Equinox

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 the 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.

There was a sound behind him like the crack of a twig. Turning round, Ray felt a sudden burning sensation in his neck. Startled, he grabbed at his throat. Blood gushed between his fingers and for perhaps a second he simply stared at the red liquid. Then his head was yanked back. The branches of the trees whirled through the air in front of him and he began to choke. Blood ran across his face and into his nose and eyes, blinding him. He lost his balance and seemed to float in the air for a brief moment, a moment filled with a blend of panic and confusion before he landed heavily on the ground, his head smashing painfully against a rock. He tried to turn, to scramble to his feet, but a hand was pushing down on his face. Then came another stab from what felt like a molten hot dagger. It sent more tremors through him, screaming around inside his head.

Somehow, Ray managed to lift a hand and wipe it across his eyes. He caught a glimpse of a figure leaning over him but its face was a featureless mask. He began to shake uncontrollably. The shadowy figure straightened up and peered down at him. Then everything went black.

Gail watched the coach pull away and checked her watch. It was 6.21. She was twenty minutes early Her legs felt stiff and it was good to fill her lungs with fresh air. Too excited to wait at the bus stop for Ray to arrive, she decided to head for the lane leading to Mesopotamia Walk. Ray was bound to be early and she would meet him on the path — it would be romantic. Maybe they would have a real Hollywood moment of kissing under the trees, she thought, and smiled to herself as she heaved the rucksack onto her back. She turned from Marston Road left into the lane, a short walk that would take her to the first of two small bridges across narrow tributaries of the river: Passing the old mill on her right, she would soon be on the broad path alongside the river, where she was bound to see Ray heading towards her.

It started to rain and Gail quickened her pace. Grossing the second bridge, she ran for the cover of the trees and then made a dash for the mill. The huge wooden wheel, a relic of the Industrial Revolution and now part of an English Heritage site, stood still, and water swept through the unmoving blades. The rain was falling in great torrents now, spattering on the path and the trees, competing with the sound of the water racing by through the lock and the narrow waterway that ran beside the mill. Pulling her rucksack up a little to relieve the ache in her shoulders, Gail turned a sharp bend on the path and kept her head down against the driving rain.

Something made her look up. Ten yards ahead was a surreal tableau. What looked like a sack smeared in red lay on the ground, and standing over the object was a man in a glistening wet one-piece plastic suit. A perspex visor obscured his face and a hood covered his head. She could see in the man's hand a tapered metal object that glinted in the feeble light.

For perhaps two seconds Gail stood frozen to the spot. Then, in a sudden rush of understanding, she realised that the sack on the floor was Raymond — his body, lifeless, soaked in blood. The man in the plastic suit had spotted her.

Gail Honeywell yanked the rucksack from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Turning on her heel, she was driven by a primal fear, horror welling up in her throat. She ran as fast as she could back towards the path beside the mill. It was almost enough to save her. But the Acolyte's reactions were faster. In the time that it had taken Gail to realise what was happening and to shrug off the heavy rucksack, the Acolyte had almost covered the ten yards between them.

Gail made it to the bridge. Drawing in huge breaths, she ran faster than she had ever run before in her life. Adrenalin pumped through her veins. She leaped onto the bridge, grabbing for the rail to steady herself. But the wooden slats of the structure were soaked with rainwater. Halfway across, her right foot landed on a patch of mud and she slid along the planks. She almost managed to retain her balance, but just as she thought she would make it to the grass on the far side her legs gave way. She crashed down onto her back and felt a shudder of pain rip through her as she collided with the railings.

The Acolyte was on her in seconds. He grabbed her wrists as she kicked and struggled. Gail managed to bite his arm, but her teeth met only resistant plastic. He pinned her to the floor with his knee. She tried to scream, but she couldn't gather her breath. A raw animal grunt came from the pit of her stomach. Rifling through his oversuit pocket, the

Acolyte pulled out a roll of thick tape. With practised fingers, he wound the tape roughly around the girl's wrists and slapped a strip across her mouth. With his knee still pushing down hard on her chest, he wrapped more tape around her ankles.

Standing up, the Acolyte looked down at Gail Honeywell, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. At this close range she could just see it through the visor. Then he looked at his watch. It was 6.31. He had to wait forty-three minutes before he could begin the procedure, which meant that the girl could be allowed to live a little longer. He felt a thrill of excitement shoot up his spine. 'Time enough to have some fun,' he said under his breath.