Forty miles away, west of London, he ran a gentle but firm hand over the light Oxford stone of the seventeenth-century college building that ran along three sides of the quad. The fourth side was where the large vaulted arch led to the gatehouse and the outside doors of the college.
The manicured, rectangular lawn of the inner quadrangle was bordered by a low, knee-high hedge of box that he guessed to be maybe as old as the college. It was a beautiful, tranquil place, the busy, noisy streets of Oxford outside its walls unheard and unseen. Here there were the three colours, the green of the grass, the honey-coloured Oxford stone of the buildings and the blue of the sky overhead. It was very soothing.
He knew the college well, intimately even. He had worked there for a few terms on a temporary basis and had got to know every inch of its ancient fabric. He always made a habit of knowing the topography of wherever he worked in precise detail. He liked the feeling of freedom it brought. Years ago he had come across the phrase used on security passes the world over, Access all areas. He loved that expression. It was exactly what he liked to do, to be able to access all areas, to go where he pleased.
In this college, he knew, for example, that there was a hatch on the outside pavement that flapped outwards and led to the college buttery where beer and wine were stored. He still had a copy of the key. He knew there was a small and rarely used concealed gate, which led from the street to the Master’s private garden. He knew where there was a street light close to the wall of the college that students used to help themselves climb over, when the college gates were closed.
He usually took copies of master keys with him when he left a workplace, or in today’s increasingly electronic security, he stole swipe cards and password details. These days it was information, rather than hardware, that counted. He wouldn’t need keys for what he was about to do.
He checked that the iPod was cued correctly and that the leather gloves were in their correct pocket. Above his head, Staircafe V was carved into the lintel stone in antique, lettering, the lower case ‘s’ written as an elongated ‘f’ and the Roman ‘V’ for 5.
The steps were worn and shallow; they must have been cleaned recently, because they gleamed gently in the light. They spiralled upwards and he followed them to a heavy oak door, with 2B on it in brass. The door was open, revealing a further door inside, and he knocked gently on this, while pulling on the supple, black leather gloves.
She opened the door almost immediately. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, her large eyes widening in surprise. ‘What do you want?’ She looked radiantly beautiful. Her mouth was full-lipped and inviting.
‘I just need to check on a couple of things about tonight.’
‘Well, do come on in,’ she said.
And he did. It was that easy.
Twenty minutes later, Ben Protheroe, a physics student who had the room above, passed by Laura’s room. The outside door was closed, ‘sporting the oak’ it was called in Oxford, and it meant you didn’t want to be disturbed. He could hear music coming faintly from her room, music with a heavy dance beat. He stood there for a moment, listening.
Ben Protheroe had never heard ‘You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)’ in his life. Neither had the girl inside, until now. He felt a stab of jealousy. He really fancied Laura. He found the thought of her in someone else’s arms unbearable.
Inside the room, sightless eyes stared at the ceiling while her killer danced gracefully to Sylvester. It had taken him a long time to learn to dance, but master it he had.
The carefully choreographed dance movements, lovingly practised, were now reflected endlessly in Wittgenstein’s mirror.
Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.