Michael White - Equinox

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.'

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.