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.'
Chapter 35
Near Woodstock: 30 March, 2 p.m.
Philip only managed to grab a couple of hours' sleep before he was needed at the police station in Oxford. Four hours later, after snatching a take-out chicken sandwich from a bakery near Carfax, he was driving back to Woodstock when his mobile rang.
'How's it going?' It was Laura.
'Oh, awake, are we?'
She sighed down the line. 'Actually, I was up and about soon after you left. I went to James Lightman's house. I was hoping to catch Bridges, but he wasn't there.'
'Apparently, Monroe's found a new link between the victims,' Philip said. 'I didn't see him myself, and everyone I spoke to was very cagey — seems like the DCI has locked down on this one. But all the murdered girls were the subjects of some sort of psychological profiling carried out by a research team at the uni last year.'
'Really?' Laura sounded excited. 'Profiling? What kind. .?'
'I couldn't get many details. Apparently, it was a voluntary thing, a day of tests in exchange for a fifty-quid book voucher or something like that. Forty or so girls took part.'
'No names?'
'Only Monroe and a couple of other officers have the list. . couldn't find out a thing. Everyone's clammed up. Where are you, by the way?'
'Near your place, just coming into Woodstock.'
'I'm not far behind you. See you at home.'
A few minutes later Philip pulled into the drive. He was surprised to see Laura standing at the kitchen door. She looked harried.
'What is it?'
'You've had a break-in.'
He followed her quickly through the dining room into the living room. His computer was in pieces that were scattered across the floor. Papers were strewn everywhere, bookcases had been overturned, a couple of his mother's paintings hung at odd angles. Philip sat down on the back of a sofa with his arms folded and surveyed the damage in silence before letting out a heavy sigh as he felt his anger mount.
'I'm sorry, Philip,' Laura said suddenly
'Sorry? Why?'
'I was the one who dragged you into this mess.
Me and my crazy ideas. And now everything Charlie left us has gone.'
'What makes you think that?'
'Well, just look,' she replied and waved at the mess. 'This wasn't done by a bunch of kids or an opportunist thief, was it?'
'I'm sure you're right,' Philip replied. 'But you don't have to worry about Charlie's stuff. I had a feeling something like this might happen. . and I took the precaution of keeping it all with me. It's in the car.'
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.