He yelped, tried to free his hand and lost his balance. It was all the police marksmen needed. Two shots rang out and Lightman fell to the ground, clutching his chest.
Monroe was across the room in an instant. As he reached the pentagram two more officers arrived.
'Jones, get me the paramedic kit,' Monroe shouted.
The other policeman ran over to Lightman's body.
'See to this man immediately.' Monroe pointed to Bridges. 'Get him to the surface and call the paramedics on the way — as soon as you have a signal.' Then he turned to Laura and Philip. 'You two OK?'
Laura's face was drained of blood and her whole body was shaking. 'Jo. . You've got to save Jo,' she gasped.
Monroe looked confused. 'What. .?'
'Jo's the last target,' Philip said, his voice shaky. 'Our daughter — she'll be at my house in Woodstock. The killer's on his way.'
Monroe didn't hesitate. 'Harcourt, Smith,' he yelled to the two officers who had entered the room with him. 'You need to get back to the surface immediately' He turned to Philip. 'What's the address?'
'Somersby Cottage, Ridley Street. It's directly off the High Street, two down from the post office.'
'Tell all units: extreme caution,' Monroe snapped. 'The suspect is armed and highly dangerous.' Then he walked round the back of the pentagram and cut the tape. Laura and Philip jumped to their feet, rubbing their wrists.
'We've got to get out of here,' Laura croaked, her heart thudding in her chest.
'We can deal with this, Laura,' Monroe insisted. 'I hope so. But there's no way I am hanging around here.'
One of the policeman crouching beside Lightman straightened up. 'He's dead,' he announced.
Laura didn't even stop to look at Lightman's corpse as she ran for the door, followed by Philip and Monroe. On his way Philip caught a glimpse of Bridges struggling to sit up. Jones had a tourniquet above the man's knee and an oxygen mask over his face.
'Thank you,' Philip said as he rushed past.
Monroe led the way, turning left through an archway with a curved ceiling illuminated by crystals.
'How did you manage to find us?' Philip asked as they ran.
'You have to thank our friend Malcolm Bridges for that,' Monroe replied.
It took them several minutes to reach the surface. Monroe had to stop a few times to check the map that Bridges had sent him earlier. The tunnels twisted and turned but followed a gentle upward slope. It was exhausting, but they couldn't waste a second. They kept going even as Monroe took out his intercom. One green light showed on the signal indicator. He stabbed at the call button.
'Harcourt? You on the road? Good. All units
heading for Woodstock. Right, listen, the suspect is one Julius Spenser. Get Smith to run a profile en route. We know he's a highly trained assassin. He'll be well armed.' Monroe took several deep breaths as he ran and felt a pain in his chest. Must get back to the gym, he thought. 'We'll be there as quickly as we can. Jenkins will supervise until I get there; he's on his way'
As they turned the final corner they were confronted by a heavy oak door. But there was no need to follow any unlocking code: it was open. Monroe led the way into Lightman's office. They traversed the room with barely a glance around them, passed two police officers standing in the corridor beyond, and a few seconds later emerged into the chill night air. Monroe's car was close to the main doors. Philip and Laura jumped into the back as the DCI took the wheel and raced onto Parks Road, heading north towards Woodstock. Behind them they could see the lights of an ambulance pulling up outside the main entrance to the library.
Chapter 45
Woodstock: 30 March, midnight
The house was in almost total darkness as the Acolyte parked his black Toyota in the driveway that curved round the back of the house. A light was on in the kitchen and this cast a faint glow across the path that ran under the window. He knew that the only people in the house were Tom and Jo. Almost three hours earlier he had seen Laura and Philip enter the Trill Mill Stream, then he had met with the Master before leaving for St Giles and Jo's college. He had watched Jo emerge from the main gate with her boyfriend at 10.45. Then he had followed their car north out of the city and along the road to Woodstock. There he had observed them entering the house before he'd driven a short distance to wait in a nearby lane.
This would be the final harvesting: a liver from Jo Newcombe. With this task accomplished he would make all haste to Oxford where he would stand beside his Master as they performed the ritual. By the morning, their work would be complete.
The Acolyte turned the handle of the kitchen door. It was locked. Lowering the organ-transporter to the floor he opened a pouch in his plastic oversuit, removed a long needle-like implement and slipped it into the lock. A moment later the door was open and he stepped inside.
He could hear sounds coming from a nearby room. He had been here earlier in the day and knew the layout of the house. He crept across the darkened dining room to a door that led onto the narrow hallway. He opened the door very carefully. Everything seemed to creak and groan in this old house. In the hall he could hear more clearly the sound from the TV in the large sitting room directly ahead. To his left there was a winding narrow staircase. He traversed the hall. The door to the living room was open, but only a crack. He eased it back on its hinges.
A lamp glowed in the corner near the door, but the flickering light from the TV was the only illumination at the far end of the room. Jo and Tom were sitting close together on the sofa, lost in an old movie. The Acolyte caught a glimpse of the actors, black-and-white images, a couple kissing through the window of a train carriage, steam billowing around them. Brief Encounter , he thought. How apt.
He checked his watch. It was time. He lowered the transporter to the floor with exaggerated care and silently withdrew a scalpel from a pocket in his sleeve. The long, horribly sharp blade caught the light and glistened for a fraction of a second. He took a step forward, but as his foot came to rest on the floor an old wooden board creaked. Jo and Tom spun round.
The Acolyte was fast, but Jo and Tom were faster. They were off the sofa before the killer had taken two steps. Jo screamed and fell back behind Tom who was gripping a cricket bat. The Acolyte did not pause. He came straight for them, the scalpel held out in front of him. Tom and Jo backed against the wall. Jo was ashen-faced, her eyes wide. Tom was trying desperately to keep his nerve and took a wild swing at the Acolyte. He missed. Jo screamed again and grabbed at Tom's shirt, ripping it. They started to back towards the door. The Acolyte grunted with impatience and made another rush towards them. Tom swung the bat again and it came down hard on the Acolyte's arm. The killer howled and the scalpel dropped to the floor.
Jo and Tom had gained a second and dashed for the hall. Jo grasped the handle to the front door and tugged. It was locked. She cursed.
'Upstairs,' Tom yelled and he pushed her ahead of him. He started to back towards the narrow stairs just as the Acolyte emerged from the living room. The killer now had the scalpel in his left hand. His right arm hung limp at his side. Tom caught a glimpse of the face behind the perspex visor. The eyes were featureless black circles, the face a waxwork doppelganger of a living human.
Jo sped to the stairs and Tom was close behind. They took the stairs two at a time and Tom swung again at the Acolyte who expertly dodged the bat, letting it slam against the banisters and the wall, where it took a chunk out of the plaster.
'The bedroom,' Tom shouted as they reached the landing.
The Acolyte was at his shoulder and Tom swung at him once more. This time the bat made contact with the Acolyte's shoulder, a glancing blow that barely slowed him. Tom flailed again. He missed and the bat caught between two banister struts and slipped out of his grasp. In the split second before he started to run, Tom looked again into the eyes of the Acolyte. All he could see there was his own death.