'I did,' Hooke said almost as a whisper. 'But he would tell me nothing. The man has never liked me.'
Wickins failed to stifle a snort. 'Master,' Wickins said looking across to Boyle. 'I am devastated by my stupidity over this. But if I may be allowed a single expression of self-mitigation, it would be simply to say that even if we had held genuine suspicions about Newton's awareness of the ruby sphere, I would have found it almost impossible to believe that he had the knowledge to snatch the precious thing from under our very noses. Nor could I have brought myself to believe that he might know what to do with it if he had.'
'It was you, dullard, who was assigned the task of watching over the demon!' Hooke exclaimed.
'Gentlemen,' Boyle said, 'I have neither the energy nor the will to repeat myself this sorry morning. You must drop this malice, or else all may be lost. If you do not start to assume the mantle of intelligence and dignity, our friend Isaac Newton will have the better of us. And, make no mistake, he is a most formidable opponent.'
They fell silent for a moment. Wickins was suddenly aware of the sounds of the city coming through an opened window. It was almost nine o'clock and, although Oxford was virtually empty of students, the city remained alive with the noises of traders and street hawkers, of carts ambling along The High. Far off, the clatter of hammers and the crisp rush of saw against wood could be heard as builders worked on repairs to a college roof.
'What are your thoughts, Master?' Hooke refrained from looking in Wickins's direction. 'You know my feelings about Newton. He is piss-proud. Others know this to be true — some from bitter experience. But only a fool would deny his brilliance.'
'Your words are typically plain, Robert, but of course they are true. It pains me to say such a thing, but I fear we must assume the worst. Newton will be working with others. That is a necessity even he cannot avoid, however much he would naturally hate the fact. We must also assume that these men have been in this city a while and that, in spite of our failure to learn of such things, they have bloodied their hands. We all know what the ritual entails.' Boyle looked at each of the other men gravely.
'Gentlemen, through inaction we now face terrible danger. We must, each of us' — he fixed Hooke with a stare that would have made stronger men wither — 'do all that is within our power to thwart the Lucasian Professor tonight. Time is against us, my friends. We must begin our preparations immediately.'
Chapter 15
Detective Chief Inspector Monroe's office was as austere as the man himself. His desk filled a third of the room and it was empty except for a top-notch computer, a pair of phones and a tray of pens. There were no pictures on the walls and a single, almost dead spider plant dangled its leaves down the side of a filing cabinet. Two worn chairs were positioned at the corners of the desk facing Monroe's own low-backed PVC swivel chair. But it was none of these things that made the first impression: it was the smell, an unpleasant medley of fast-food odours. Evidently, Laura mused as she took the chair offered her by the DCI, Monroe was a man who thought proper lunches were a waste of time and resources.
A glass wall ran along one side of the room. It offered a view onto the open-plan area filled with workstations, its walls covered with charts. Monitors were flickering and computers were manned by uniformed policemen and plain-clothes officers who were drinking coffee, scrutinising screens, talking with
great intensity and leaning back in their chairs, feet on their desks. Others were surveying papers, running hands through their hair, scribbling on notepads, tapping on keyboards, talking and listening on the phone. It was 7.45 p.m. but it could have been any time of the day or night. The place was over-lit, noisy and abuzz with activity. Whatever the city, police stations, Laura knew from long experience, never slept.
It was almost with a start that she became aware that Monroe and Philip were staring at her.
'So, Ms Niven,' Monroe fixed her with his intense black eyes, 'you have some information that you think may help my investigation.' His voice betrayed only a hint of the scepticism and impatience she was sure he felt. Laura had met his type before — many times, in fact. Monroe was a stereotype, a Brit equivalent of the hardened career cops she had known during her time as a crime reporter. Guys like the detective chief inspector were impervious to most of the weapons she knew she could use to hold her own in male company, immune to the talent for persuasion and ability to get her own way that she could usually employ so effectively. At the same time, she was well aware that the Monroes of the world made the best cops. They were all men who appeared, on the surface at least, to have no home life, no emotional baggage, nothing to weaken or deflect them from the task in hand.
'Yes, I do,' she replied. 'And I think it's important.' 'Well, that is a relief.'
Glancing again at Philip to check his approval that she should tell the full story, Laura began to explain what she had discovered, about the search on almanac.com
and the expected conjunction. The DCI maintained an almost expressionless mask with merely an occasional frown to indicate that he was listening to her at all. When Laura had finished, he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. The sleeves of his jacket had ridden up and they looked so tight it seemed as though the fabric might split at any moment.
'Astrology.' The single word emerged rounded and pure Home Counties, the 'ol' like an echo in a hollowed-out oak. Monroe gazed up at the ceiling.
'I know what you're thinking. Sure, it does sound, well. . odd, I guess. .'
'You believe our killer is working to an agenda written in the stars, a crank who is murdering to a carefully designed plan.'
'Yes.'
'All because of these coincidences you've found?' Laura bristled.
'I know' Monroe raised a hand to silence her. 'I know, Ms Niven — you don't think they
'Chief Inspector, I think these facts are more than coincidence,' Philip interjected. 'I don't have any faith in astrology, in case you're wondering. And I know that Laura is very sceptical too.'
'Look, Mr Bainbridge, Ms Niven. I understand what you're driving at. I realise that you don't need to be an astrology nut to decide that a killer is operating by the rules of the so-called art. But don't you think you're pinning rather too much on a set of facts that could be explained in any number of different ways?'
On the drive into Oxford, Philip had warned Laura that Monroe was not an easy man to convince of anything. In fact, he had added, he wasn't an easy man, period.
'Like what?' Laura challenged.
'The murderer might be laying a false trail. He might be making us think he is working to some cranky agenda just to piss us off. Or, simplest of all, as I said, it could just be a coincidence.'
'I don't buy either of those,' Laura said impatiently. 'I don't buy the idea that someone could plan a pair of murders that fit the data we've unearthed, only then to do something totally different. And I buy even less the idea that this data is nothing more than a set of coincidences.'
Through years of experience, Monroe had learned how to read people and how to get them to read in him what he wanted them to read. He couldn't help admiring this American woman. She had guts, but that did nothing to stop him resisting her theories.
'I understand the physics, Ms Niven. I realise that the astronomical facts, as opposed to the astrological interpretation, are quite irrefutable. But how accurate is the computer programme?'
Laura was thrown for a moment.
Monroe drove home his sudden advantage. 'Your entire theory hinges on accurate timings, linking the murders with the planets entering. . what was it? Aries, yes?'
'I have no reason to believe the website is anything but accurate,' Laura said.
'And what of the times of the murders?'
'Rachel Southgate was murdered between 7 p.m. and 8.30 p.m. on 20 March,' Philip replied. 'Jessica Fullerton the next morning, some time between 2.30 and 4.30.'
'Yes, but you know Forensics can't pinpoint the moment of death with the accuracy you need. Astrology appears to be a far more precise science.' Monroe gave a humourless smile.
'That's a crock, and you know it, Chief Inspector,' Laura retorted. 'There's more than a coincidence in all this. Besides, for God's sake, two young people have died. Do you have any better theories?'
She knew she had made a mistake as soon as the words left her mouth. Philip flashed her an irritated
