Michael White - Equinox

Monroe remained silent as he leafed through the material and handed it to Rogers a page at a time.

'So, I take it Spenser wasn't working on his own?'

'No, no. He was always there, of course, a good supervisor with excellent management skills. He had three assistants for the tests and then another three, young female post-docs at the hospital conducting the ah. . body searches.' He gave the policemen a lopsided grin. 'Analysis of the results was done by young Bridges.'

'Bridges?'

'Malcolm, Malcolm Bridges — on his way to becoming a fine psychologist, that one.'

'And Malcolm Bridges works here?'

'Yes, but he spends all his spare time at the Bodleian with Professor Lightman, the Chief Librarian. He's a dedicated young chap. Don't honestly know how he fits it all in, actually.'

'Is he here at the moment?'

'Should be. Let me think. It's Friday' He looked at his watch. 'I'll buzz him.' He picked up the phone and tapped in three numbers. 'Nope, not there yet, I'm afraid.'

'No problem.' Monroe stood up. 'We'll get in touch with him. I'd be grateful if we could take this file with us, Dr Rankin. We'll guard it well, and make a copy.'

'Yes, yes, certainly,' Rankin said quickly. 'Is there anything. .?'

'Yes, actually, there is one other thing, Dr Rankin. Do you have anything to do with a young man named Russell Cunningham?'

Rankin looked at him blankly.

'I saw him earlier, leaving the car park in a very flash sports car.'

'Cunningham? Yes, yes, indeed. I can't say I know the boy, he's a first-year. Seen him in his car, of course, who hasn't?' Rankin laughed.

'You've probably heard of his father,' Rogers said.

'Quite right, yes … the library man, the famous philanthrope. Come to think of it, I think Bridges is Russell's supervisor. But what's he got to do with anything?'

Monroe extended his hand, ignoring the question. 'Thank you very much for your time, Dr Rankin. And for these.' He tapped the folder clutched to his chest.

Monroe and Rogers exited into unexpected bright sunshine. Beyond the car park they could see rugby goalposts and a squad of players in hooded tops running around the field.

'I want to see Malcolm Bridges at the station a.s.a.p.,' Monroe said. 'Get back to the station and drag Greene away from whatever he's doing. I want him to go through this list of girls. I want to know the whereabouts of all of them and I want each of them interviewed, understand?'

Rogers nodded.

'Meanwhile, I'll get a warrant. I think it's time to pay Mr Russell Cunningham a little visit, don't you?'

Oxford: 29 March, 11.05 a.m.

In the golden days described by Evelyn Waugh, when Sebastian Flyte and his teddy bear Aloysius came up to Oxford they chose to reside in a suite of rooms on the ground floor of Tom Quad, Christchurch, where his lordship had the walls painted in duck-egg blue upon which he placed delicate Chinese lithographs. The best part of a century later, a few undergraduates who came from an entirely different social bracket from the Flytes (but possessed comparable amounts of disposable cash) preferred greater independence from the university. So they had their parents buy them apartments — costing upwards of a quarter of a million pounds — overlooking the Cherwell and located close to the amenities of central Oxford.

Yuppie hutches such as these came with piped vacuuming (to make the maid's life easier) and subterranean garaging for three cars. It was in just

such a place that Russell Cunningham was enjoying his first year at Oxford University. He found it a perfect place to entertain, and considered it to be an entirely appropriate pad for the only son of one of Britain's wealthiest self-made entrepreneurs, Nigel Cunningham, who was known among the Oxford snob class (who were happy to accept his multimillion-pound donations) as 'the Library Man'. This was an epithet always delivered with heavy sarcasm because, in spite of the fact that Cunningham had recently financed the building and the stocking of the university's largest library, anyone who was anyone in Oxford assumed that the only books in Nigel Cunningham's home were ones that you coloured in.

Monroe was on his way out of the police station when Inspector Rogers called from his car parked outside Cunningham's apartment. 'I think you'd better get over here, sir. You'll think it's your birthday and Christmas rolled into one.'

Five minutes later, Monroe was pulling up outside an exclusive apartment block just off Thames Street and opposite the Head of the River pub. Rogers met him as he stepped out of the car.

'Just look at this frigging place,' Rogers muttered. 'I couldn't get close to this on an inspector's salary, and some snotty-nosed eighteen-year-old kid brings his girlfriends back here in his sodding Morgan.'

Monroe grinned. 'Never had you down as the bitter type, Josh.'

'Yeah, well,' Rogers replied, shaking his head. 'I think we might bring the little bastard down a peg or two.'

Monroe stared at him, his eyes narrowing. 'Lead the way,' he said and followed his junior officer to the doors of the apartment block.

Two uniformed officers were waiting for them in the hall outside Cunningham's apartment. Monroe and Rogers crossed the polished concrete floor, and entered a vast living room where they could hear an Oscar Peterson track spilling from a pair of oversized Bang and Olufsen speakers. The wall opposite the entrance was an expanse of glass with views over the Cherwell and the sandstone spires of Oxford. In the foreground, the two detectives could see the sun-splashed tower of Christchurch Cathedral. For some reason, at that moment Monroe recalled a tale about Oxford that he had heard when he had himself been an undergraduate here. Apparently, glider pilots and balloonists loved flying over the city, not just for the views but because there were always good thermals. The jokey explanation for this was that the thermals were produced from the hot air of the dons, but the real reason was the ubiquitous sandstone which reflected the heat of the sun.

Russell Cunningham was reclining in a black leather George Nelson chair close to the window. A police officer was standing close by. Cunningham was tall, blond, handsome and tanned from what Monroe later learned had been a brief but extremely pleasant skiing holiday in Andorra, from which he had returned two weeks earlier. Dressed in designer jeans and a black V-neck cashmere sweater, he looked every inch the pampered son of a billionaire. He stood up as Monroe strode in, but the DCI ignored him and followed Rogers through the room to a corridor beyond.

Three doors led off the corridor; one of them was ajar. Monroe followed Rogers into a small window-less room lit by a single dull red bulb in the ceiling. Shelves were filled with CD cases. Against the far wall were two flat-screen monitors and in front of them was a small console. Above the monitors the wall was covered with pornographic images, a sordid collage of young women tied up, mutilated, disfigured.

Monroe looked at the scene, his face betraying no emotion. Rogers leaned over the console. 'Our boy's certainly having fun here,' he said wryly.

'What exactly is this stuff?'

'State-of-the-art cyber-porn,' Rogers replied. 'He's got web cams set up all over the place — girls' college rooms, the gym showers, ladies' toilets, East Oxford student houses. He keeps careful records, too.' He waved a hand toward the stacks of discs on the shelves. 'Looks like we've struck gold.'

'Maybe,' Monroe replied. 'Let's take him in. We'll leave this stuff here. Get a couple of tech guys to go through it, OK?'

Monroe returned to the living room, his mind racing.

'Perhaps you could explain what all this is about?' The young man had a mid-Atlantic twang to his voice.