Equinox

Chapter 19

After leaving the White Stag bookshop Laura tried Philip again, but still all she got was his answer service. Frustrated, she snapped her mobile shut. Part of her was almost ready to believe that Monroe was right after all and that the astrology stuff was just so much nonsense.

Five minutes later her phone rang. It was Philip.

'No news,' he said immediately. 'I have two missed calls from you. Sorry, my battery was flat. When are you getting back?'

She looked at her watch. 'As I'm here I might as well make a day of it. I'll probably catch a train about five-ish. Any chance of a pick-up?'

'No problem. Call me from Paddington.'

Laura caught the 5.29, which turned out to be a bad choice as it was stuffed with commuters. Fortunately, she had arrived at Paddington early and had found a seat; even so, she was jammed in for most of the journey and almost everyone on the train was getting off at Oxford. She allowed the rush of passengers to flow past her as they pulled into the station and she was one of the last to emerge from the carriage. She passed through the barrier, handed her ticket to the collector and saw Philip waiting for her at the door to the street.

'Something's happened, hasn't it?' Laura said, thrusting her hands into her pockets. She gazed down at her feet and took a deep breath before meeting his gaze. He put an arm around her shoulders and walked with her to his car, parked a few yards away. Their breath produced puffs of white in the chill air. It was a clear, starry evening and the temperature had dropped suddenly.

She folded herself into the passenger seat of the tiny old MGB and Philip turned the rather feeble heater to max.

'So tell me,' she said finally and sighed. 'And don't spare the grisly details.'

Philip started the engine and put the car into gear. Reversing out of the parking space, they joined the queue for the Botley Road. 'I would have phoned you,' he began. 'But I was only called in just over an hour ago, while you were on the train, and I thought it would be better if I. .'

'Sure, Philip, that's OK.' Laura gave him a weak smile. 'I'm not angry with you. I'm just. . fucking angry, period. So what happened?'

'According to Forensics, the murder occurred between eight and ten last night. A couple this time, otherwise exactly the same MO.' 'A couple?'

'Young lovers. Caught in flagrante.' 'And — don't tell me — the girl's kidneys were taken?'

'Yes.' He looked at her, a little surprised.

'I did some reading on the train: Ancient Astrology by Evaline Tarintara. Garbage, of course, but it contains some useful hints for following the thoughts of a believer. Venus, the planet that entered Aries last night, is linked with the kidneys. I imagine the killer left another coin — copper this time?'

Philip nodded. 'You're right. So how do the planets, dates and metals match up?'

'From what Tom found out, it looks like there are two more planets due to join the conjunction, Mars and Jupiter, and two more murders planned. According to Ms Tarintara's book, Mars is linked with iron and the gall bladder; Jupiter is associated. with tin and the liver.'

Philip nodded again but said nothing.

'So, this latest murder?' Laura asked matter-of-factly.

'Two students, house in East Oxford. They were having sex when the killer struck. Both victims had their throats slashed. The guy. .' He paused for a moment. 'Simon… Simon Welding, untouched after he was dispatched. The girl, Samantha Thurow, a beautiful. .' As they pulled out onto the main road, Laura could see the muscles in Philip's jaw tense.

'Her kidneys were removed with surgical precision. According to the lab guys there is not a single fingerprint or any DNA from the perp left at the scene — just like the first two.' He hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand suddenly, making Laura jump.

She looked out the passenger window, watching the buildings flash past. Ahead, a set of traffic lights had changed to red and Philip slowed to a halt.

'The bodies weren't discovered until early this evening. The couple were in a shared house. Two other students came back with their partners at about midnight. They went straight to bed and left for college this morning. It wasn't until after they got back from lectures that someone noticed bloody footprints on the landing carpet and leading from the couple's room. They hadn't heard anything from Simon and Samantha, and at about quarter to five they knocked down the bedroom door. The police arrived there just after five and I got the call about five-thirty.'

'Did the kids say when they last saw the victims?'

'They went out about seven.'

'Well, that doesn't help to narrow down the precise time of the murder, but surely Monroe believes me now?'

'I guess maybe he does,' Philip said. 'He wants us to go see him … at his house.'

Monroe's one-bedroomed apartment was in a massive house in North Oxford. It was the very opposite of his grubby little office at the police station. Furnished tastefully and decorated with style, it showed a completely different side to the man.

The sitting room was a high-ceilinged space with a fireplace, and there were real logs burning in the grate. Over the fireplace hung a huge modern abstract painting. The walls were painted a gentle green and a pair of cream suede sofas added warmth. The lighting was subdued and from a pair of expensive-looking speakers came the mellow strains of a Brian Eno album.

'Sit down,' Monroe said, gesturing towards one of the sofas.

'I know you think I owe you some sort of apology, Ms Niven,' he began. 'But I don't feel I do. However, I did want to thank you for the information you've given us.'

'You want to thank me? Is that it?'

'Well, what. .?'

'It strikes me that you had nothing much to go on in this case, Detective Chief Inspector. What Philip and I have told you may not have led to the killer — yet — but it deserves more than a mere thank-you.'

Now it was Monroe's turn to be confused. 'I'm sorry, I don't quite. .'

'You don't quite understand? Well, first, stop calling me "Ms Niven". My name is Laura. And second, I think I have earned a place in this investigation.'

Monroe stared at her, his black eyes even more intense than usual. 'Why should I do that?' he asked.

'I think that what Laura is saying,' Philip chimed in, 'in her typically charming way, is that she can help us. And, for the record, I agree with her.'

'And I have some more information which may be of use,' Laura said coldly.

'What sort of information?' Monroe could not disguise his growing irritation.

'Why should I tell you?' Laura replied.

'Because, Ms Niven, if you don't, I will charge you with withholding information pertinent to a murder investigation, that's why.'

'Look, for Christ's sake,' Philip snapped. 'This is ridiculous. You're both behaving like children.'

Monroe stood up slowly. 'Forgive me,' he said. 'I've been rude. Would either of you like a drink?'

Laura shook her head.

'No, thanks,' Philip said.

Monroe walked over to a walnut cabinet, removed a bottle of Scotch and a crystal tumbler and poured a small measure.

'I have every confidence in my men,' he said, 'and in my methods. Now, I would like you to apprise me of this new information, and of everything else you have found out about the case. And I will be happy to forget you ever threatened to withhold anything.'

Laura took a deep breath and met Monroe's gaze. 'Fine, Detective Chief Inspector. I have to cooperate, but at the same time you can't stop me conducting my own investigation into these crimes.'

'You're right, I can't. But equally, I can throw the book at you if you refuse to impart.valuable information or in any way hinder the work of my team.'

'Of course you can. But that won't happen.'

'And you say this friend of yours claims he has no idea about the contents of the manuscript?' Monroe said when Laura had finished.

'Apparently not.'

'And that is all you know?'

'It is.'

For a fleeting moment, Laura could see suspicion flicker across Monroe's face, but then it was gone. 'Well, thank you for this,' he said and drained his glass. 'If you'll excuse me, I have a massive amount of paperwork to get through.'

Philip gripped Laura's arm and shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning her not to argue. It was time to go.

Philip stepped into the car and unlocked the passenger door from the inside. Laura lowered herself into the bucket seat. He slipped the key into the ignition, but didn't start the engine. 'You didn't tell Monroe everything, did you?' he said.

Laura grinned and raised her eyebrows. 'You know me too well, honey.'

'What is it?'

She told him about the conspiracy theories and the murders of 1851.

'Just as well you didn't mention any of that. He'd probably think you'd finally flipped.'

'Yeah, you're probably right.'

'So what you going to do now, Holmes?'

'What do you mean?'

'After getting the bum's rush from Monroe.' 'Oh, that?' Laura snorted. 'People like Monroe just make me more determined than ever.'

From the window of his living room, John Monroe watched Philip's car pull out of the driveway. Then he refilled his glass and sat down in one of the sofas.

It was just his luck, he mused, that he should be landed with this pushy American who was opening up a whole can of writhing worms. But then, he had to admit, what she had unearthed was compelling. It was just that there were areas he had cordoned off in his mind.

How many years had it been now since that last incident? He cast his mind back. It must have been 1989. He had only been a police officer for two years by then. Yes, it was late in '89, the year when he and Janey had married. Cecilia Moore was the woman who had nearly destroyed his career before it had even started properly. She had been a clairvoyant, or at least that was what she and her followers claimed. She had been called in to help find an eighteen-year-old girl, Caroline Marsden, who had been missing for three weeks. He had been young, naive and optimistic, and he had also quite fancied Cecilia. He had put too much trust in the woman and her powers, and he had wasted valuable police time and resources after convincing his superiors that this medium could lead them to the missing girl.

Cecilia had made a big show of 'sourcing' Caroline Marsden, using what she had called 'remote viewing' to give clues to the police about where the girl would be found.

Monroe had been given too free a rein, he knew that now, but it was still no excuse. Believing Cecilia Moore's descriptions of where Caroline was being kept alive in a basement in Ealing, he had charged in only to find that the place was home to a retired couple from Bangalore. Caroline was found two weeks later — or, at least, enough of her had been found on a waste dump under the Hammersmith flyover for Forensics to flag a positive ID.

Promotion had come painfully slowly for the first five years after that, and Monroe had only survived through sheer stubbornness and determination. That struggle had ruined his relationship with Janey; they had split in 1993, childless after just four years of marriage.

He sipped his Famous Grouse and contemplated the fire. Could he let himself be drawn back into the occult again? Almost all the CID guys and uniforms who had mocked him behind his back last time round were either retired or working in other forces in other cities; the one or two who could remember Cecilia Moore wouldn't dare say anything this time. But it wasn't that: it was the principle of the thing. Monroe realised that he had no need to believe in this astrology junk himself for it to be the genuine motivation for the murderer, and he knew that Laura Niven and Philip Bainbridge were not cranks. In fact, he had to concede, they were both intelligent and well-meaning people whom he would probably have rather liked if he had met them under different circumstances.

And, of course, there was another factor, something he had not yet shared even with his team. He knew his local police history inside out: it had been one of his hobbies when he'd been a teenager. These murders bore a remarkable similarity to a long-forgotten case, the slaying of three young women and a male Oxford University student more than one hundred and fifty years earlier, in 1851.

Monroe put his glass down and paced over to the new Mac that he had bought only the previous week. He gave the mouse a nudge and the computer snapped out of hibernation mode. Going to a search engine, he paused for a second or two, thinking back to his meeting with Laura and Philip at the police station the night before. What had Laura called that website? Then he remembered and, in two-finger style, he tapped in almanac.com

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