here. It smells bad, you know?'
Philip nodded.
'God, it really is frustrating. There must be more on these murders.'
'Maybe, but I doubt you'll unearth any more detail than you have here.'
They fell silent for a moment and Laura looked at the screen where the last report was still on display. Then, suddenly, she said: 'What about police records? Surely there must be an official report on the murders?'
'From 1851?'
'Well, why not?'
'I suppose it's possible. It wouldn't be here in Oxford, though. The police station was rebuilt in the 1950s, and with the amount of paper that place gets through each year I can't imagine they keep records more than ten years, at most.'
'But the records must go somewhere.'
'Yes, they do,' Philip replied. 'The Public Records Office in Kew.'
'Would they be computerised?' 'I doubt it.'
Laura was about to reply when her phone bleeped. Looking at the screen she saw that she had an SMS. 'It's from Charlie,' she said. 'He says he has some new information on the manuscript. Wants to meet us at his shop at four o'clock today.'
Chapter 23
As Laura and Philip left the library the heavens opened. They ran for the multi-storey where Laura had parked earlier. By the time they got there they were both soaked.
'Leave your car at the police station until we get back from London,' Laura suggested. 'We'll take this. It's warmer, faster. . and a whole lot drier.'
Philip shrugged. No matter what he said, Laura, he knew, could never be made to appreciate the beauty of vintage sports cars like his beloved MGB, a car first built in a tiny workshop off Longwall Street — less than half a mile from where they now stood.
The roads out to Woodstock were barely visible through the downpour. It was not yet midday but the sky was almost black and the street lights had come on. Headlights rushed towards them through the curtains of rain and, to the irritation of those behind her, Laura took things particularly slowly. Forced, as she put it, to drive on the wrong side of the road,
she was taking no chances. By the time they reached the house in Woodstock, she felt exhausted with the effort of concentrating so hard on the road ahead. She was seeing white spots in front of her eyes.
She pulled in as close as she could to the back door and made a dash for the shelter of the porch as Philip fumbled for his key. He slipped it into the lock, but the door was already open. They both walked into the kitchen.
'Hello?' Philip called.
'In here.' It was Jo's voice.
A fire was blazing in the living room and a Django Reinhardt track beat melodically from Philip's iPod, which he had hooked up to a pair of speakers. Jo was sitting on the sofa next to another young woman. Philip recognised her vaguely. The girl was sobbing and Jo was trying to comfort her.
'What's happened?' Laura asked. 'Jo?'
'This is Marianne — she's in my topology group.' The young woman looked rather embarrassed and wiped the tears away.
'I don't mean to cause. .' she began. She had an exceptionally high-pitched voice, the voice of a little girl.
'Don't be silly,' Jo replied. 'Mom, Marianne found this in her pigeonhole at college.' She handed her mother a sheet of paper.
It was a computer-manipulated image, Marianne's head superimposed on a pornographic photograph of a nude model spreadeagled on a bed. Her hands and feet had been tied to the corners of the bed with thick rope. Using some sophisticated computer software someone had simulated a huge rip the length of the woman's abdomen, and a portion of her intestines was spilling from the gash. Above the picture in bright red lettering was written:
'Do you have any idea who might have done this?' Philip asked.
'No, no, not really'
'Not really?'
'Well, there is one creepy guy in our year.'
'He's a real lech — a really serious lech, actually,' Jo added. 'Russell, Russell Cunningham. He's a psychology student but comes to some of our stats classes. Handsome, in a sort of pukey Ricky Martin kinda way, but really creepy. He's always looking at me as if he's mentally undressing me. Not nice.'
'Has this guy ever tried it on?' Laura asked Marianne.
'I don't think he'd have the nerve to actually do anything,' Marianne replied.
'You may be right,' Philip said. 'But I don't think you can go accusing anyone. You certainly have to report this, though, Marianne. I don't want to frighten you,' he added carefully. 'But it may have some bearing on the current murder investigation.'
Marianne turned visibly pale.
'I did think that myself, but I didn't like to say,' Jo said. 'I haven't been into college since the accident, and it's the Easter vac, but everyone left in hall is totally psyched-out by what's happening.'
'I know at least two girls who've gone home to their parents until the whole thing blows over. They would normally have stayed in Oxford to work through the holiday,' Marianne added.
'I can't say I'm surprised,' Laura said with a sigh and sat down in an armchair across from the sofa. 'I think you all have to be especially careful.'
'You kinda get used to this sort of thing in New York,' Jo remarked. 'But I don't know, I thought Oxford would be. .'
'Oxford's a pretty place, no doubt about that,' Philip said. 'But the people are fundamentally the same as those who live in the Bronx — or in Timbuktu, for that matter.'
'So you think I should take this horrible picture to the police?'
'I think you have to.' Philip did not hesitate. 'It's probably nothing more than a sick joke, but Forensics will want to have a look, just in case.'
Chapter 24
The Public Records Office is a modern brick building surrounded by luxuriant and beautifully maintained gardens in the upmarket district of Kew on the south side of the Thames in west London. Here an average house is worth as much as an entire street of terraced cottages in Sheffield, and the demographic is skewed towards the As and Bs as defined by disposable income and career status. By London standards at least, the tree-lined streets are clean and safe and the cafes and shops are largely frequented by designer families with children dressed from Gap and Kenzo Kids, privately educated and cared for by American and Swedish nannies.
Founded by an Act of Parliament in 1838, the Public Records Office is home to some of the most iconic documents ever penned. These include the original Domesday Book, returns from the parliamentary elections.of 1275, an inventory of Elizabeth I's jewels, William Shakespeare's will, the confession of Guy Fawkes, and the minutes of Churchill's
War Cabinet during the Battle of Britain. It is also the repository of many records of criminal investigations dating back to the earliest years of the British police force.
To Laura and Philip's surprise they found that the police archives were indeed stored on computer files and
