convince of anything. In fact, he had added, he wasn't an easy man, period.

'Like what?' Laura challenged.

'The murderer might be laying a false trail. He might be making us think he is working to some cranky agenda just to piss us off. Or, simplest of all, as I said, it could just be a coincidence.'

'I don't buy either of those,' Laura said impatiently. 'I don't buy the idea that someone could plan a pair of murders that fit the data we've unearthed, only then to do something totally different. And I buy even less the idea that this data is nothing more than a set of coincidences.'

Through years of experience, Monroe had learned how to read people and how to get them to read in him what he wanted them to read. He couldn't help admiring this American woman. She had guts, but that did nothing to stop him resisting her theories.

'I understand the physics, Ms Niven. I realise that the astronomical facts, as opposed to the astrological interpretation, are quite irrefutable. But how accurate is the computer programme?'

Laura was thrown for a moment.

Monroe drove home his sudden advantage. 'Your entire theory hinges on accurate timings, linking the murders with the planets entering. . what was it? Aries, yes?'

'I have no reason to believe the website is anything but accurate,' Laura said.

'And what of the times of the murders?'

'Rachel Southgate was murdered between 7 p.m. and 8.30 p.m. on 20 March,' Philip replied. 'Jessica Fullerton the next morning, some time between 2.30 and 4.30.'

'Yes, but you know Forensics can't pinpoint the moment of death with the accuracy you need. Astrology appears to be a far more precise science.' Monroe gave a humourless smile.

'That's a crock, and you know it, Chief Inspector,' Laura retorted. 'There's more than a coincidence in all this. Besides, for God's sake, two young people have died. Do you have any better theories?'

She knew she had made a mistake as soon as the words left her mouth. Philip flashed her an irritated glare.

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.