Equinox

Chapter 34

Oxford: 30 March, noon

The police station was abuzz with activity as DCI John Monroe swung open the doors and strode in. In the reception area two officers were trying to restrain a drunken youth wearing a yellow-and-black football scarf and bobble hat.

'Coachload from Watford. Drunk as skunks,' explained PC Hornet as Monroe approached the desk. Monroe said nothing but slid some papers across the counter towards the duty officer. 'And there's a Mr Bridges in Room 3. Been here half an hour,' Hornet added. 'Also, a witness has come forward about the Lightman disappearance. Old lady reckons she saw the professor being dragged from a car by two men, just outside her house on Norham Gardens. Here's the report.'

Monroe waved a silent thanks and headed along the corridor off the main reception area. He glanced at the report but decided to save it for later. Entering

Interview Room 3, he saw Malcolm Bridges sitting at a table placed under a window on the far side of the room.

'Mr Bridges, I'm sorry for the delay.'

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.'