'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.'
Chapter 28
Oxford: 29 March, 9 a.m.
As John Monroe turned along South Parks Road, he reflected how ugly the building that housed the Psychology Department was.
He had been up since before dawn, sifting through the details of the case. On his home computer he had reviewed, for what must have been the hundredth time, the essentials of the case. Four murders, almost certainly the same killer, someone working alone, almost definitely a man. And what did they have? A scrap of DNA, no match; in fact, no match to anyone on file anywhere, it seemed. And then there were the ritualistic aspects, the coins, the removed organs. Laura Niven and Philip Bainbridge were convinced of an occult connection. And then there were the murders of 1851. There had to be a link.
What did he know about those murders? Monroe had gone back through the files, had spent almost every spare minute for the past week going over all the details. Three girls and a male student had been murdered in the year of the Great Exhibition. An Irish labourer had taken the rap, but it was well known by crime historians that Professor Milliner had been intimately involved, that the man had connections with the occult, that he had been involved in some black-magic group, that the university authorities had closed ranks. Within a year of the murders, Milliner had taken a professorship in Turin and the Milliner family vanished completely from the Oxford scene. Now, with the recent murders, it had emerged that all the girls had volunteered for some tests at the University Psychology Department shortly before the start of the academic year.
Monroe drove into the car park. Ahead of him he saw Rogers getting out of his car close to the main doors of the building. But as he spun the steering wheel to slip in next to the inspector's car he was startled by a Morgan sports car backing out of a parking bay way too fast. Monroe glared at the driver, but he seemed oblivious to anything but the road ahead. With a jolt, Monroe realised that he recognised the face.
'I got his number,' Rogers said, as soon as Monroe joined him.
'It was Cunningham, I'm sure of it.'
Rogers looked startled. 'I'll run a check on the plate.'
'You do that/ Monroe snapped and turned towards the doors.
Outside term time the building was relatively quiet. The reception area consisted of a few chairs arranged around a table. Along one wall ran several rows of lockers and pigeonholes. Next to them there was a large noticeboard covered with posters for forthcoming gigs and sports programmes. Alongside these was an old copy of The Daily Information — a news-sheet that went out to every part of the city, announcing entertainments and exhibitions and listing private sales. Monroe strode to the desk where a fat woman in a floral dress sat studying a computer screen. After she had ignored him for twenty seconds he rapped his knuckles hard on the counter. She glared up at him.
'DCI Monroe, Thames Valley Police,' he said, flashing his ID. 'Here to see Dr Rankin — if it's not too much trouble.'
The woman seemed singularly unimpressed. 'C4. Lift over there. Don't think he's here yet. .'
'Yes, I am, Margaret.'
Monroe turned to see a tall, bony man, a faint smile breaking across his face. 'Arthur Rankin,' he said, shaking Monroe's hand. He acknowledged Rogers with a nod.
'You'll have to excuse Margaret,' Rankin said as he escorted them to the elevator. 'You get used to her after the first five years.' The lift had a strange, earthy smell and it took Monroe a moment or two to realise that the odour was coming from the professor.
'I meant to be here earlier,' Rankin said as the elevator came to a halt on the fourth floor. 'Bloody car wouldn't start. So I walked across the park — quite pleasant, actually. Didn't rain, for a change.'
Rankin's office was tiny, a paper-lined cocoon in white, brown and grey. The single mean window looked out onto a bleak concrete quad. There was not a glimpse of the famous dreaming spires. Rankin took off his coat and cleared some papers and books from the two chairs facing his desk. 'Please, sit down,' he said. 'Apologies for the mess -1 can never seem to get things straight in here.'
'That's OK, professor. No need to stand on ceremony. We just have a few quick questions,' Monroe replied as he settled into a chair.
'How may I help?'
'We're interested in the psych tests conducted on a list of forty-seven female students in late September last year. What can you tell us about them?'
For a moment Rankin looked puzzled. He had a high forehead and when he frowned, it looked like he was wearing a headband of worms. Then his expression brightened suddenly. 'Ah, you mean Julius Spenser's tests.'
Monroe said nothing.
Rankin gave a quick cough and began looking through some papers on his desk. Then he stood up slowly and walked over to a wall of shelves. Crouching down, he lifted a huge pile of folders and loose sheets and dumped them on his desk. Licking a fingertip, he began to riffle through the pile. A few moments later he stopped.
'Yes, knew it was here somewhere.' He handed a green folder to Monroe. 'Spenser was a clever chap, had plenty of good ideas.'
'Was?' Rogers asked.