Equinox

Chapter 27

Oxford: the evening of 28 March

Sitting alone in the conference room of the Oxford police station, Detective Chief Inspector John Monroe watched the digital clock on the wall flick forward a minute to 10.04 p.m. He was not used to resenting the demands of his job but at this moment he did. By now, on his one free evening a week, he should have been heading home from the Elizabeth Restaurant in a cab with Imelda, the bright, engaging and attractive thirty-something physiotherapist he had met a month earlier. Instead, here he was, picking at the remnants of a Marks and Spencer sandwich that had seen better days and waiting for the arrival of three uniformly unattractive male colleagues.

Sipping at his stewed and bitter coffee, he tossed a screwed-up paper napkin onto the plate beside a half-eaten slice of bread and a few slithers of tomato, pushed his chair back and paced over to a whiteboard on the nearby wall. The whiteboard was

divided into four broad columns. At the head of each a collection of photographs had been taped into place and each column was filled with writing in different-coloured markers. The first column was headed with the words: 'Rachel Southgate'. The second column was titled 'Jessica Fullerton', the third: 'Samantha Thurow/Simon Welding'. At the top of the last column the word 'Miscellaneous' had been written in bold red strokes. He read the words he had put there earlier that evening:

Laura Niven/Philip Bainbridge Astrology/Alchemy? 1851 /Professor Milliner Coins Leather/Plastic

He heard the door open behind him. The forensics officer, Mark Langham, led the way, followed by a tall, thin man in uniform. He was in his late fifties but looked younger. His short white hair, pale blue eyes and chiselled cheekbones gave him a Teutonic look, and he exuded an authority that appeared effortless and had little to do with the bands of ribbon on his chest. Eighteen years earlier, when he had joined the force, DI Piers Candicott, as he was then, had been Monroe's first boss.

'Monroe,' Commander Candicott said as he entered the room. His voice was deep and surprisingly warm. 'I'm glad you could make this ungodly hour — couldn't do anything about the schedule, I'm afraid.'

The two men shook hands. 'That's quite all right, sir,' Monroe replied.

'John, this is Bruce Holloway, my press liaison officer — spends all his time on the phone to filthy journalists, I'm afraid, poor chap. But he gets things done.'

Holloway looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was a small man, no more than five-six, stocky and with unruly brown hair. He nodded at Monroe, his face quite expressionless, mumbled 'Hello,' and shook the DCI's hand.

Having chucked the remains of his supper into a waste bin, Monroe took the chair nearest the whiteboard. Candicott sat at the head of the table and Langham and Holloway took their places on the side facing Monroe.

'So, what's the state of play, then, Detective Chief Inspector?' Candicott asked.

'My team are working around the clock,' Monroe replied, returning the intensity of Candicott's gaze. 'We've been following a lead from some forensic evidence found at the scene of the second murder.' He glanced at Langham. 'So far, this has just taken us up blind alleys.'

'Nothing concrete, then?'

' Whoever's behind this will make a mistake before too long. They always do.'

'Well, let's hope it's sooner rather than later, John.'

'There is also the fact,' Holloway added, 'that the press are getting jumpy. Another murder and I think Wapping will relocate to the Banbury Road.'

Monroe had never yet met a press officer he liked, and although Holloway was meant to be a cop first and a 'liaison officer' second, to the DCI he had the same demeanour as the journalists and ghastly PR people he had met throughout his career.

'Well, thank you for that little reminder,' Monroe retorted, unable to keep the acid from his voice. 'I'll bear that in mind.' Turning to Commander Candicott, he added: 'Sir, at present I have twenty-two officers and forty-three ancillary staff working on this case. We are sifting through every piece of evidence, following up every lead and brainstorming every possible connection to these murders. After four murders in two days, the last was seven days ago. This has given us a breathing space, but in spite of what I said earlier, we are up against a very thorough, very. . professional killer.'

Candicott simply nodded wearily. 'Sir, if I might. .' Langham addressed Monroe as though he was the only other person in the room.

'We have something new from the lab.' He passed a single sheet of paper to Monroe.

'One of my team has found a trace of blood in the upstairs room of the house close to the river, the scene of the second murder. It doesn't match the victim or any of the family.'

Monroe studied the read-out from the DNA analyser.

'Unfortunately, we can't match the DNA to anything on the database either,' Langham added.

'Well, this is something, is it not?' Candicott's cold eyes were bright. 'I assume your team are back at the scene, going over every inch of the place again?'

'Naturally, sir,' Langham said.

'This is good news, Mark.' Monroe looked up from the sheet of paper. 'But no match, so he's not been through the system, never worked for a government body, never been in the armed forces. You don't need me to remind you that we need anything else your team can get — anything.'

There was a sudden knock on the door. Before Monroe could speak, a young officer stepped inside.

'I'm sorry to interrupt, sir.' The officer ignored everyone but Monroe. 'I thought this was too important to wait.'

'Spit it out, then, Greene. What can't wait?'

'It's this, sir. I've been working through the databases for the past two days and. . well, I got permission from the university to access their systems. It wasn't easy, but… I think it was worth it.' He handed Monroe two pages of closely packed writing.

'It's from the Psychology Department,' Greene added. 'A list of forty-seven female students who each attended what the department calls a Trial Day, apparently a set of psychological and physical tests, a week before the start of the academic year — late last September. All three of our dead girls are on the list.'

As Monroe approached the exit, he passed the office of one of his best men, Inspector Joshua Rogers, who was standing in the doorway with a young woman.

'Thank you for this, Miss Ingham,' Monroe heard Rogers say. 'We'll be in touch. One of my men will see you out. You have a lift, I take it?' The girl nodded and pushed open the double doors, heading for the stairs.

Monroe raised his eyebrows.

'That was Marianne Ingham,' Rogers explained. 'A student from St John's. She had this exquisite piece of artwork left in her pigeonhole at college.'

Monroe grimaced when he saw the picture. 'Does she know who did it?'

'She's not sure. Very jumpy — took her a week to come in to us with it. But she suspects someone in her year — a guy called Russell Cunningham.'

'Good. Check him out and let me know immediately what you find. I'm going home.'

Monroe's mobile rang as he was pulling into the driveway in front of his apartment.

'Thought you would like to see this straight away,' Rogers said.

Monroe switched off the ignition and lifted his phone from its cradle. A picture of a young man appeared on the screen. He was surprisingly handsome with longish curly blond hair, fine eyebrows, a delicate mouth.

'He has form, sir.'

The picture was replaced by a slowly scrolling page of writing.

'Rich kid. Daddy owns a chain of hotels. He was expelled from Downside when he was sixteen. Haven't been able to get to the bottom of why. Family's done a good job persuading the school to keep things under wraps. The father probably helped his son into Oxford — the Cunningham Library at Magdalen was completed last year, six months before the boy came up. There's more, though. Two complaints of sexual harassment from female employees at one of the family hotels in London where Russell was doing a stint. First one when he was seventeen, and then again last year. No charges pressed, cases dropped. Girls no longer employees.'

On screen there were precise dates, places, names.

'Good work, Josh,' Monroe said. 'Is Candicott still there with that goon from the Press Office?'

'No, they left just after you.'

'Good. Well, look, keep this quiet for the moment, but meet me first thing tomorrow at the Psych Department on South Parks Road. Have a word with Greene if he's still there. Get him to bring you up to speed.'