Death Day

PART TWO

Life in Medworth slipped easily back into the deep groove of normality after the tumultuous events of the previous weeks.

The local paper (on Lambert's orders) kept the details of the Mackenzie killings to a minimum and the residents of the town soon forgot the horrors which had gone before. They found new things to talk about. There were things to moan about. More men made redundant at the foundry, and the heavy showers of rain that had been falling intermittently for the last three days. People began to live their lives normally once more, filing away the recollections of the murders in the backs of their minds.

The killings had been a shock for a place as normally peaceful as Medworth. But the human mind is a resilient thing and forgets easily, especially when tragedy touches others rather than the ones close to the heart. There was that curious kind of emotional limbo which comes from discovering that quiet town, a place where many of the occupants had grown up, could house a killer as maniacal as Ray Mackenzie.

There was small mention of his burial, and that of Peter Brooks. Both men were laid to rest in Two Meadows with a minimum of fuss and a noticeable lack of mourners.

Lambert passed both graves, set side by side, as he continued his visits to the resting place of his brother. He found, with a curious mixture of guilt and relief, that he did not feel the- need to visit Mike's grave every day. Two or three times a week and always on a Sunday, seemed to satisfy his conscience. The memory faded slowly, like the afterburn of a flash bulb on.the retina. He found that he slept better, no longer waking in the small hours with the vision of the accident screaming before his eyes.

Of Gordon Reece there was still no sign and Lambert was beginning to think that the man had just walked out after the death of his wife, unable to face the house which held so many memories. The forensic test on the piece of glass he had found showed that the blood was indeed Reece's. The Inspector was considering closing the case.

The only question which still remained unanswered was the origin of the medallion.

He had heard nothing from Trefoile for three days. Once he had considered calling into the shop to see how things were progressing but, what the hell, it couldn't be that important and, with Mackenzie dead, the thing didn't seem to have such importance about it anymore.

Medworth was well and back to normal.

Lambert had given five of his men leave, secure in the knowledge that his remaining constables could cope with the usual catalogue of shopliftings, bike stealings and complaints about dogs pissing on neighbours' lawns.

As he drove home that Saturday night Lambert felt at ease for the first time in months. He and Debbie were driving into Nottingham that night. Dinner at the Savoy (he'd booked the table a week earlier) and then on to a club or a film. He smiled happily as he swung the car into the drive.

Father Clive Ridley put down his pen and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He shook himself and glanced down at the two pages of notes which lay before him. Tomorrow's sermon. He read quickly through the notes and nodded in satisfaction. It was a job he disliked but, obviously, it had to done. Finding a subject to hold the congregation's interest seemed so much harder now. When he had first become a priest at the age of forty-one, twelve years ago, it had all been so simple. Brimming over with enthusiazm, he had relished his sermons, delivering them with an almost theatrical zest. But lately it was becoming a chore. He seemed to be going over the same ground again and again, and it aggravated him as much as it must have bored the listeners. He looked at his notes again. He had chosen the theme of caring for others, something which he himself knew more than enough about. He had nursed his mother through three years of illness. An illness which had eventually taken her two years ago. She had died peacefully during her sleep and for that, Ridley was thankful. She had suffered a great deal until then, and at one time he had found himself questioning the mercy of a God to whom he devoted his life. For a short time he had begun to question not only his own faith but the wisdom of God. The very memory was painful and he felt almost ashamed to think of it. He looked across his study at the large wooden crucifix hanging on the wall and the silver figure of Christ seemed to stare back reproachfully.

Ridley got to his feet and crossed to the study window, looking out into the gathering dusk. The sky was streaked with brilliant brush strokes of crimson and orange. Colours which signalled the death of daylight and the onset of night. From his window he could see across the road to the cemetery and he decided to take a stroll before he cooked dinner. He often walked through the cemetery during the early evening, in summer particularly he enjoyed his little excursions. The singing of the birds in the many trees which dotted the area, the smell of the flowers in the air. But, as he pulled on his heavy coat and stepped out into the chill evening air, he expected no such sensory feast tonight.

He buttoned the coat, having difficulty with the middle two and promising himself that he would do without potatoes when he cooked his meal later on. He was a big man, tall and thick set. Fat perhaps, at first glance, but on closer inspection it was possible to see that it was only his large stomach which pushed him into the category of obesity. His face, dotted with small warts, was round and red-cheeked, giving him a look of perpetual good health. He blew on his hands, becoming aware of just how cold it was getting, and crossed the road from the vicarage to the cemetery gates.

Despite the chill of the air, the night looked hke it would be a still one. The dying sun was sliding from its position in the sky, flooding the heavens with crimson and giving up supremacy to the swiftly gathering blackness. Dusk hung like a blanket over the land, catching it in transition.

A pigeon flew to its nest in the bell tower of the church and Father Ridley watched as it settled on the high sill before disappearing through a gap in the ancient masonry. The weather vane atop the spire twisted gently in the breeze.

He left the gravel drive almost immediately and walked slowly along the muddy footpaths which ran between the rows of graves. Here and there, freshly placed bouquets shone like beacons, their many colours contrasting with the dark earth. Ridley smiled to himself when he saw these, feeling a twinge of sadness when he found plots which bore no flowers or only the dried remains of those left long ago. Perhaps the occupants of the graves had been forgotten. The Reverend sighed. So sad to be forgotten. Death itself was the ultimate horror, but to be forgotten by those who had laid you to rest, that was a tragedy indeed.

He paused at a particularly well kept grave, guarded at all four corners by marble angels whose heads were bent in silent prayer. Engraved on the dark marble slab which covered it were the words:

'I am the Resurrection.'

Ridley smiled weakly and, almost absently, reached for the cross which hung around his neck. He considered it for a second, the tiny figure of Christ seeming to gaze up at him, then he let it slip back into the folds of his clothes.

The breeze had grown stronger now, tugging flowers from their pots and spinning the weather vane atop the spire. The Reverend pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and decided to return to the vicarage. The sun had almost disappeared now, and besides, he was beginning to feel hungry. He walked quickly, heading for the gravel drive which would take him out through the gates of Two Meadows.

He reached the graves of Ray Mackenzie and Peter Brooks and paused. Such a terrible thing, he thought. He himself had conducted the burial services for all five of the people who had died in Medworth recently, including the entire Mackenzie family, Emma Reece, and Peter Brooks. Ridley shook his head. He noticed that the flowers which covered Ray Mackenzie's grave had been disturbed, scattered across the footpath which ran alongside the plot.

The wind had blown them aside probably, he thought as he stooped to gather the blooms. One by one he retrieved the roses and knelt down to replace them in their position just below the small metal marker which was the only sign that the grave was even there. Its freshly dug earth was already covered here and there with tufts of grass. In a week or so it would be covered completely.

Ridley gently laid the blooms on top of the plot.

A hand shot from beneath the dark earth and fastened iron fingers around his wrist.

The Reverend screamed in disbelieving terror.

His eyes bulged and he felt red hot knives of pain stab at his heart. Shaking his head from side to side, he fastened his horrified stare on the earth-covered hand which protruded from the grave, gripping tightly his wrist.

He could not move.

He tried to rise but his legs wouldn't support him, and all the time the grip on his wrist tightened until he was sure it would snap the bone.

The hand thrust forward, followed by more arm.

The grip loosened and Ridley pulled free, his breath coming in gasps, his head spinning, the pain still stabbing through his heart. He backed off, his eyes threatening to pop from the sockets as he watched the movement from beneath the earth of the grave.

The arm seemed to sway in the air for a second, then, the earth slowly rose and, from below, Ridley saw a face.

The face of Ray Mackenzie.

He was grinning, the blazing red eyes fixing the priest in their unholy stare.

Ridley slipped in a patch of mud and staggered back against a stone cross, hanging onto it for support as he watched Mackenzie drag himself from the grave to his full height. He stood there, the dirt and mud caking his clothing, his eyes (if those two virulent blood blisters could be called that) turned on the cowering cleric.

Ridley was panting, the pain in his chest spreading inexorably to his left arm and up into his jaw. White stars danced before his eyes but he held on to consciousness just a little bit longer.

He might have wished he hadn't, for in his last agonized minutes, he saw the ground which covered the grave of Peter Brooks erupt and, a moment later, the intern stood next to Mackenzie.

Through eyes blurred with pain, Ridley saw that Brooks too had no eyes, just the hellish red orbs.

A final wrenching spasm of agony racked his body and he crumpled, the sound of his own breathing rattling in his ears.

They were advancing towards him, and, as he lost consciousness, he was grateful for one thing.

He would be dead before they reached him.

Lambert stared down at the fried egg on his plate and groaned.

There was a loud crack as the pan spat fat at Debbie who jumped back, brandishing the fish slice at it defiantly. She peered across at her husband who was still considering the egg. He cut into the yolk, watching as it gently spilled its colour onto the plate.

'I don't think I can face this,' he muttered, pushing the plate away from him.

'After three bottles of Beaujolais, three scotches and a brandy, I'm not surprised,' said Debbie, trying to sound stern but fighting to suppress a grin. Her stomach too felt as if it were on a trapeze. As she looked down into the bubbling pan she shook her head and switched off the gas flame beneath it. She had drunk more than usual the night before and she smiled as she remembered how they had tried to undress one another, giggling when they accidentally tore buttons off in their clumsy attempts. They had managed it eventually and slumped into bed, both of them dropping off to sleep before they could even embrace each other.

She crossed the kitchen and sat on Lambert's knee. He put his arm around her waist, drew her to him and kissed her gently on the cheek.

'Did you have a good time last night?' he asked.

She nodded smiling. 'Fantastic.'

He groaned and put a hand to his forehead. 'I wish my brain would stop trying to climb out of my head; it's using a pickaxe to make its escape.' Debbie laughed and hugged him and they sat in silence for a moment. Then Lambert looked up at her. 'You know, last night I managed to forget what's happened over the last month or two. It was as if it never…' He struggled for the words, '… as if it were all unreal.'

She kissed him. 'That's good.'

'Even about Mike,' he elaborated. 'The memory is there, it'll always be there, but not so strong now. I don't want to forget though, Debbie. I won't torture myself with it, but maybe I need that memory.'

She looked at him for a second, puzzled, then said: 'Do you want to drive up there this morning?'

He nodded.

'Mind if I come?'

He pulled her close. 'I think the fresh air will do us more good than this bloody stuff.' He pushed the plate away and imitated the noise of vomiting.

They both laughed.

The watery sun had settled in a cloud streaked sky as Lambert guided the Capri along the roads and twisting lanes which led out of Medworth and up towards the cemetery. Sitting alongside him, Debbie clutched a bunch of roses which she sniffed occasionally, enjoying the sweet odour.

'Who'd live in a city?' said Lambert, looking out over the rolling green hills.

'Someone's got to,' Debbie said.

They drove a little way in silence, windows open, enjoying the sight of the countryside around them. The near naked trees added a contrast to the richness of the grass. Here and there a blaze of colour would erupt in the hedgerows where a clutch of wild flowers grew. Above them, where the hillside sloped up gradually into woodland, birds hovered above the trees and Debbie actually caught sight of a kestrel as it glided about looking for prey. The magnificent bird seemed to be suspended on invisible wire as it swung back and forth before finally disappearing from view.

'Are you going into the station today?' she asked, looking at him.

Lambert shook his head. 'Nothing to go in for. The Mackenzie case is closed. Gordon Reece seems to have cleared out. It's back to the normal routine from now on.' He smiled.

'What about the medallion?'

'I haven't heard anything from Trefoile yet, but I doubt if it'll be important. Mackenzie probably just found it somewhere. Maybe he dug it up in his back garden.' Lambert grinned.

'You know better than that,' she rebuked him, letting one hand stray across his thigh.

He swerved slightly and she jumped.

'See what you do to me,' he said, leering exaggeratedly.

They both laughed as he pulled up across the road from the cemetery gates. Debbie squeezed his hand as they sat for a moment, then they both climbed out.

High up on the hill top, where Two Meadows was situated, the wind seemed to blow stronger, and Debbie brushed her hair from her face as the breeze whipped silken strands across it. She shivered slightly but relaxed as Lambert put his arm around her, and locked together they walked in.

'Father Ridley's usually around at this time,' said Lambert, peering over his shoulder towards the vicarage.

'Perhaps he's in the church,' she offered.

'Maybe he's having a lie-in.'

She punched him playfully on the arm. 'Priests don't lie-in on Sundays, you heathen.'

She reached for his hand and found it, their fingers intertwining. As they walked, Debbie found herself prey to that mixed emotion which comes so frequently in a cemetery. The uneasiness mixed with the feeling of almost idyllic peacefulness.

'It makes you aware of your own mortality,' said Lambert, looking at the rows of graves: the ornate, the unkempt, the well-tended.

Mike's grave.

They stood beside it for a second before Debbie knelt and gently laid the roses on top of the marble slab. Lambert smiled as he watched her do it, drawing her close to him as she stepped back. They stood for long moments beside Mike's grave, gazing down at it, aware only of one another and of the wind rustling in the tree which hung above them. Finally, Lambert, squeezed her gently and said, softly: 'Come on.'

They turned and headed back towards the gravel drive.

As they reached the small kerb which edged the drive, Debbie stopped and pointed to something lying no more than ten feet away from them. It was glinting in the sunlight and that was what had attracted her attention.

She pulled away from Lambert and picked the object up.

It was a crucifix.

'Tom,' she called, 'look at this.'

He joined her and peered at the small silver cross which lay on her palm.

'Somebody must have dropped it,' he said, taking the object from her and holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

He dropped the crucifix into his jacket pocket and looked around, searching the ground for something else.

He found it.

A few yards up the path which ran between two rows of graves lay a pile of clods. Lambert hurried to them and kicked at them with his shoe. Then he noticed the flowers scattered around like shredded confetti and trodden into the mud.

'What the hell is this?' he said under his breath.

He took a step closer to one of the graves, noticing that a marble angel had been smashed from its position at a corner of the plot. There was a dark stain splashed across it which Lambert recognized immediately. He knelt and ran his finger through the stain, sniffing the red liquid on his finger tip.

It was blood.

He noticed more of it splashed up the headstone next to the other grave. He read the name on the headstone.

Peter Brooks.

The earth was piled up around the grave and a hollow had been formed in the centre, as if someone had begun digging and then given up half way.

Lambert stood up, his breath coming in gasps.

'Tom, what is it?' called Debbie, advancing towards him along the path.

He ignored the question, looking instead at the small metal marker on the grave next to that of Brooks. Barely readable was the name: Ray Mackenzie. The earth was strewn for many feet around it. Dark, wet earth. Lambert turned and waved Debbie back.

'We've got to find Father Ridley,' he said, tersely.

'What's wrong?' she asked, puzzled.

'I think some sick bastard has been mucking about with Mackenzie's grave.'

He walked past her, then suddenly hesitated.

'You'd better come with me,' he told her, and the two of them hurried across the road to the vicarage.

The curtains were open, and as he headed towards the front door, Lambert hoped that Ridley was in. He rapped hard, three times on the front door, and when he got no answer, went round the back.

'Damn,' he growled. 'He must be in the church.'

Debbie found that she almost had to run to keep up with him.

'Tom, what's going on around here?' she demanded.

'I wish I knew,' he said.

They reached the broken path which led up to the church door and hurried towards it, Debbie's high heels clicking noisily in the silence.

The church towered above them and Lambert pushed the door, noticing, as he did, that there was more blood on the great brass handle of the door. He swallowed hard and popped his head around the door.

'Tom.'

Her single word hung in the air as the policeman stepped cautiously into the great building. His footsteps echoed on the cold stone floor and he shivered at the coldness of the place. Debbie stepped in behind him, pushing the door closed.

The church ran a good fifty yards from door to altar. Pews arranged with soldierly precision On either side formed a narrow aisle down the centre which led straight to the altar. Dust particles danced in the light shining through the stained glass windows on both sides of the building. It smelt musty in there, a smell which reminded Debbie of Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors. She quickly dismissed the thought, making sure she kept close to Lambert as he advanced down the central aisle. To the left stood the pulpit with a huge Bible open on it.

There was no sign of Ridley. Lambert called him, his voice echoing off the walls and ceiling, turning the huge room into a vast stone echo chamber.

'Father Ridley,' he called again.

Silence.

It was then that he noticed the pieces of earth scattered around the base of the altar. The Inspector crossed quickly to them and prodded a large lump with his index finger. He exhaled deeply. Where the hell was Ridley? There was one place left in the church he hadn't looked. The bell tower. A flight of stone steps ran up to the belfry from just behind the altar. Lambert looked up. A wooden floor hid the belfry itself from view below. He would have been able to see from where he stood whether or not the priest was up there, but the wooden slats obscured his view. He would have to go up and take a look for himself. He was suddenly filled with a feeling which he took to be fear, but why such a feeling should take hold of him, he didn't know.

'Wait here,' he told Debbie, and set off up the stone steps which would take him into the belfry.

Debbie nodded and watched him go, edging back so that she leant against the altar, looking out into the church. Hundreds of invisible eyes seemed to be fixed on her and she shuddered involuntarily.

Lambert, meantime, found that the staircase spiralled as it rose. The walls on either side hemmed him in so that he could not even extend his arms without touching them.

He slipped and nearly fell, but regained his footing cursing, and looked to see what had made him stumble.

There was a slippery streak of blood on the step on which he stood. And the one above it. Lambert gritted his teeth. The cold seemed to have intensified and he was also beginning to notice a strange smell which grew stronger as he neared the top of the stairs. Mixed with the cloying odour of damp wood was something more pungent. A coppery, choking smell which stung his nostrils and made him cough.

He reached the top of the stairs and peered round into the belfry.

It was small. No more than ten feet square and Lambert felt as if the walls were closing in around him. The bell, a large brass object, lay discarded in one corner, torn from the thick hemp which secured it.

Lambert gasped and backed against the wall, his heart thumping.

Dangling from the bell rope, the hemp knotted tightly around his neck, was Father Ridley.

His face was bloated, the blackened tongue protruding from his mouth. Blood had splashed down his chest, turning his coat red and the rope which supported him had cut deeply into the thick flesh of his neck, drawing blood in places. He hung like some obscene puppet, his own blood puddled beneath him, soaking into the ancient timbers of the belfry floor.

But, the thing which finally made Lambert turn away in horrified disgust was the face. Splattered with gore, it seemed to glare mockingly at the policeman who noticed with mounting terror that there was something horribly familiar about it.

Both the eyes had been torn out.

Lambert turned and raced down the stairs, almost running past Debbie who caught his arm. Her eyes searched his, looking for an answer which she already suspected.

'He's dead,' said Lambert flatly. 'Come on.' They ran from the church, chased by a fear beyond their understanding.

They ran to the car and climbed in. Lambert burned rubber as he spun the Capri round. The needle on the speedometer touched sixty as he drove for Medworth, his face set in an expression of fearful resignation. Debbie studied his profile. 'Tom.'

'What?' His voice was tense, sharp.

'What's happening?' There was a note of something near to pleading in her voice.

'The graves,' he snapped, 'the graves of Mackenzie and Brooks were disturbed. It looked as if somone dug them up.' The words trailed off. 'Oh Jesus,' he said, his voice catching.

She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

'What are you going to do, Tom?'

'Open the graves.'

'What?' She swallowed hard, not quite believing what she had heard. 'But you can't. I mean, why?'

'Someone tampered with those graves, Debbie. There must be a reason for that. I want to know what it is.'

'But don't you need an exhumation order?'

'Why?'

'It's the law.'

He looked at her. 'I am the law.'

Lambert stood beside Sergeant Hayes, watching as Davies and Briggs threw shovelfuls of earth into the air in an effort to reach the coffin of Ray Mackenzie.

Lambert was smoking. His third that morning. He'd been trying to give up just lately, but the events of the day so far had suddenly persuaded him that he needed something to calm him down. He sucked hard on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth for a second before expelling it in a long grey stream which mingled with his own frosted breath in the crispness of the morning air.

He had driven home after finding Ridley's body, left Debbie there and told her he would be in touch. At first he had been reluctant to leave her alone, a fear which he couldn't understand nagging at the back of his mind. She had assured him that she would be all right and he had driven to the station. Taking a Panda, he, Hayes and the two constables had driven back to the cemetery armed with shovels. As Davies drove, Lambert recounted what he and Debbie had found that morning and when he got to the part about the eyeless corpse of Ridley, Briggs had found himself struggling to keep his poached eggs down. Hayes had said nothing, only looked questioningly at the inspector as if the description of the injuries inflicted had stirred some horrific memory within himself.

The ambulance which removed the vicar's body had been pulling out as the Panda swung into the driveway. Kirby was to do an immediate autopsy on it and ring Lambert with the results as quickly as possible.

Now the Inspector leant on a stone cross and dropped his third butt to the ground, crushing it into the earth with the toe of his shoe.

There was a scraping sound as the shovel Davies was using ran along a wooden surface.

They had reached the coffin.

Lambert stepped forward and watched as the two men scraped away the remaining earth with their fingers. As the last sticky clods were removed, all four policeman noticed the large hole about two feet from the head of the coffin. Splinters of wood were bent outward from it, some mingled with the dark earth.

The Inspector sighed and rubbed his chin.

It was scarcely necessary, because all of them could see through the holes that the coffin was empty, but Lambert gave the order nonetheless.

'Open it up,' he said, jabbing a finger towards the splintered box.

Davies wedged the corner of the shovel underneath one edge of the lid and pushed down. It came free with a shriek of cracking wood.

White satin greeted the men. A few specks of earth had fallen onto it but, apart from that, it was untouched.

No corpse. Nothing.

'Jesus,' said Briggs under his breath.

Lambert noticed some tiny dark specks of colour on the satin of the lid and jumped down into the hole alongside the two astounded constables. Leaning close he saw that the stains were dried blood. There was more smeared on the inside of the coffin. He straightened up and looked up at Hayes. The sergeant was expressionless, his lips and face white, bloodless.

'And the other one,' said Lambert, pointing to the grave of Peter Brooks. 'We've got to be sure.'

Davies groaned and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He gave Briggs a helping hand up from the hole and the two of them set to work on the second grave.

That too was empty.

Lambert bowed his head and, for long moments, no one spoke. Then Briggs said, nervously, 'What's going on, sir?'

'You tell me,' said Lambert, reaching for another cigarette.

Lambert drove home with his mind in turmoil. He told the men to keep quiet about the empty graves until they all had a better idea of what was happening. Probably someone having a sick joke, thought the Inspector. He hoped to Christ he was right. The men were edgy, Hayes too. Lambert had never seen the old sergeant like that. Usually nothing could get him rattled, but this time he strutted around the station trying to find jobs that didn't exist and snapping at the younger constables and making everyone feel all the more uneasy.

Lambert had left them sitting around in the duty room drinking cups of coffee. He had given them no orders. After all, he would have felt slightly foolish asking his men to keep their eyes open for two missing corpses. If the situation had been different he might have laughed about it. 'Just keep on the look out for the missing bodies. They'll turn up somewhere. Probably just been misplaced.' He could hear himself saying it.

He had no answers as yet. No theories floating about in that supposedly logical mind of his. On the other hand, what he had seen that morning defied logic. A priest murdered and hung from the bell rope of his own church. Two empty graves, one of them formerly belonging to a mass murderer, and the last and most disturbing thing, holes in the tops of both coffin lids.

Lambert had no theories but what did make him shudder was the fact that the wood was bent outward in both cases. As if some powerful force had stove it out… FROM THE INSIDE.

He was shivering as he swung the Capri into the driveway of the house. He left it in front of the garage and went in the front door.

He found Debbie sitting in the lounge, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands. She got up and crossed to him, setting the mug down on the small table beside her chair.

'I could do with one of those,' he said, embracing her and nodding towards the mug of tea.

She hurried into the kitchen to fetch him one and returned to find him slumped on the sofa, head bowed in thought. He smiled up at her as she handed him his tea.

'You all right?' he asked.

She nodded. 'What happened?'

He sighed, staring down into the steaming brown liquid as if an answer lay there. 'Both the graves were empty.'

'Both?' She seemed puzzled.

'Mackenzie and Brooks.' He took a sip of his tea. 'I'm waiting for the autopsy results on Ridley.'

She sat beside him and reached for his hand, squeezing it. 'How about dinner?' she said.

'Not for me, love,' he said, smiling. 'I seem to have lost my appetite.' He took another sip of his tea, watching a tiny brown tea leaf floating on the surface.

Debbie went to the record player and turned it down. Elton John faded into the background.

Lambert hardly noticed and, when the record finally came to an end, neither of them got up to take it off the turntable. It stuck in the runoff grooves, the steady click-click the only sound in the room.

When the phone rang it seemed to galvanize them both into action. Debbie snatched the record up while Lambert grabbed the receiver.

'Hello,' he said.

'Tom.'

He recognized the voice as Kirby.

'John, what have you got?'

'Well,' Kirby sounded tired. 'Not much really. Ridley died of a heart attack.'

'What caused it?'

There was silence on the other end and Lambert repeated his question before Kirby finally, and falteringly, said:

'It's hard to say. He was overweight, anything might have triggered it. I can't be sure, Tom.' A long pause. 'But, from the condition of the arteries around the heart and the condition of the heart itself there would appear to have been massive cardiac failure. His heart burst, to put it simply.'

'You're hedging, John.'

'He died of fright.'

The words came out flatly. No inflection to soften the statement. Cold hard fact. Simplicity itself.

Lambert swallowed hard. 'The other injuries?'

'I compared the scratch marks on the cheeks with those on the faces of Emma Reece and the Mackenzies.'

'And?'

'They match up.'

Lambert inhaled quickly. 'So what does that mean?' His own mind was telling him an answer which he could not, dare not, accept.

'Ridley was killed by the same man who killed the other three. Or so it would appear. That, of course, is impossible.'

There was a long silence. Lambert held the phone down, Kirby's voice seeming far away, as if it were in a vacuum.

'Tom? Tom!'

Finally, the Inspector raised the receiver to his ear.

'Sorry, John.' His tone changed. 'Look, can you come over here tonight?'

'To your house?'

'Yes. About seven?'

'Yes. Tom, what is it?'

'Bring all the papers relating to the previous victims, and those on Ridley. And the autopsy reports on Mackenzie and Brooks.'

'Sure, but…'

Lambert cut him short, his voice edged slightly with worried impatience. 'Just do it, John.'

They said their goodbyes and Lambert dropped the phone back onto its cradle. Debbie looked at him and he returned her gaze, their eyes locked together. He sat down beside her and reached for his tea. He took a mouthful and winced. It was stone cold. He put the cup down and crossed to the drink cabinet.

Right now he needed something stronger.

It was a minute before seven that evening when there was a sharp rapping on the front door of the Lambert household. The Inspector checked his watch as he crossed to the door. Punctual as usual, he thought smiling. He opened the door to find Kirby standing there, a briefcase in his hand. The policeman ushered him in, his eyes gazing out into the night. The darkness was broken only here and there by the glow of street lamps. He closed the door and led Kirby through into the living room.

There was a pleasing warmth within the room which Kirby enjoyed, and he loosened his tie.

'Sit down,' said Lambert, and the doctor gratefully accepted, placing himself at one end of the sofa.

Debbie emerged from the kitchen. She was wearing a faded old blue blouse and jeans and Kirby ran an appreciative eye over her figure.

'Hello,' she said, gaily.

The doctor tried to rise but she waved him back. 'Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee or something stronger?'

'Tea is fine,' said Kirby, smiling.

She retreated into the kitchen and Lambert pointed to the briefcase lying beside Kirby. He flipped it open and took out a number of manilla files, each stamped with a number and name. He laid them on the coffee table before him and opened the first one.

'Ridley,' he announced. 'Like I told you over the phone, Tom, it was heart failure. The rest…' he hesitated, '… was done afterwards.'

There was a long silence as the policeman flicked through the slender report. He closed the file and looked at Kirby. 'You said over the phone that the scratch marks on Ridley's face matched those on the other three victims.'

Kirby nodded.

'What conclusions would you draw from that?'

The doctor shrugged. 'I'm not a policeman, Tom.'

'Imagine you were. What would you think?'

'I would say, against my better judgement, that Ridley was killed by the same man who killed the other three.'

'Which of course is impossible,' said Lambert, something mysterious dancing behind his blue eyes.

'Well of course it's impossible. Mackenzie's dead,' said Kirby, almost smiling.

Lambert got to his feet and crossed to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a large scotch and downed a sizeable gulp before continuing.

'John, there was another reason I wanted you here tonight. I think it might be linked with Ridley's murder.'

Kirby interrrupted him. 'He wasn't murdered. He died of a heart attack.'

'He died of fright,' said Lambert, his voice rising in volume slightly. 'Besides, some mad bastard did that to him. Some fucking headcase tore out his eyes and hung him up.' There was anger in his voice, tinged with something else which seemed, to Kirby, like fear. The policeman drained his glass. 'Look, as I was saying, something else happened up at the cemetery. The graves of Mackenzie and Brooks were tampered with.'

Kirby looked vague.

'Dug up. Desecrated. Call it what you like. The bodies were taken.'

'How do you know?' Kirby swallowed hard.

'I ordered the graves to be opened. Both bodies were gone.'

'So how does this tie up with Ridley?' Lambert poured himself another drink and inhaled slowly.

'What would you say if I told you I think Ridley was killed by Ray Mackenzie?'

Kirby almost smiled. 'I'd say you should consider visiting a psychiatrist.'

'You said the marks on the faces of all four victims matched.'

'Tom, he's dead. I did the autopsy myself,' said Kirby incredulously.

Debbie emerged from the kitchen carrying a cup of tea which she handed to Kirby. He thanked her and sipped tentatively at it. She got one for herself and joined them, curling up in one of the armchairs beside the fire. Lambert too, sat down, his third glass of scotch cradled in his hand.

Kirby smiled. 'You do realize, Mrs. Lambert, that your husband is a total lunatic?'

'This is no joke,' snarled Lambert. 'What's your explanation?'

Kirby eyed the Inspector warily and stirred his tea needlessly. 'Tom, there must be a logical explanation for what happened. It's some sort of sick imitator. They must have read about the other murders in the paper and well…' He let the sentence trail off.

'No details of the murders were published in the paper,' Lambert corrected him, 'especially the taking of the eyes.'

'Coincidence,' said Kirby.

'Bullshit,' snapped Lambert. He took a sip of his drink. 'Look at what we've got here. A man is murdered, or mutilated anyway, in exactly the same way as three previous people. We've got two empty coffins, one of which belongs to a killer. Now, you tell me why anyone would want to steal those bodies and kill Ridley.'

There was silence in the room. The glow of the fire and single table lamp which had at first seemed so comforting now became almost oppressive. Shadows in the corner of the room were thick, black, almost palpable, and Debbie drew her chair closer to the fire.

'Tom, you're a logical man, for Christ's sake,' said Kirby.

Lambert held up a hand. 'O.K., let's look at it logically. God knows I want to find a logical explanation for all of this. Both coffins were empty, right? Both had large holes in the lids. The wood was bent outward.' He paused. 'Any theories?'

Kirby shrugged. 'Body snatching.'

'But why? Who'd want to steal two corpses? What are you going to do with them? Hang them over your fireplace?'

Debbie suppressed a grin, especially when she saw the pained expression on her husband's face. 'There is another explanation,' said Kirby.

'I'm waiting,' Lambert said, impatiently.

'Have you ever heard of catatonia?'

'I've heard of it, but I don't know exactly what it is.'

Kirby put down his tea. 'It's very rare now; it was quite common at one time but, what with advanced examination procedures it's become more or less obsolete.'

'Get to the point, John,' demanded Lambert, quietly.

'In a catatonic state, sometimes called a catatonic trance, the patient displays all the appearances of death. The bodily functions slow down, sometimes even stop altogether. It can last for seconds or hours.'

'So what are you saying?'

'That Mackenzie could have been in a state of advanced catatonia when he was buried.' A pause. 'He could have been buried alive.'

Lambert shook his head. 'John, he fell over a hundred feet from that hospital room. That's what killed him. He was dead. Dead as a bloody doornail and to hell with your scientific explanations. Besides, the grave of Brooks was empty too. Even if this crap about catatonia was right, the chances of it happening to two men at exactly the same time are millions to one.'

'What else do you have?' said Kirby, wearily.

Lambert shook his head. 'Nothing. Not a goddam thing.'

The three of them sat in silence. Outside, a motorcycle roared past, breaking the solitude for a second before the harsh sound gradually died away. Kirby sipped his tea but found that it was cold. He winced and put the cup down again, declining when Debbie offered him another.

'All right,' began Lambert, 'sticking with this idea of catatonia, how do you explain the holes in the lids of both coffins?'

Kirby shrugged. 'They were trying to get out.'

Lambert shook his head. 'Have you ever felt a coffin lid? It's about two inches thick. Solid oak. You'd need to be bloody strong to punch a hole in that. And then, assuming they managed that, they clawed their way up through six feet of earth?'

'Tom, you've just defeated your own argument. It's impossible. It had to be body snatchers, there's no other logical explanation for it.'

Lambert shook his head. 'Why does the answer have to be a logical one? There's been nothing logical about this whole bloody case ever since it started; why the hell should we start worrying about it now?' He took another hefty swallow from his glass before continuing. 'Look at the facts, John. An ordinary man in an ordinary job with an ordinary family suddenly goes crazy. Butchers his family, tears out their eyes then kills another woman, tears out her eyes. During the day he's in a torpor. At night he's like a wild animal. A brain test shows that, to all intents and purposes he's dead, but what happens when the lights go out-he gets up and kills himself and another man. Now, two weeks after he's buried, our vicar is found hanging from his own bell rope, both eyes tom out after having died of fright and the grave of the murderer is empty.' Lambert's voice had been rising steadily as he spoke but now he was almost shouting, his breath coming in quick gasps. Now, the veins on his forehead standing out angrily, he slammed his fist down on the coffee table and shouted: 'Now you tell me that's logical.'

He slumped back into his chair, hands covering his eyes, totally drained. No one spoke, then, after what seemed like an eternity of silence Lambert said, 'And there's another thing.' His voice had regained its composure; it was low, resigned almost to the horrors he had just described. 'Mackenzie had a medallion with him. It was old, very old. There was inscriptions on it, in Latin. I think that is the key to all of this.'

'Where is it now?' asked Kirby.

'Trefoile, the antique dealer in town, has got it. He said he recognized it from somewhere.'

'What makes it so important, Tom?' Kirby wanted to know.

Lambert smiled humourlessly. 'Maybe I'm wrong. Perhaps this is what's known as clutching at straws but, right now, it's all I've got.'

'What are you doing about Mackenzie and Brooks?'

'What can I do? Tell my men to be on the look out for two of the living dead? Report in lads, if you happen to bump into anyone who was buried recently, that sort of thing? Frankly, John, I don't know what the fuck to do.' He looked long and hard at the doctor. 'All I know is, it must be kept out of the papers. If the press get hold of this, we'll have half the country crawling over Medworth trying to find out what's going on.'

'Call in help.'

'Where from?'

'Tell your superiors what's going on.' Lambert laughed bitterly. 'Can you imagine what Detective Inspector John Barton would make of this? He'd have me locked up. No, I can handle it for now.' He exhaled deeply. 'Christ, if only we had a motive. I mean, what kind of person steals corpses?'

The Inspector's eyes suddenly flared. He pointed an inquisitive finger at Kirby.

'Assuming, just assuming, that someone is trying to imitate Mackenzie's crimes and also working on the assumption that that same person stole the bodies, then surely they would have taken the corpse of Emma Reece as well.'

'Why?' Kirby wanted to know.

'Because she was one of his victims.'

'Was her grave tampered with too?'

'I don't know, I never thought about her at the time.' The Inspector got to his feet. 'We've got to find out now.'

Debbie looked worried. 'Tom, what are you going to do?'

'We have to see if her body has been taken as well,' he said flatly.

'You mean dig her up?' gasped Kirby.

'We've done it twice today already,' said Lambert.

Kirby lowered his head. 'But…'

Lambert's tone was soft, but stern. 'We have to know.'

The doctor swallowed hard and looked up at Lambert. He nodded almost imperceptibly. A thin smile creased the policeman's face, and he hurried out of the house to fetch the tools. Debbie and Kirby stared at one another, neither of them able to speak. The cold draft from the open back door blew into the room, temporarily driving away the warmth and making them both shiver.

Lambert returned a second later with a spade and a garden fork. He held them out in front of him.

'Ready?' he said.

Kirby nodded. 'We'll take my car.' He took the tools from Lambert and walked out to his car. Inside, Debbie and the Inspector heard the sound of the engine being started. She pulled Lambert close and he held her head on his chest.

'Lock all the doors,' he said quietly and kissed her on the forehead. He turned quickly and ran out to the waiting Datsun. Debbie, watching from the front window, saw him slide in beside Kirby, and a few seconds later the car disappeared into the darkness.

She hurried to the back door and drew the bolts across then repeated the procedure at the front. Then she walked back into the living room and crouched in front of the fire, suddenly gripped by an icy chill which seemed to cling to her like frost to a window pane.

It was a long time before she was warm again.

The drive to the cemetery took less than twenty minutes. Kirby brought the Datsun to a halt and switched off the engine. Both men got out, their breath forming clouds in the cold night air. The doctor unlocked the boot of his car and took out the spade and fork. The latter he kept for himself, the other implement he handed to Lambert. The Inspector reached into his pocket and pulled out a torch and flicked it on, checking the power of the beam. Satisfied, he nodded and the two men set off up the gravel drive which led them into the cemetery. The noise of their shoes on the rough surface sounded all the more conspicuous in the silence.

To their right, the church. A dark mass, the huge black edifice stood surrounded by a sea of shadows. Lambert shuddered as he looked at it, remembering what he had found in there the day before.

'Where is the grave?' asked Kirby, whispering.

'Over near those trees,' said Lambert, motioning with the torch.

They continued up the gravel drive, turning with it as it curved around to the left. Finally, they left the gravel drive and took one of the muddy paths which ran between the rows of plots. It was at this point that Lambert flicked on his torch, sweeping its broad beam back and forth over the marble headstones and crosses. The mud squelched beneath their feet, and once Kirby almost slipped over. Lambert held out a hand to steady him and the two men continued on their way. A row of poplars grew with military precision along the edge of one of the paths, and it was beneath the shade of one of the trees that Lambert's torch beam picked out the chosen spot. In the cold white light, both men read the name on the headstone.

Emma Reece.

There was an urn on top of the grave, withered carnations drooping impotently over the edges. The Inspector removed it, laying it gently to one side. He rested the torch on the headstone itself, the beam giving them a little light to work by.

Standing one on either side of the grave, the men looked at each other and Lambert noted how pale Kirby looked. His face was dark with shadow and, despite the cold, the Inspector could see that there were tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead. They held each other's gaze for a second, then, with a grunt, Lambert drove his spade into the dark earth. The doctor watched him. for a second then followed his example, using the fork to tear up large clods which he flung to one side.

In the beam of the torchlight they worked, tearing away more and more earth until mounds of it began to accumulate on either side of the grave.

Lambert felt the perspiration seeping through his shirt and, twice, he had to stop to wipe it from his forehead. He leaned back, using the handle of shovel as a kind of stool. Kirby too, stopped for a moment and wiped his brow.

'Four hundred years ago we'd have been burned at the stake for this,' he said with a grim humour in his voice.

Lambert nodded and smiled weakly.

They continued with their digging, aware of nothing but the sounds they made as they turned the dark earth and the gentle rustling of the wind in the trees above them. Both men were stooping now to get at the fresh earth.

'Nearly there,' said Lambert, quietly. Almost triumphantly. He felt his heart quicken a little bit.

The earth was piled high on either side of the hole and both men found that it was sticking to their clothes. Kirby tried to pull the clods from his shoes but it was useless. They stuck like lumps of thick brown glue. The prongs of the fork, too, had become encrusted with the wet ground.

There was a dull scraping sound as Lambert's spade struck wood.

He pulled away the remaining clods with his hands, baring the brass plate on the coffin lid. He reached up for the torch and shone it on the plate.

'This is it,' he said.

'How do we get the lid off?' said Kirby, noticing the thick screws which held it firmly in position.

Lambert produced a penknife from his trouser pocket and, tossing the spade aside, pulled the blade up into position.

'Shine the light here,' he snapped, handing the torch to Kirby who put down his fork and held the beam over the place where the Inspector was indicating. Inserting the wide edge of the blade into the groove in the screw head, Lambert began to loosen it. It turned easily and he grinned triumphantly up at Kirby.

One by one, the screws were removed and Lambert slid his fingers beneath the lid to ease it free. He swallowed hard, not knowing what he was going to find beneath the heavy lid.

'Keep that bloody light steady,' he whispered.

Heart thudding against his ribs, he pushed the lid to one side.

Lying in the coffin, arms folded sedately across her chest, was Emma Reece.

Lambert looked at Kirby who shrugged with the sort of gesture that says 'I told you so.' The Inspector stood up, wiping a hand across his forehead, his eyes riveted to the two empty sockets in Emma Reece's face which had once housed eyes. Gaping black maws now filled with the dirt of the grave. And yet, there was something else…

Kirby stepped forward, handing the flashlight to Lambert. He knelt beside the corpse and touched a hand to the face. It was ice cold.

'Curious,' he said, abstractedly.

'What is?' Lambert wanted to know.

'She was buried three weeks ago. The skin usually begins to undergo some minor deterioration within a matter of days. Her skin is still, supple.' He prodded it again. 'No deterioration at all.' He reached for the right arm and lifted it a few inches. 'Not even evidence of rigor mortis.' Kirby straightened up, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'It must be something in the soil.' He felt a lump between his fingers. 'It is very moist, that could account for the preservation.'

Kirby knelt once more, shining the torch into the face of the corpse, bending close until the putrid smell finally drove him back. He shook his head and straightened up again, turning towards Lambert.

'Well, Tom,' he said, brushing the din from his hands, 'that seems to put pay to your theory.'

The thing which had once been Emma Reece leapt from the coffin with the speed of an arrow.

Kirby had no time to move and Lambert was momentarily frozen by the sight before him.

The living dead thing fastened both hands around Kirby's neck and pushed him forward, grinding his face into the mud wall of the grave. He struck blindly at it, trying to shake himself free of the vicelike hold. Lambert struck out madly with the torch, shattering the bulb as it crashed against the top of Emma Reece's head. The place was suddenly plunged into darkness, only the vague light from the street lamps outside the cemetery illuminating the unholy scenario.

Kirby was clawing at the bony fingers which encircled his throat, the dirt now beginning to clog his nostrils. He was fighting for breath, his throat being blocked by the crushing fingers while the stinking dirt of the grave filled his nostrils. He felt unconsciousness wrapping its dark blanket around him and his efforts to break free grew more feeble.

Frantic, Lambert drove a fist into the side of Emma Reece's face, hearing bone splinter beneath the impact. It was enough to make her loosen her grip on Kirby, who slumped to the ground sprawled half in and half out of the open coffin.

The living dead thing turned towards Lambert, and he saw with horror the blazing red pinpricks deep within the gaping empty eye sockets. Saliva dripped from her open mouth and he noted, with disgust, that her false teeth were dangling pathetically from her top jaw. Emma Reece leapt at the Inspector across the narrow hole but he caught her by the wrists and held her, surprised at the strength of those apparently frail arms. Her face pressed close to his and he was splattered with the yellowish mucous. A hideous grin began to spread across the creature's face as she forced Lambert back, her talonlike hands reaching for his throat. He stared into those bottomless pits of blackness that had once been eyes and, with a surge of strength aided by fear, forced her back. They both fell, still locked together, Lambert not daring to relinquish his grip on those arms. But now he was on top of her. Still that feral grin sneered up at him.

Kirby, meantime was dragging himself to his feet, his head spinning.

'Kill it,' screamed Lambert, realizing that the Reece thing was squirming free. But Kirby could only stagger against the wall of the open grave, watching the life and death struggle before him. Paralyzed with fear he saw Lambert jump back, his hand groping behind him to the lip of the hole.

His hand closed around the spade.

The living dead thing raised both arms and launched itself once more, but this time at Kirby, who, in his dazed condition, went down under the rush.

Eyes wide with horrified revulsion, Lambert saw the thing throttling the doctor, pressing its vile body against him in a manner which made Lambert want to vomit.

With a shriek of rage he swung the spade and slammed its edge into the spinal area just above the pelvis. There was a loud snapping sound, like a branch being broken, and the thing stepped back. Moaning in agony, it stepped away from Kirby, both hands elapsed to the rent in its back. Lambert lashed out again, the powerful stroke catching Emma Reece just below the chin.

The head, severed by the blow, rose on a fountain of dark blood and thudded to the ground several feet away. The living dead thing remained upright for a second, blood spurting madly from the severed arteries, then pitched forward into the coffin. The white satin rapidly turned vivid crimson.

Lambert dropped the spade and crossed to Kirby who was slumped against one of the grave sides coughing. Even in the darkness, Lambert could see the savage cuts around the doctor's throat, bruises and lacerations that would have been normally credited to a garotte. He tried to speak but could only cough, a string-thin trickle of blood running down his chin. Lambert helped. him to his feet and then vaulted up out of the dark hole, taking Kirby's hands and pulling him up, supporting him when he was clear.

The Inspector looked down and saw the head of Emma Reece lying nearby. He rolled it gently with his foot, upping it into the grave where it landed with a thud, the black, empty, eye sockets gazing up at the night sky. He shuddered and turned away, supporting Kirby until they reached the gravel drive. The doctor stood alone for a second then nodded that he was all right. His voice, when he spoke, was dry, like old parchment and every syllable brought a new wave of pain.

'It looks like you were right,' he croaked, touching his throat. 'Drive me to my surgery.'

Lambert nodded and the two of them made their way back to the waiting Datsun.

Kirby collapsed into the passenger seat and gently touched his injured neck. He wound down the window and spat blood onto the road.

'You need a hospital,' said Lambert.

Kirby shook his head and extended his tongue to reveal a deep gash where he had bitten into it. That was the source of the blood, not his throat. Lambert had thought that he might be bleeding inside the throat itself but now he was reassured.

As they drove, Lambert's face was set in an expression of grim resignation.

'Like I said,' gasped Kirby, 'it looks as though you were right about where the bodies of Mackenzie and Brooks went.'

Lambert nodded. 'This is one time I wish I'd been wrong. How the hell are we going to get anyone to believe this?'

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Kirby concerned with his own pain, Lambert tormented by the obscene spectre of Emma Reece. His mind was not quite able to come to terms with the fact that he had just fought a woman who had already been dead for three weeks. He shuddered.

The street lamps had gone out in a number of streets in Medworth that night. The local power station had been inundated with complaints and every caller had been assured that everything was being done to rectify the fault.

Not everyone complained though.

The darkness was a welcome companion to some who walked that night.

To two men in particular.

Emma Reece had been destroyed, true enough. But there were others abroad that night more powerful.

It was eight-twenty. A long time before dawn. There was nothing but darkness.

Darkness.

Bob Shaw peered out into the blackness of the night and tried to make out the shape of his Suzuki 750 parked in the road outside.

'All the bloody street lights are out,' he muttered.

He tried one last time to catch a glimpse of his motorbike but gave it up to the all enveloping darkness. Christ, he hoped no bastard pinched it. It had taken him nearly two years to pay for it, fifteen quid a month until he'd paid the five hundred. Still, it was worth it. He was the envy of all the blokes he hung around with. He laughed as he thought of them puttering around on their poxy little 250's. At nineteen, with a stable job as a garage attendant and, most importantly, the bike of his dreams, he was reasonably content.

There was one thing which bugged him.

She was lying on the sofa now. One leg drawn up provocatively, revealed by the split in her skirt.

Kelly Vincent was a month or two younger than Bob. She'd made quite a name for herself within the confines of Bob's little circle. Most of his mates had shafted her at one time or another.

Bob seemed to be the only one who hadn't. She hung around with them, she said, because she liked the motorbikes. Bob and his mates liked to think it was for other reasons. After all, as the others had told him, she was a right little nympho. She'd do anything. Even take it in the mouth.

Just the thought made Bob break into a sweat. He stood behind the sofa for a moment, watching her, running his eyes up and down her body: the long, curly hair and full lips, eye make-up which looked as though it had been applied with a trowel. She wore a tight fitting red blouse, undone to the third button. Just far enough to stretch the imagination and whet the appetite. She wore no stockings but her legs were smooth and shapely. As he watched, she scratched the inside of her thigh, revealing just a hint of white knicker.

She looked up and saw him standing there.

'Are you going to stand there all bloody night?' she said.

Bob shook his head and hurried round to join her. She raised her head so that he could sit, then she rested it in his lap. He felt a warm thrill run through him and tried to control the erection which threatened to run riot at any minute. Bob glanced up at the TV screen. There was some crap on about the war. Kelly's old man was always on about the war. Boring old bastard. That was all he ever talked about. Bob hated coming round when he knew Kelly's parents were going to be there. But tonight was different. They were out, possibly for the night. They never moved out of the house usually, that was why it had taken Bob so long to get round to this. His own parents went down the local boozer but he couldn't take Kelly back to his place because his little brothers were always in. Little bastards. He could imagine the cries of derision from them if he arrived home with a girl. They took the piss out of him now which was as much as he could stand. He didn't fancy having one of them walking in while he was shagging Kelly.

But tonight it was going to be different. Her parents had gone to a party. Something like that, he couldn't remember exactly what it was. All that concerned him was, they would be out of the way for a few hours.

He looked around the room. A posh place really, he thought. Fitted carpets, brand new wallpaper, colour television. They even had a stereo. Bob compared it to his own house. The threadbare rugs which barely covered the floor in the living room, peeling wallpaper. The stink of damp which seemed to hang in every room. God he hated his home, but as yet he could see no way out. No respite from the rows between his mother and father, the squabbles with the kids. He didn't earn enough to buy a flat of his own, not even to rent one. Property was scarce in Medworth and he didn't fancy moving out of the town and leaving his mates. Bob realized that he was just going to have to learn to accept things as they were. After all, that was life for people like him. He knew it and he also knew that there was nothing he could do about it. It was like having your life mapped out for you, following the same routes as your parents. Only his route led to a dead end.

He tried to push those thoughts to one side and concentrate on the matters at hand. He let his fingers stray to Kelly's breast and he managed a quick squeeze before she knocked it away.

'Get off,' she bleated.

He sighed. He hoped tonight wouldn't be a waste of time. If he didn't get to screw someone pretty soon, his mates would know. They were starting to get suspicious already. Bob shuddered as he thought of their derision if they did ever discover he was still a virgin. Of course he had boasted conquests, as do all young men, but he was getting worried. What would they think of him? Some blokes in his gang had fucked more than ten girls. He hadn't even got as far as kissing one yet. Bob was a master of bravado but his facade was beginning to crack. If he didn't score tonight he'd be a laughing stock.

He slid his hand once more to her breast and, once again, she knocked it away.

He gritted his teeth and a secondary thought passed through his mind. What if he fucked it up? Kelly would be sure to tell his mates. Bob began to become more nervous.

'Get us another drink,' said Kelly, reaching for the cigarette packet on the coffee table beside her.

Bob got to his feet and scurried across to the drink cabinet. He poured a large measure of vodka into Kelly's glass, hesitated a moment, then filled it right up, adding just a touch of lemonade. Perhaps if he could get her pissed it would improve his chances. He poured himself another beer and returned to the sofa.

She blew a stream of smoke into his face and giggled.

He waved it away with his hand and tugged on her hair. She squirmed.

'You bastard,' she said, smiling, 'don't be so rough.'

'I thought you like it rough,' said Bob, trying to sound experienced.

'Who told you?'

'A few people.'

She giggled and took a large gulp of her drink.

'Are you sure your parents aren't going to get back early?' he asked agitatedly.

She put down her drink and slid her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her. He felt her mouth against his, her tongue pressing against his lips. He opened his mouth a little but she pulled away, a grin hovering on her lips.

'You do know how to kiss, I suppose?' The question was heavy with scorn.

He grabbed her, more assured now, pulled her towards him and pressed his mouth to hers, his tongue probing. After a moment he pushed her away.

'That better?' he said, smugly.

She giggled. 'What have your mates told you about me?' she wanted to know.

'This and that,' he said.

'What does that mean?'

He felt her hand on his thigh and he swallowed hard, his penis growing swiftly within the tight confines of his jeans. She noticed the bulge and allowed her hand to stray to it, stroking it through the thick material.

'You like sex,' he told her.

'Who told you?' She giggled again, her movements becoming more urgent.

Bob shuffled uncomfortably, aware of his swiftly growing excitement.

'Your mate Dave,' she began, 'he's got a big cock. One of the biggest I've seen.'

'What are you? Some kind of expert?' he said.

She giggled again. 'I've seen enough to know.'

He felt her hand fiddling with his zip, easing it slowly down and he had to grit his teeth to control himself. She gazed at the bulge in his underpants and smiled, holding it firmly in her expert hand. Then, smiling, she backed off and unbuttoned her blouse. Bob never took his eyes from her large breasts, especially when they spilled forth as she unhooked her bra. The nipples were already erect. Bob didn't think he could control himself much longer, but the thought of what his mates would say gave him that extra bit of control that he needed.

Kelly eased herself out of her skirt and stood before him, just the white of her knickers covering that part which Bob sought so desperately. Through the thin material he could see the dark curls of her pubic hair. Swiftly he whipped off his tee-shirt and flung it to one side, kicking his jeans off simultaneously. For one ridiculous second, he realized that he still had his socks on. Hurriedly he pulled them off and knelt on the floor beside her. She pushed him back and tugged his underpants down, revealing his rampant organ.

At first he thought she was going to laugh, but she nodded admiringly and ran her fingers along the hard shaft, pausing for a moment at the swollen, bulbous tip. Bob closed his eyes. He didn't think he could hold back any longer. He thought about anything to distract him from the sensations. West Ham losing the cup final, death, unemployment.

She stopped stroking him and he relaxed, watching as she removed her own knickers. She lay back, waiting for him. Bob hesitated, the uncertainty returning. What if she did tell the others?

'Well, come on,' she said. 'I mean, you do know what to do?'

He clambered on top of her, trying to force his erection between her thighs.

'Careful,' she said, becoming agitated by his clumsy efforts.

He repositioned himself and tried again. This time she grunted angrily and rolled to one side.

'I don't think you know how to do this,' she chided. 'I think you're a bloody virgin.'

The word stuck in his mind and he could feel himself turning scarlet.

'I know what I'm doing,' he lied, trying to sound forceful.

'Dave knew what to do. He gave me a good fuck. So did Paul.'

'Fuck Dave,' he growled, 'and bloody Paul. I know what I'm doing.'

She rolled onto her stomach and looked away from him. Bob felt the tension growing. He swallowed hard. What were the others going to say? The mouthy little whore was bound to tell them. In a last desperate attempt to save face, Bob grabbed her hips, raising her bottom into the air. Then, with a finesse which he didn't realize he possessed, he slid into her from behind. She moaned pleasingly and pressed back to meet his urgent thrusts. Bob was ecstatic. He knew it wouldn't be long before he reached his climax but he didn't care. He felt like shouting it out: "Goodbye, virginity!"

There was a scratching at the front door.

Both of them froze, locked together like some kind of surreal statue.

The scratching came again, louder this time. There were footsteps on the front path.

'Oh God,' gasped Kelly, 'it's my Mum and Dad.'

'I thought you said they were going to be late,' Bob blurted, hastily withdrawing and snatching up his jeans. Both of them pulled on their clothes as best they could, expecting the door to open at any moment and to see Mr and Mrs Vincent standing there. Kelly couldn't begin to imagine their reaction. Bob, gasping for breath, tried to force his erection back inside his jeans while pulling on his t-shirt. In his haste he forgot one sock. Kelly stuffed her knickers and bra beneath a cushion, taking care to remind herself to remove them later.

Finally, the two of them threw themselves back onto the sofa, red in the face, waiting for the door to open.

There was no sound.

'I thought that was them,' whispered Kelly.

Bob exhaled deeply. If he'd lost his chance because of a false alarm he'd leave right now. He began to wonder if it was all a set-up. Were Kelly, Dave and the rest of those bastards he called mates playing a bloody joke on him? The thought stuck out strongly in his mind and, when he saw Kelly begin to giggle, his suspicions were confirmed. He got to his feet, pushing her to one side and made for the door.

'You set this up,' he shouted, 'you fucking scab.'

Kelly shrugged, her grin fading.

'I'm going to kill those wankers when I get hold of them,' he snarled. This was it, this was the bloody limit. He wrenched open the hall door, flicked on the light and tore open the front door.

'Right, you cunts…'

The words were cut off as powerful hands fastened themselves around his throat.

Bob was driven back into the hall, propelled by the force of his assailant. He slammed into the wall, cracking his head and, for a second, everything went black. But he recovered and grabbed for the hands which were throttling him. He caught sight of the face of his attacker and his stomach contracted. The mouth drawn back in a deathly grin to reveal yellowing teeth, the scratch marks and cuts on the cheeks and forehead and, worst of all, the blazing red eyes of Ray Mackenzie.

The pressure on his throat increased and he felt spittle froth on his lips as he fought for breath. Mackenzie had him against the white wall, slamming his head repeatedly against it until the white paper began to sport crimson smudges. Bob knew that he was blacking out. In his last moments of consciousness he saw another man dart towards the living room. He too had those same burning red eyes.

Kelly heard the struggles from the hall and got to her feet, suddenly frightened. She screamed as the thing which had once been Peter Brooks entered the room. The living dead creature fixed her in that red stare and advanced towards her. Kelly screamed Bob's name. He could not help her. Already lying dead in the hallway, his lifeless form was jerked savagely about as Mackenzie tore his eyes from their sockets, ignoring the blood and vitreous liquid which splashed onto him.

Kelly was weeping with terror, big salt tears pouring down her cheeks. But, with a final surge of strength, she leapt for the kitchen door, vaulting the coffee table in the process. The Brooks thing lunged after her and caught her arm, raking it with broken nails. The girl screamed again but shook free and flung herself through the open door, forcing it shut behind her. Even with her back pressed against it, she knew she would never keep Brooks out. He punched at the door, denting it.

Tears clouding her eyes, she scanned the kitchen for a means to defend herself. She had a choice to make and she had to make it fast.

To try and make it to the back door or to grab the carving knife from the drawer beside her. Her mind spun. It would not give her an answer and the indecision brought fresh tears.

She heard the angry roar from the other side of the door and, a second later, Brooks charged, crashing into it shoulder first. The impact knocked Kelly across the room where she smashed into a chest of drawers. Dazed, she clambered to her feet, sidestepping the living dead thing's lunge and grabbing for the carving knife.

Screaming, she brought it down in a swatting action. The heavy blade caught Brooks on the point of the shoulder and sliced away a large chunk of his coat. He grinned and Kelly swung the knife again, this time scoring a line across his cheek. The Brooks thing roared and put a hand to the wound, blood pouring through his fingers and he backed off. Sobbing uncontrollably, Kelly edged her way towards the beckoning back door. Brooks stood still, watching her.

Praying, she dived for the door, finding to her horror that it was locked. In the split second it took her to turn the key, Brooks leapt at her. The two of them crashed to the ground, his weight pinning her. The knife skidded away.

Kelly screamed, again and again until the sound seemed to merge into one unending caterwaul of terror.

She knew she was going to faint.

Mackenzie appeared in the doorway, that familiar feral grin smeared across his face, his hands dripping blood. And beside him stood another man…

Not man so much as youth.

Both of them were grinning.

Kelly stopped screaming for a second, the sobs choking away as she turned her head to look at the two onlookers. The first of them tall, his blazing red eyes like those of the thing which held her down. But beside him, and this was what started her screaming again, stood Bob Shaw.

Where there should have been eyes there were just bloody holes, still weeping crimson. Open sores with pits of congealing gore and yet, somehow, he could see her. Somehow he knew. And he was grinning.

Kelly managed one last scream before all three of them fell on her.

Eight more people were killed that night.

There was an expectant hush inside the duty room of the Medworth police station.

Outside a light drizzle was falling, casting a haze over everything and spotting the windows of the room. The windows on the inside were steamy and the place smelled of stale cigarettes and coffee.

A blackboard had been set up at the far end of the room and there was a chair in front of it. The leather chairs which normally were dotted around the edges of the room had been drawn up into two rows, and on these chairs sat the ten men who made up the Medworth force. Facing them was Lambert. To his left, on the other side of the blackboard, sat Kirby, his neck still heavily bandaged from his encounter with Emma Reece a week earlier. He pulled irritably at the bandages every so often and sipped at the lukewarm coffee which Sergeant Hayes had given him earher.

Lambert lit a cigarette and took a drag, finally expelling the smoke in a long stream. He sighed and turned to the blackboard. There were several names written on it in yellow chalk. He turned his back on the waiting men for a second, reading the names and breathing quietly. The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsed. He felt like a schoolmaster. Finally, he turned.

'Twelve people,' he said quietly, 'have disappeared in the last three days. We can't find a trace of one of them.' He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the blackboard. 'The pattern is the same in every case. All we ever find at the scene is a lot of blood, scraps of clothing if we're lucky, and other little clues. Never any sign of a body, even though all the indications are that there has been a violent struggle.'

The Inspector took another drag on his cigarette, held the smoke in his mouth for a second then blew it out in a long stream. He pointed to the names at the top of the list.

'Bob Shaw and Kelly Vincent. Reported missing by the girl's parents. We found blood in the hall, in the kitchen, on a knife. The blood matched the known groups of the two missing people. Except the blood on the knife. That belonged to a third party, I'll explain more about that at the end.' He pointed to the second name. 'Ralph Stennet. Attacked on his way across a field after leaving a pub. Reported missing by his wife.' Lambert scanned the faces of the watching men. 'Who found the evidence on this one?'

Constable Ferman raised a tentative hand. Lambert nodded.

Ferman coughed, coloured slightly and began. 'I visited the pub where Stennet was last seen and then followed a set of footprints which I thought to be his, across a field. I found blood.' He swallowed hard. 'Lots of it.'

Lambert nodded, and pointed out the next on the list.

'Janice Fielding. Attacked in her own back garden.' He exhaled deeply, finally turning his back on the blackboard. There's no point in going on. As I said before, it's the same in every case. The victims are attacked, from the evidence we found, badly assaulted, and then they disappear.' He looked from face to face. 'Any theories?'

A muted silence greeted his enquiry.

'Guv.' It was Hayes. 'You said something about the blood on the knife in the first case belonging to a third party. What do you mean?'

Lambert almost smiled. 'What I'm going to tell you now will probably confirm some suspicions which a few of you have had ever since you've known me. Namely, that I'm a lunatic.' A ripple of laughter ran around the room. The Inspector paused, searching for the words. 'Well, maybe that's right. In this case I wish it was.' All the humour had left his voice, his tone now flat, clinical and the men in the room sensed it too.

'The blood on that knife belonged to Peter Brooks.'

There was a moment's stunned silence. Someone laughed, the sound choked off abruptly. No one knew what to say. Hayes found the words.

'But, guv, Brooks is dead.'

Lambert nodded almost imperceptibly and motioned towards Kirby.

'Doctor Kirby,' he continued, 'who, you can see, suffered some injuries the other night, will verify the fact that it was Brooks' blood on the knife.'

Kirby nodded and, as the men watched, he slowly began to unravel the bandage around his neck, finally revealing the scars and bruises beneath. The area around his adam's apple and below the ears was a patchwork of black and purple welts and angry scabs.

'Jesus Christ,' murmured P.C. Briggs.

'The doctor's attacker was Emma Reece, Mackenzie's third victim. Father Ridley, who was found hanging from the bell rope of his own church with both eyes torn out, was murdered by Ray Mackenzie.'

The watching men were silent. They heard but could not, dare not, believe.

'All the attacks which have taken place over the last three days,' said Lambert flatly, 'have been carried out by people who were thought to be dead.'

That was it. As simple as that. Lecture finished. Lambert dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the carpet. He exhaled slowly, as if the movement was painful.

'I don't believe it,' said Constable Davies, flatly. 'It's impossible.'

'It happened, man,' shouted Lambert. 'Look at the marks on his neck.' He pointed to Kirby, his temper now gone. 'They were put there by a woman who'd been buried three weeks before.' He gritted his teeth, his breath coming in short, rasping hisses.

Davies lowered his voice a little, some of the cynicism draining from it. 'Where is she now?'

'She's dead. I cut her head off with a spade.'

Lambert raised a hand to his head and ran it through his hair. He exhaled deeply. 'These… things, whatever they are, they're strong.' He could say no more. Kirby stood up, seeing that the stress of the situation was beginning to affect Lambert.

'The Inspector and I exhumed the body of Emma Reece; that was when the attack took place,' he said. The doctor smiled weakly at Lambert who nodded and began again.

'At the moment we don't know how many of them there are. The fact that the corpses of each victim disappear would seem to indicate…' Hayes cut him short. 'But how can you be sure that these people have been killed if we've found no bodies?'

'I'm assuming, Vic,' said Lambert, calmly. 'Assumptions are the only thing I've got at the moment. Assumptions and twelve missing people.' There was a long silence, then the Inspector continued, 'As I said, there's every reason to believe that the missing victims are now in the same condition as Mackenzie and Brooks.'

'Does that mean they're alive, sir?' said P.C. Briggs.

'I don't know what it means,' said Lambert. 'Alive, undead, living corpses.' He slammed his fist against the blackboard and growled, 'This case gets more insane the closer you look at it.'

'Are you discounting the theory of body-snatching?' wondered Hayes.

Lambert's reply was emphatic. 'Yes. After what happened with Emma Reece, there's no question of it having been that.'

The men shuffled uncomfortably in their seats and an almost palpable silence began to fall over the room.

'Any questions?' said Lambert.

'Do we get any help on this, guv?' asked Hayes.

Lambert shook his head.

Hayes looked put out. 'But surely H.Q…' Lambert interrupted, 'And what the hell am I supposed to tell them? Please could I have some reinforcements here as we've got several living corpses walking around? They'd find me a nice cell with padded wallpaper.'

A ripple of nervous laughter broke up the tension. It quickly vanished as Lambert continued. 'No. For the time being, it's up to us. Now, these things only seem to come out at night which gives us a bit of breathing space at least. I want full patrols tonight, no man walking a beat is to be alone. Radio in if you see anything suspicious. Don't go near one of them alone. Understand?'

The men nodded. Lambert stood for a moment, trying to think if there was anything he'd left out. Finally deciding that there wasn't, he dismissed the men. As they filed out he heard young Briggs mutter to Walford, 'It's like something out of a horror film,' and he guffawed as he said it.

'I wish it was,' Lambert called after him, then, softly, 'I wish to God it was a bloody film.' He turned to Kirby, 'There's always an expert in a horror film, isn't there? You know, some smart-assed bastard who knows how to deal with things like this.' He almost laughed.

Kirby shook his head. 'Let's not get too paranoid about it, Tom.'

Lambert looked at him for a second, then he headed for the door. When he reached it he turned. 'I'll stop being paranoid when all this is over.' He walked out, leaving Kirby sitting alone in the room gently rubbing the scars on his neck.

Lambert drove home slowly that night, taking a route directly through the centre of Medworth, something which he usually avoided doing. He didn't know why, but the sight of people milling about the town centre reassured him. He drove in silence, not bothering to switch on the radio. He had enough on his mind as it was. The clock on the Capri dashboard showed five o'clock and the shops were beginning to close. Dusk hovered on the horizon, a portent of the darkness which would envelope the land in the coming hours. Lambert wondered what this particular night would bring with it. More deaths perhaps? He pushed the thought to one side and brought the car to a halt at a crossing. He tapped agitatedly on the wheel as the two women crossed, nodding affably to him. He lifted a weary hand in acknowledgement and drove on.

A motorcycle passed him, the driver wearing no crash helmet. Ordinarily, the Inspector would have driven after the youth and maybe even cautioned him, but this particular evening he let the incident pass. He watched as the bike roared away out of sight.

The drizzle which had blanketed the town for most of the day had finally given way to heavier rain and, as large spots of moisture began to splatter the windscreen, Lambert flicked on his wipers. The rubber arms swept away the rain, momentarily blurring his field of vision. By the time he reached home, it was pouring down. He locked the car door and bolted for the house, careful to remove his shoes when he got into the hall. He stood there for a moment then swiftly slid both bolts across, securing the door. Satisfied, he walked into the living room. The smell of cooking beef wafted out of the kitchen to greet him.

'Jack the Ripper's home,' he called, reaching for the local paper.

'Oh good, I thought it might be someone dangerous,' Debbie called from the kitchen.

Lambert took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, his eyes fixed to the column of newsprint beside the headline. The policeman sat down and scanned the small article headline POLICE BAFFLED OVER DISAPPEARANCES.

'That bastard,' he snarled and threw the paper down.

Debbie appeared in the doorway. 'What's wrong?' she asked.

'Have you seen the local?' said Lambert, motioning to the discarded paper on the coffee table. 'That bastard Burton, I told him not to mention this in the paper. He's called me three times in the past week to ask what's going on. I said I'd issue a statement when the time was right.'

Debbie picked up the paper and read the short - column which told of the disappearances of a number of people in Medworth. No names mentioned, though.

'It doesn't seem to give too much away, Tom,' she said, placatingly.

'That's not the point,' snapped Lambert. 'I told him. Nothing to be printed until I found out what was going on. It's bloody scare mongering, that's all it is. If people read this it won't make the investigation any easier.'

'It'll get round by word of mouth,' said Debbie, returning to the kitchen. 'People are talking about it now.'

'What people?' Lambert wanted to know.

'Come on, Tom, it's a big talking point in the town. After all, it's the most exciting thing that's happened here for years.'

'I'd hardly call five murders and twelve disappearances excitement, would you?' He sighed. 'Christ, if they knew the truth they'd shut up.'

He flicked on the television and watched the news. The same old stuff. Strikes, Government upsets, the usual batch of robberies and murders. He picked up the local newspaper and read the column again, wondering if Detective Chief Inspector James Baron had seen it. If he had, it would be odds on he'd be on Lambert's back the following day wanting to know what was happening. The Inspector dropped the paper again. How the hell was he supposed to explain if Baron did call?

Debbie's shout to tell him that dinner was on the table interrupted his chain of thought and he trudged out into the kitchen and sat down. He ate in silence for a time with Debbie watching him.

'I had a lovely day, thank you dear,' she said, sarcastically. 'Oh did you, dear, fine.'

Lambert looked up and smiled. 'Sorry.'

'Welcome back to planet Earth,' said Debbie, softly.

'I was thinking,' he said.

'You always are.'

'I mean, what do you call this? This state that Mackenzie and Brooks are in? How do you rationalize what Kirby and I saw the other night?'

'You can't rationalize it, Tom. It happened, that's all there is to it.'

'But, Mackenzie. I mean to say, it's not life after death in the sense we know it. It's living death. He's dead but he's walking around.' Lambert began to laugh, quietly at first and then more heartily. Debbie swallowed hard as she watched him. He smiled and shook his head, the spasm subsiding.

'I think I'm going insane,' he said, looking at her. 'None of this can be happening. Things like this only happen in bad horror films.' His tone darkened once more. 'And yet I saw Emma Reece get up out of that coffin. I saw her attack Kirby, I felt her strength. I saw that, Debbie. My eyes saw something which my mind can't accept. I saw a dead man walk.' He pushed his plate away from him and rested his head on his hands which he had clasped before him.

'Do you think I'm insane?' he asked.

She shook her head.

'What's happening now, it goes against everything I've ever believed in. Right from the start of your training, they teach you to keep an open mind about things. Never make hasty decisions. Always weigh up all the evidence before making your judgement.' He smiled humourlessly. 'The trouble is, I've made up my mind. All the evidence points to something which, by all the laws of nature, is impossible. The dead are coming back to life.' He paused. 'All those who are victims, in turn, become living dead themselves. Even Brooks, Mackenzie killed him in the fall.'

'But what about the first two victims,' asked Debbie, 'and Father Ridley?'

'June and Michelle Mackenzie were cremated. Ridley died of a heart attack. He wasn't actually killed by the living dead. It's only those who are murdered by them that return.'

'Like vampires,' said Debbie, flatly. 'Their victims always become like them.'

Lambert shook his head. 'This is different. There's a pattern, a reason for it. It's almost as if there's a force behind it. Something more powerful than the creatures themselves. Something… something that's guiding them.' He rubbed his chin. 'There's a key somewhere, Debbie, a key that will give us the answer. It's just a matter of finding it. I hope to God I can find it in time.'

The phone rang. Debbie got up but Lambert waved her back.

'I'll get it,' he said.

He walked wearily into the living room and picked up the receiver.

'Hello.'

The line was crackly, thick with static and he repeated himself.

'Inspector?' he heard through the hissing. 'It's Trefoile.'

Lambert perked up. 'What have you got?'

'It might be easier if you come to the shop,' said the antique dealer, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of static. 'I was right about…'

The phone went dead.

'Trefoile!' Lambert flicked at the cradle. There was no sound. Nothing. The Inspector repeated the antique dealer's name.

He held the silent receiver in his hand for a second then gently replaced it on the cradle. His forehead was heavily creased.

'Who was it?' asked Debbie.

'Trefoile,' he told her, then he added, more urgently, 'Come on, let's go.'

She looked bewildered. He explained that they were to visit the antique shop immediately and, from the force with which he gripped her hand, she knew it must be important. Grabbing their coats, they hurried out to the car, and in minutes were speeding towards the shop. Lambert could feel his heart thumping faster as he drove and he pressed down just that little bit harder on the accelerator.

'A key.' His own words echoed in his mind.

Was the medallion the key?

He thought of the phone going dead and shuddered. Perhaps his imagination was running away with him, but, as he swung the car into the main street of Medworth, he prayed that Trefoile would be the only one waiting for them in the antique shop.

Lambert stopped the car and the two of them sat for a moment, watching the sign above the door which was swinging back and forth in the wind. The shop was in darkness, not a light to be seen anywhere. Lambert scanned the other shops along the street. Many had residential flats above and, in most of these, lights were burning. Trefoile's shop, though, was a stark contrast and the Inspector felt an involuntary shudder run through him as he opened the car door. Debbie moved too, but he put a hand on her arm and shook his head.

'Stay here,' he said, softly, reaching for the flashlight on the parcel shelf. He flicked it on, testing the beam, and then stepped out onto the pavement. Debbie leant across and locked the door behind him, watching as he walked briskly to the front door of the shop. Lambert's anxiety was beginning to reach her and she anxiously scanned the street from end to end. Not a living soul to be seen. The light from the dull yellow of the streetlamps reflected back from the wet pavement like pools of liquid gold. The rain bounced hard against the car roof, beating out a tattoo.

Lambert knocked twice on the front door and, when he received no answer, tried the handle.

It opened.

He held up a hand to Debbie to signal that he was going in. She watched as he closed the door behind him.

He flicked on the flashlight and swung it back and forth across the room, aware of the musty smell of the place.

Two gleaming eyes shone at him from a corner and he gasped, suddenly angry with himself as he saw that they belonged to the head of a stuffed fox. He walked behind the counter towards the back room which served as a dining room, workshop, and kitchen.

'Trefoile,' he called.

No answer.

Lambert reached for the light switch to his right and flicked it down. Nothing happened. He tried again. The darkness remained. His beam picked out a plate of unfinished mince lying on the table. Beside it was a large book which, upon closer inspection, was revealed as a ledger of some sort. He walked to the back door and tugged at the handle. It was firm, the door securely locked and bolted. The Inspector swung the light around once more and found that there was a door which led out of the room. It was ajar. He crossed to it and cautiously peered round, shining the beam inside. It illuminated a narrow flight of steps which led up into even more impenetrable darkness.

'Trefoile,' Lambert called again, suddenly, and for no discernable reason, wishing he was armed.

Again he received no answer and, slowly, he began to ascend the staircase, finally reaching a small landing which had two doors leading off from it. He shone the flashlight onto each one in turn then made for the nearest one. He opened it quickly and found himself looking into a cramped toilet and bathroom. He closed the door and walked towards the second room.

Something moved above him.

Lambert froze, the breath trapped in his lungs. He shone the beam upwards and saw a trapdoor which he assumed led up into the attic.

Another movement. Heavy footsteps from above. He edged back towards the head of the stairs, beam pointed at the trapdoor as if it were a weapon. He wished it were a gun he was holding.

The trapdoor opened and Lambert stepped down one stair. Copper he might be, hero he wasn't. If there was something in that bloody attic he didn't intend tackling it alone.

A face appeared in the opening.

It was Trefoile. He smiled affably. Lambert exhaled deeply and almost laughed.

'Bloody fuse blew,' the antique dealer explained. 'I don't know why the hell they had to put the box up here. Won't be a moment.' With that, he disappeared back into the attack and, a second later, the place was bathed in welcoming light.

The antique dealer jumped expertly from the attic and brushed himself down. He smiled at Lambert and said, 'The phone call, it was about the medallion.'

'I thought it might be,' said the Inspector. He explained that Debbie was waiting in the car.

'Bring her in,' said Trefoile. 'We'll have a cup of tea. I think she'll be interested in what I've found too.'

The three of them sat in Trefoile's back room with cups of tea before them. Lying on the table were two huge, leather-bound books. Their pages were yellowed and crusty with age, and one had gold leaf words upon its cover, written in Latin.

Between them lay the medallion.

'As I said to you before, Inspector, this is a most remarkable piece of work,' said Trefoile, prodding the circlet with the end of his pen. 'I sent it to a friend of mine who works in a museum and he verified the fact that it was sixteenth century. He couldn't pinpoint the exact time though.'

'That doesn't matter,' said Lambert, reaching to his coat pocket for his cigarettes.

'You may remember me telling you,' began Trefoile but he broke off as he saw Lambert fighting up the cigarette. 'Would you mind not smoking, please, Inspector? My father never did like it in the house. You understand.'

Lambert shrugged and looked for somewhere to stub out the freshly lit cigarette. Trefoile took it from him and dropped it into the sink where it hissed.

'Sorry,' said the antique dealer, returning to the table.

Debbie suppressed a grin.

Trefoile continued. 'As I was saying, I did mention to you when you first showed me the medallion that I recalled seeing it somewhere before.'

Lambert nodded, watching as Trefoile flipped open the first of the mammoth volumes. He found what he wanted and turned the book so that Lambert and Debbie could see the picture he was indicating. It was an early woodcut of the medallion. Beneath it was a caption in Latin which Lambert pointed to.

'What does it mean?' he asked.

'It doesn't mean anything,' Trefoile said, enigmatically. 'It's a name.'

Lambert read it again, the letters standing out darkly against the yellowing paper.

Mathias.

'I still don't get it,' said the policeman, a slight edge to his voice.

'Mathias was the owner of the medallion. That very medallion which came into your possession.' He paused, watching their reaction carefully to his next words. 'Mathias was a Black Magician. Said, at the time, to be the most powerful ever known.'

Lambert snorted. 'So you're telling me that this,' he poked the medallion, 'belonged to a witch?'

'A Black Magician,' repeated Trefoile, 'a High Priest if you like, a Druid. Does it matter what the name is? It all amounts to the same thing.'

There was a moment's silence then the Inspector said, 'What about the inscriptions? Could you decipher them?'

Trefoile sighed. 'The one across the centre of the medallion was pretty simple. It means Deathday.'

Lambert shrugged. 'The other one?'

'That was trickier, much trickier. You see, it's not like the central one. The inscription around the outside of the medallion is written in reverse.'

'A sort of code?' asked Lambert.

The antique dealer nodded. 'When the letters are transposed, that's when it begins to make a bit of sense.' He pushed the gold circlet towards Lambert, pointing out the letters with the tip of his pen. 'These two words,' he wrote them down on a pad, 'as they are, make no sense. Transposed, they read REX NOCTU.' He paused. 'It means, King of the Night.'

'What about the other words?' Lambert demanded.

Trefoile swallowed hard. 'Inspector, don't think me a fool, a coward even, but, if I were you, I'd get rid of this thing now.'

'Why, for Christ's sake?'

'Because it's evil.'

Lambert half smiled. 'Evil.'

'Take these books,' said Trefoile, 'you'll find your answers in there. I want no part of this.' The Inspector's expression changed when he saw how pale the antique dealer had become. The older man's hands were shaking visibly as he wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead.

'Trefoile,' he said, 'what the hell is it with this bloody medallion? It's important. People could have died because of this.'

'Does it have anything to do with what's happening here at the moment?' The question hung in the air.

'What makes you think that?' demanded Lambert.

'As I said, it's evil. I can't help you anymore, Inspector.' Trefoile's voice had dropped to a low whisper. 'Just take the books and go. Please.' There was a hint of pleading in that last word.

Lambert looked stunned. He looked at Debbie and shook his head before gathering up the two books and the medallion. He thanked the antique dealer for his help and told him that they would find their own way out. He nodded abstractedly, gazing into the murky depths of his cup, aware only of their departure by the soft tinkling of the bell over the door, lingering like some unwanted nightmare.

Lambert and Debbie hurried to the car and climbed in, placing the two huge volumes and the medallion on the back seat. The Inspector started the engine immediately and drove off.

'Tom, he was really frightened,' said Debbie, softly.

'Drive me to the library,' she told him.

'Now?'

'We'll need a dictionary to translate the Latin; there's two or three in our reference section.'

Lambert nodded and swung a right at the next junction. As he drove he noted how few people were on the streets. A couple of lads in leather jackets smoking, standing in a shop doorway. One or two in the fish and chip shop but, apart from that, they hadn't seen above five people since leaving the house two hours earlier.

He brought the car to a halt outside the library and both of them got out. Debbie was first up the stairs, fumbling in her jacket pocket for the master key. Cursing the cold weather, she finally found it and there was a loud click as the heavy lock opened. They stepped in, Debbie slapping the panel of switches near the door. The powerful banks of fluorescents blazed and the library was filled with cold white light. Lambert shivered as he followed her through the maze of shelves towards the reference section.

'Don't you have any bloody heating in here?' he said. He passed a radiator and pressed his hand to it, withdrawing it quickly as it singed him.

'Shit,' he grunted. The radiator was red hot. Yet still he could feel that penetrating cold, an almost palpable chill which encircled him with icy fingers.

Debbie found the dictionaries and hurried out again, turning off lights as she went. Once outside, she locked the door and the two of them hurried back to the car.

Lambert put his foot down and they were home in under twenty minutes. He put the car in the garage while Debbie carried the heavy volumes indoors where she laid them on the coffee table. Once inside, Lambert locked and bolted every door and window in the house then retreated to the comforting warmth of the living room. Debbie already had the books spread open, a notepad by her side.

It was going to be a long job and, as he looked at the first page, Lambert wondered what they were going to find.

The entire book would have to be translated, word for word. They would find one word and, immediately, be forced to look it up in the dictionary. The meaning clear, it would then be transcribed onto a fresh piece of paper.

Lambert looked at his watch as they began. It was eight fourteen P.M.

It took them three hours to do the first page.

Outside, the rain lashed down, the darkness covering the town and countryside like an impenetrable blanket.

Charles Burton stubbed out his third cigarette and checked his watch against the wall clock above Lambert's desk. He exhaled through clenched teeth and pulled open the office door.

'When the hell is he getting here?' said Burton.

Sergeant Hayes, who was making out a duty roster, looked up and smiled.

'He shouldn't be long, Mr. Burton,' he said.

Burton slammed the door and Hayes raised two fingers at it. Miserable bastard, he thought, and carried on with the roster.

Burton had never been a patient man, but, at this precise moment in time, seated in Lambert's office, he was on the point of blowing his top. He'd been waiting for the young policeman for more than thirty minutes and he wasn't going to wait much longer. As editor of Medworth's newspaper, he deserved prompt attention. He never had liked Lambert. Cocky young sod, he thought. Burton, approaching his fortieth year, wondered how someone as young as Lambert had ever been put in charge of the Medworth force in the first place. He was never very cooperative, but, regarding recent events, he'd been downright secretive. Burton was determined to get to the bottom of things. It was his right as a newsman, and the people of Medworth had a right to know too. He resolved not to leave until Lambert had told him what was really happening in the town. Burton checked his watch again. That was if the young bastard ever arrived.

Burton felt quite exhilarated. He'd never had anything quite this big to write about since becoming editor of The Medworth Herald, but what with a number of deaths and disappearances over a matter of weeks, this was something new. Usually it was all jumble sales and tedious local events and he allowed his own meagre staff to deal with those trivialities. But this one he wanted for himself. He didn't trust one of his three reporters to cover it adequately. They'd probably miss some important detail here or there. Besides, Lambert would be able to brush them aside easily. Burton was determined not to be pushed away with excuses and half-baked explanations.

He checked his watch again and lit another cigarette. The room was already heavy with the smell of stale smoke and Burton added to it, blowing out a long stream as he dropped the lighter back into his pocket.

His wife had bought it for him for their tenth wedding anniversary. He half smiled, thinking about her. She'd be at home now, up to her elbows in washing up or vacuuming. She was always doing something. Cleaning up, rearranging the furniture. He wondered if there was a medical term for it. Compulsive house cleaning or something like that. She went mad if he even so much as dropped a speck of ash on the carpet. Out came the Hoover straight away. Burton had put up with it for the first couple of years, but, gradually, her mania for neatness had begun to annoy him. He stayed at the office later each night. She never complained about that, though. As long as their house was neat and tidy, she was happy. He often thought that she wouldn't mind if World War Three broke out tomorrow, as long as the house was in good shape. He stayed out until all hours, boozing, sometimes just driving around, even screwing other women, but when he finally got home, she would never question him. Just peck him lightly on the cheek and ask him if he had a good day.

There was a girl at the moment. She worked as a barmaid in 'The Bell,' a pub on the outskirts of the town. Her name was Stephanie (he called her Stevie) Lawson and, although she had never told him, he guessed her age to be around twenty. Only once did it occur to Burton that he was old enough to be her father and that once was after their first bout of lovemaking. Even the recollection exhausted him. Christ, she was a bloody animal he thought, smiling. She was cooking him dinner tonight at her place. It was her night off and Burton was looking forward to it.

His train of thought was broken as he heard footsteps outside the door.

Lambert walked into the station and smiled at Hayes. He held up two, grimy, oil-covered hands.

'Would you believe it,' he said, 'I had a bloody puncture about ten minutes from home. Changed that, and then found out my oil was low so I had to top up with that too.'

Hayes pointed to the closed door of the office. Lambert looked around.

'You've got a visitor, guv,' said the sergeant.

'Who is it?' asked Lambert, lowering his voice.

'Charlie Burton.'

Lambert sighed. 'Christ, I'd forgotten. How long's he been here?'

'Half an hour.'

Lambert nodded and pushed open his office door. Hayes heard the initial greeting then the conversation was cut off as the door closed once more.

'I've been waiting nearly forty minutes for you,' said Burton, irritably.

'Sorry,' said Lambert, smiling, 'I had a blow out.'

He crossed to the sink in one corner of the room and began scrubbing his hands.

'You said nine o'clock,' persisted the newsman.

Lambert gritted his teeth. 'I can't help it if my bloody car gets a flat, can I?' he said, drying his hands. He turned to face Burton, wondering why he ever agreed to meet the man in the first place. If Burton disliked the Inspector then the feeling was more than mutual. Lambert tried to be pleasant. Smiling, he sat down.

'What can I do for you?' he asked.

'You know what I want,' said Burton, impatiently. 'Some information about what's been going on around here during the last few weeks.'

'I told you over the phone that no information would be given until the investigation was over.'

'That's bullshit,' snapped Burton. 'You said there would be press releases.' He emphasized the last two words with scorn. 'Some sort of statement and yet every time me or one of my reporters rings up, you're either not here or you won't tell us anything.'

Lambert picked up a pen which was lying on his desk and began toying with it.

'Like I said,' Lambert said softly, 'I don't want any of this in the papers until the investigation is over.'

'Any of what, for Christ's sake?' said Burton, angrily. 'Just what is going on, Lambert? People have a right to know.'

'It's classified.'

'Don't give me that shit. Come on, divulge.' Lambert sat forward in his chair, the pen pointing at Burton.

'Look, Burton, none of this has anything to do with you or your blasted paper. If I say there'll be no information given about this case, then that's how it'll be.'

Burton smiled cryptically. 'You're a jumped-up little bastard, Lambert, you know that? Just who the hell do you think you are?'

'I'm the law. Who are you? Some glorified bloody paper boy who wants to find out some details so he can stick them in the local rag. I told you, there'll be no info given on this case until it's all wrapped up.'

'So what's all this crap about "Police statements"?' the newsman demanded.

'You'll get them in time,' Lambert told him.

Burton laughed. 'I know why you won't tell me anything. It's because you can't. You don't know what the hell is going on either. Lambert, you couldn't figure out a fucking crossword puzzle, let alone what's happening here.'

'It's police business. It's none of your concern.'

'People are dying, disappearing in this bloody town. We all have a right to know what's being done about it.'

Lambert reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a copy of the previous night's paper. He hurled it down.

'You don't have a right to print that,' he snarled, pointing to the column headed, 'Police baffled over disappearances.'

'And, another thing, if you print anything else about this case without my say so, I'll close your fucking paper down.'

'You bastard.'

'Welcome to the club,' said Lambert, angrily. The two men regarded each other for a moment, the tension between them almost visible. Then Lambert said: 'I mean it, Burton. I want all details, all speculation, kept out of the paper.'

The newsman was unimpressed but, his tone softened slightly.

'Off the record, what is going on?'

Lambert smiled at him. 'Off the record?'

Burton sat forward eagerly.

The Inspector pressed his fingertips together and sat back in his chair. 'I don't know.'

'Come on, Lambert, I said off the record.'

'I'm telling you,' the policeman continued, 'I don't know.'

'But it is true that twelve people have disappeared during the last couple of weeks?' asked Burton eagerly.

'Where did you get that information?' the Inspector wanted to know.

Burton was losing his temper. 'People talk. That's the only thing they are talking about at the moment. Nothing's happened in this place for fifty years. The biggest event of the year is the bloody Church social. What the hell do you expect them to talk about? It's common knowledge.' He paused, waiting for the Inspector to speak but he remained impassive.

'So, is it true?' he asked again.

'Off the record?'

Burton nodded.

'It's true,' Lambert said, 'but if you print that, I'll have you for disclosure of evidence.'

'What's happened to them?' asked Burton.

'Maybe they just left town.'

'Come on, Lambert, I said this was off the record,' said the newsman, becoming irritable again.

'You want a comment, right?' Lambert said. 'Something to print. An official police statement?'

Burton looked eager, nodding frenziedly.

'All right,' said Lambert, 'got a pen?'

Burton pulled out a notebook, flipped it open and waited expectantly.

'My official statement regarding this case,' began Lambert, 'is simple enough.' He paused. 'No comment.'

'You bastard,' snarled Burton.

Lambert had to fight to suppress a grin as he watched the editor turn scarlet with rage. He stood up, slipping the notebook back into his pocket. The newsman headed for the door, turning as he reached it.

'This case will beat you, Lambert, and I'll be the first one to wave goodbye when they wheel you out.'

Burton had the door half open.

'Hey, Charlie,' called Lambert, half smiling, 'for the record.'

'What?' snapped Burton.

'Fuck you.'

The editor slammed the door as he left. A moment later Sergeant Hayes popped his head round the door.

'Everything all right, guv?' he asked.

Lambert smiled, 'Yes thanks, Vic. Just Mr Burton blowing his top. Nothing to worry about.'

Hayes nodded. 'Anything else, guv?'

Lambert smiled, 'Yes. I could murder a cup of tea.'

Hayes scuttled off to make it, closing the door behind him. Lambert exhaled deeply, his forehead creased heavily. He thought of Debbie, at home at this very moment, trying to decipher the two huge volumes which Trefoile had given them. She had taken a few days off so that she could work on them and perhaps find an answer quickly. Time suddenly seemed very important. Lambert just hoped that it wouldn't run out for him. Or for the whole town, come to that. He looked out of the window, pleased to sunlight.

He was beginning to dread the night.

The wind had grown steadily as the evening wore on. As the sun sank, it had been little more than a gentle breeze, but now, just after midnight, it had grown in ferocity to almost gale proportions.

Charles Burton lay in bed listening to the gate slamming repeatedly in the passageway below. The narrow entrance and stone corridor separated the house from the one next door and it was the wooden door at the head of the passage that was being buffetted by the wind. It smashed sporadically into the lintel, each fresh impact jarring Burton and making him more irritable. If it went on much longer he would have to get up and close the bloody thing. It had a latch but the people next door usually forgot to put it on. That was why the door was slamming now.

Burton exhaled deeply, closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the insistent banging of the gate disturbed him. Finally he swung himself out, pulled on his trousers and slid his sockless feet into his shoes.

'What's up?' croaked Stevie Lawson, sleepily. She looked up and saw, through blurred eyes, Burton trying to zip up his trousers. He caught a pubic hair in the zipper and yelped in pain.

'Shit,' he snarled.

Stevie smiled. 'What are you doing?'

'It's that bloody gate,' said Burton, inclining his head. As if to add weight to his statement, there was an almighty crash as it cracked into the jamb once more.

'They must have forgotten to lock it, next door,' said Stevie, yawning. 'Can't you leave it?'

'It's getting on my nerves,' he snapped, heading for the bedroom door. He pulled it open and fumbled for the landing light which he slapped on.

'Come back to bed,' purred Stevie, allowing the sheet to drop, revealing her breasts. 'Forget about the gate.'

Burton felt a stirring in his groin at the sight of those firm mounds and he almost hesitated, but the gate slammed again and he was off down the stairs.

Stevie heard him open the hall door and blunder through the living room. She rolled onto her back and stretched beneath the sheets. Burton might be getting on a bit, she thought to herself, but he certainly knew how to treat a woman.

Their lovemaking had been even more abandoned that night, animalistic almost, and the thought of it made her tingle. She'd hang onto him for a couple more weeks. He bought her flowers and perfume, anything she wanted really. She only had to ask and he'd get it for her. Silly old bastard, she thought. Couldn't he see she was using him? She'd cooked him dinner that night, listened disinterestedly as he'd prattled on about his day's work. She fussed him, teased him, and finally they had climbed into bed. To her it seemed like a fair deal, he got what he wanted from her, she got what she wanted from him. Sometimes it was difficult to tell who was using who. Still, she thought, next time she'd pick up a younger bloke. Burton had the money and he was good in bed, but she wanted someone nearer her own age. He could only manage it twice in a night and sometimes that wasn't enough for her.

Her husband had been the same. She almost laughed aloud as she thought of him. Poor old Ron. He'd joined the army a year before they got married. He was a sergeant in the Signals. Out in Ulster at the moment. She'd had no letter from him for over a week. For all she knew, or cared, he could be lying in some Belfast gutter with an I.R.A. bullet in him. He usually wrote to her once a week to ask how she was, how the family was, and his little joke at the end, to make sure that she was behaving herself. Ha bloody ha, she thought. Dutifully she wrote back, always telling him that she missed him and couldn't wait for him to get home. She smiled to herself. Fucking idiot he was, probably believed her too. She was toying with the idea of moving away from Medworth. It was boring. She wanted to see some life. Ron was happy there, but, of course, he never did have any ambition. London was the place for her. The nightlife. The men. Beneath the sheets she ran both hands over her body, satisfied that she would have no trouble finding someone dumb enough to keep her if she ever should make the trek down there. Any bloke, anywhere, would give his right arm to have her. She was one of that rare breed of women who were not only aware of their good looks but also knew how to use them to get what they wanted. She heard Burton open the back door and wished he would stop farting about and hurry back to bed. She was beginning to feel horny again.

The wind hit him like a cold hammer when he opened the door and the newsman shivered, wishing he'd put on a coat. He stepped out into the darkness and hurried around the corner to the passage. Peering up it, he could see the gate slightly ajar. As he started towards it, a gust of wind blew it shut * plunging the passage and back yard into total darkness. Burton placed his hands on one wall and groped his way towards the door.

He cracked his leg on something which was standing in the darkened passage.

'Jesus,' he groaned, rubbing his injured shin.

The object which he'd collided with was a motorcycle. The lad who owned it lived in the next house and he always put it in the passage on bad nights. Burton cursed under his breath and edged past the bike. He reached the gate just as a gust of wind sent it hurtling back. It slammed into the rear wall with a loud thud and momentarily gave the newsman a view of the street outside. All the lamps were out. It was like a bloody coal mine out there. Burton thought he saw something move at the end of the pathway which led out from the gate, but he dismissed it and fumbled with the latch on the gate, finally dropping it into place and tugging on the metal handle to ensure that the wind wouldn't blow it loose again. Satisfied, he turned and groped his way back down the passage, careful to avoid the motorcycle this time. He edged around the corner into the back yard of Stevie's house and smiled at the sight of light flooding from the open back door. He paused for a moment. He didn't remember leaving the door open when he came out. Burton shrugged. The bloody wind had probably blown that open too.

He heard a scratching sound close by and spun round, trying to make out what it was in the light from the open back door.

A dark shape was moving at the bottom of the garden. Hidden by the large hedge, it was difficult to make it out. The newsman hesitated, squinting into the gloom, trying to distinguish shape from shadow. A particularly strong gust of wind rocked him where he stood and he shivered, bringing both arms up and trying to cover himself while still attempting to make out what exactly was moving about at the bottom of the garden. There was another sound, like that of sticks being broken. Finally, his curiosity getting the better of him, Burton strode off down the garden to find the source of the noise.

Stevie sighed. What the hell was Burton playing at? Surely it didn't take that long to lock a gate? She hadn't heard it banging for the last couple of minutes so she assumed that he had closed it. What the bloody hell was he pissing about at?

She heard footsteps on the stairs and smiled, deciding to play a joke on him. She rolled onto her side, pretending to be asleep. The landing light went off and she heard movement outside the door. She'd frighten the bastard when he came back in. She'd wait until he was leaning right over her then jump up. Stevie suppressed a grin.

Her back was to the bedroom door when it opened.

Burton reached the bottom of the garden, the wind now drowning out all other noises. It gusted around him, roaring in his ears and he began to wish he'd gone straight back into the house. He could hardly see in the darkness and he was freezing but he was determined to find out what it was that was making the scratching noise.

He peered over the top of the hedge, scanning the ground for some sign of movement.

Nothing in sight. He sighed.

Something touched his foot and he jumped back, almost shouting in terror. Controlling the urge to run, he looked down to see a hedgehog scuttling past. It hurried past him and disappeared beneath the wire fence which separated Stevie's garden from the one next door. Burton smiled, amused and angry with himself for his exaggerated reaction. He turned and trudged back towards the house.

He was pleased to regain its warmth and light and he hastily locked and bolted the back door, shivering. Then he made his way back through the darkened house until he reached the hall. Here he paused. The landing light was out, the staircase in darkness. Burton flicked the switch in the hall which also controlled the landing light and the place was illuminated once more. He started up the stairs, slowing his pace as he noticed a strange odour. It reminded him of bad fish and he wrinkled his nose as it became stronger. By the time he reached the landing itself, the stench was almost overpowering. The door to Stevie's bedroom was closed tightly and Burton found that he had to use unexpected force to open it. He stepped inside, reaching for the light switch, the smell now so strong he wanted to vomit. He called her name once and turned on the light.

There were three of them in the room.

Burton froze in the doorway, not quite able to accept what he saw.

The living dead creatures were huddled around the bed like worshippers at an altar. As the light went on, two of them cowered down, trying to hide their blank eyes from the brightness.

Eyes?

It was with mounting revulsion that Burton realized they didn't have any eyes. Just black, empty holes, dark with dried and caked blood. The third of the trio, a man in his thirties, had one hand on Stevie's face, and the newsman saw that one of his bony fingers was still embedded in her, now empty, eye socket. Blood from the torn cavity had run down like crimson tears, staining the sheets. In other places it had splashed over her chest. He noted the wounds around her throat, the bruising and red welts where she had been throttled to death, the numerous other abrasions on her body where the trio of living corpses had attacked her.

Burton couldn't move. All he could do was shake his head slowly back and forth, his eyes gaping wide at the scene before him. Had his mind been functioning properly he would have realized that it was the light that was keeping the things still, but, in his present state, nothing registered. Just the obscene image of those creatures, crouched around Stevie's body like eyeless vultures.

Then, when he seemed beyond horror, something happened which finally galvanized him into action.

Stevie sat up.

Very slowly she turned her head, the bleeding holes which should have been eyes fixing him in a blazing stare.

She was grinning.

Burton screamed and reached down, his fist closing around a hand mirror which lay on the dressing table beside him. He took a step forward and, with all his strength, smashed it into the face of the first living corpse. The impact shattered the mirror and long shards of razor-sharp glass shredded the man's face. So powerful was the swing, it knocked the thing off its feet and it toppled onto the second of the living dead creatures, a woman no more than twenty-five. The third, another man, leapt across the bed at Burton and grabbed him by the throat. Roaring with rage, the newsman pushed the creature away, bringing his foot up. It connected savagely, just below the ribcage and the thing crumpled up. Burton aimed another kick at its head, gratified by the sound of snapping bone as he shattered a cheekbone with the force of his blow.

He staggered for a second, his mind frozen, filled only with one thought. Hatred for the things that had killed Stevie. But now she was upon him, her sharp nails tearing at his face, raking his cheeks. Aiming for his eyes. He punched her hard, the blow splitting her bottom lip, but she staggered a moment then was at him again. They fell back against the wall, her hands reaching for his throat.

The second creature, the woman, clambered over the bed and joined in the attack and Burton felt more sharp nails tearing at his face. Blood spurted from three deep gashes and he lashed out, catching the creature in the throat. It made a gurgling sound, yellow mucous spilling over its lips but it continued with its attack and Burton now noticed that the second woman too, was grinning.

They were all grinning.

Even the first of them, staggering towards him with splinters of glass protruding from his torn face where the mirror had cut him.

Burton screamed once more and, with a last desperate surge of strength, hurled Stevie away. She toppled over the fallen creature and the newsman bolted for the door, slamming it behind him and racing for the stairs. The second woman was after him, catching his arm as he reached the top step. He spun around, the momentum of his swing aided by the turn, and slammed both fists into her face. The nose crumbled beneath the impact and bright blood spurted into the air, some of it onto Burton. He grabbed the woman by the hair and hurled her down, watching with something approaching insane joy as she tumbled down the stairs, finally crashing into the table at the bottom. He almost shouted in anguish as he saw her get up, starting towards him once more.

And now the others were spilling onto the landing, all of them sporting that hideous feral grin. Headed by Stevie they lunged at him but he ducked back into the bathroom, slamming the door and sliding the tiny bolt.

One of the living dead men crashed into the door and Burton knew that it wouldn't hold them back for long. His breath coming in gasps, he looked frantically around the tiny room which had become a prison. There was nothing to defend himself with. He couldn't hope to fight off four of them.

There was one chance…

If he could climb out of the window onto the window sill, he might be able to hoist himself up onto the roof of the house. They'd never be able to reach him up there and, even if they did succeed in climbing up, it could only be one at a time. He'd kick the fuckers off as they reached the top.

The bathroom door rocked once more and the bolt began to bend. Burton crossed the room, opened the window and clambered up onto the sill, using the sink as a foothold.

He could hear them moving about outside the room.

Twenty feet below him was a mass of solid concrete and he was thankful he couldn't see it as he scrambled out onto the sill. The powerful wind tugged at him and, for a second, he tottered but he grabbed at the guttering a foot or so above. his head and steadied himself. He prayed that it would take his weight.

There was an almighty crash as the bathroom door was smashed in. The living corpses crowded into the room, the first of them rushing to the open window, grabbing for Burton's exposed legs. He shrieked and kicked out at the grasping hand, trying, simultaneously, to hoist himself up. The wind roared in his ears, the hands of the creatures tore at his legs. With almost tired resignation, he realized he wasn't going to make it.

He groaned and tried to pull himself up but the guttering buckled under his weight. For precious seconds it held and he actually managed to hook one leg up onto the slates of the roof, but, with a sickening creak, it gave way.

Burton uttered one mournful cry and plummeted to the concrete below.

The impact broke his back and most of his ribs on the left side, one of which tore through his lung. His head slammed down. Blood burst into his mouth and he sensed a feeling of total awareness before he blacked out. The last thing he saw was the living dead things peering out of the bathroom window, as if, somehow, they could see his shattered body. Even though he couldn't see them clearly, he could sense that they would be grinning.

Twelve more people were to die that night.

The night was alive with a kaleidoscope of flashing blue lights as Lambert swung the Capri into Victoria Lane. There were two squad cars and an ambulance, all with their lights spinning, parked in the road outside a house about half way down the street. One of the Pandas was parked on the pavement.

The Inspector rubbed his eyes as he switched off the engine. The clock on the dashboard glowed one-thirty A.M. and Lambert yawned as he stepped out of the Capri and walked hurriedly towards the group of vehicles. There were lights in the windows of houses next door and across the road and he could see people peering out to see just what the hell was going on at this ungodly hour of the morning.

The wind had dropped but there was a biting chill in the air and the Inspector pulled up the collar of his coat, digging his hands deep into the pockets. He recognized Constable Bell, and the policeman smiled grimly as he saw Lambert approach.

'What happened?' asked the Inspector, yawning.

Bell reached for his notebook but Lambert waved it away. 'Just the shortened version,' he said.

'Well, the house belongs to a Mrs Stephanie Lawson, her husband is in the army, he's away at the moment…'

Lambert cut him short. 'I said the short version.'

'Sorry, sir,' said Bell and continued, 'a neighbour rang up about an hour ago to complain about some noises she heard coming from the house. The sarge radioed me and P.C. Jenkins and we came straight over. I knocked on the door but I couldn't get any answer. When I went around the back I found…' he hesitated.

'What?' demanded Lambert.

'A body.'

He was about to walk away when Bell called him back. 'He was still alive when I reached him.'

Lambert nodded.

'Dr Kirby is in the ambulance with him now.'

Lambert turned and hurried across to the parked emergency vehicle, its two back doors still open. The Inspector assumed that Kirby must have been summoned at roughly the same time as himself. Hayes had called him ten minutes earlier and told him that there was trouble in Victoria Lane. Now he peered into the ambulance and saw a worried looking Kirby bending over the covered form of a man. There was a red blanket pulled up to his neck but its colour did little to mask the dark stains which had seeped through the thick material in several places.

'John,' said Lambert, climbing up into the ambulance.

'He's dying,' said Kirby flatly.

It was then that Lambert looked down at the prostrate form and saw that it was Charles Burton.

'Jesus Christ,' gasped the Inspector.

At the sound, Burton opened his eyes slightly. When he saw Lambert, they widened to huge orbs, filled with pain and something more. Fear perhaps. The newsman lifted one bloodstained hand towards Lambert and croaked, 'Lambert.' Blood dribbled over his lips and he winced, as if the effort of talking were too much, but he drew in a painful breath and continued. The policeman leant closer.

'What are they?' gasped Burton, his wide eyes fixing the Inspector momentarily in a piercing stare. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes. Lambert looked down at the torn face, the blood-matted hair, a portion of skull shining white amidst the clumps of congealing gore. Kirby pushed him aside and laid his stethoscope on Burton's chest. He felt for a pulse, digging his fingers almost savagely into the wrist. He shook his head angrily.

An ambulanceman appeared in the doorway and looked at Kirby.

'Will you be travelling to the hospital, doctor?' he asked.

'No need,' said Kirby and stepped down, followed by Lambert.

They heard the doors being slammed and, a second later the ambulance pulled away. Its blue light was extinguished. There was no longer an emergency. No hurry to reach the hospital. Not any longer.

Constable Bell appeared again.

'There's blood all over the house, sir,' he said, swallowing.

Lambert nodded. 'What about Mrs Lawson?'

'No sign of her anywhere.'

Bell wandered off again, leaving the two men alone outside the house. Lambert looked up into the dark sky, flecked with hundreds of silver pinpricks of stars. He sighed then looked at Kirby.

'This has gone far enough, John,' he said, flatly. 'We need help.'

Lambert and Kirby spoke little on the journey to Divisional Headquarters in Nottingham. Almost against his better judgment, the Inspector had finally decided that he needed reinforcements to deal with the growing threat which hung over Medworth like some supernatural cloud. He was perspiring slightly although the early morning sun had not yet reached its full power and the last vestiges of dawn mist still hung, wraithlike, in the hollows and woods which dotted the route. There wasn't much traffic on the road and for that Lambert was thankful. He cruised, doing an even fifty for most of the journey, causing Kirby to glance down at the speedometer every now and then. But he said nothing. He too realized the importance of their journey, and as far as both of them were concerned, the sooner it was over, the better.

On the back seat of the Capri was a leather attache case, filled to bursting point with every detail they could lay their hands on concerning the horrors which had taken place in Medworth over the past month or so. Coroner's reports, backgrounds of victims, what scant details they had of the disappearances (there had been twenty-four up to date) and full reports by Lambert on what was happening.

As they sat in silence, watching the countryside speeding by, both men had the same thought. How the hell were they going to convince Lambert's superiors of the truth of what was going on in the little town?

The journey took less than forty minutes and, at around nine-thirty, Lambert was guiding the Capri through the busy streets of Nottingham, blasting his horn angrily at a cyclist who hesitated too long at traffic lights. The poor woman was so unnerved by the sudden sound that she nearly toppled off into the path of a passing jeep. Lambert swung the car past her and asked Kirby to check just exactly where they were.

'Take a left at the next crossroads,' said the doctor, running his index finger over the inner city map.

The Inspector obeyed, and within minutes they found themselves in a huge car park which fronted the main building, a massive edifice of glass and concrete which seemed to tower up into the very clouds themselves. Sunlight glinted off the many windows which winked like myriad glass eyes, peering down on the tiny car as the Inspector parked it and they both got out. They walked swiftly across the paved area, Lambert looking in awe at the seemingly endless lines of parked Pandas.

They reached the main entrance and climbed the flight of broad stone steps until a row of wire meshed glass doors confronted him. Lambert pushed the first of these, holding it open for

Kirby to pass through. They found themselves in a huge reception area with what looked like a gigantic duty desk at one end. Lambert crossed to it and asked the sergeant on duty where he could find Detective Chief Inspector Baron. The sergeant asked who the Inspector was and Lambert produced his own I.D. card to prove his validity. The sergeant nodded and directed the two men to a lift across the entrance way and told them to take it to the fifth floor.

There was a loud ring as the lift arrived and three uniformed men stepped out, pushing past Lambert and Kirby as if they were in a hurry. The two men stepped into the lift and Lambert jabbed the button marked '5'. There was a humming sound as the lift ascended. It reached five and, with a loud ring, the doors opened. The two men stepped out, feeling the thickness of lush carpet beneath their feet. The corridor was silent, all sounds muffled by the thick cloth on which they walked. At the far end was a desk behind which sat a woman in her thirties. She was reading and, as Lambert drew closer, he could see that the book was called 'Hot Lips.' He suppressed a grin as the woman put the book down and smiled politely up at him.

'Good morning, sir,' she said.

'Good morning,' replied Lambert, 'I'd like to see DCI Baron please. My name is Lambert.' He reached for the plastic card again and showed it to her, 'Inspector Lambert.'

'Just a moment, sir,' she said and flicked a switch on the panel before her. There was a loud buzzing noise and then a metallic voice came through the speaker;

'Yes.'

'Carol. There's a…' she hesitated, looking at the name on the card, '… Inspector Tom Lambert out here. He wants to see Mr Baron.'

'Send him in,' instructed the voice. 'But Mr Baron is busy at the moment, he might have to wait.'

'That's O.K.,' said the Inspector.

The receptionist showed them a door off to the right and the two men nodded as they walked in.

'It's more like a bloody hotel,' said Lambert under his breath, walking into another office. It was decorated in a lemon yellow, the walls hung with a number of paintings. The area to their left was one huge plate glass window through which the early morning sun was streaming, dust particles swirling in its powerful rays. There were five leather chairs along the opposite wall and an ashtray beside each one. At the far end of the room was a desk and, on either side of the desk, a door. As Lambert approached the desk he could see the two names, which were fastened to the dark wood of the doors, in gold letters. The name on the right hand door was Chief Inspector Mark Dayton. The one on the left read Detective Chief Inspector James Baron.

'Inspector Lambert?' said the receptionist, a woman with a round face and large glasses.

Lambert nodded.

'You'll have to wait, I'm afraid. Mr Baron is busy at the moment.'

'How long will he be?'

The woman smiled, an efficient smile practised over the years. 'I can't say for sure, but if you'd like to take a seat I'll send you in as soon as I can.' She motioned to the leather chairs and the two men sat down. The wall clock said nine forty-five. Lambert lit up his first cigarette of the day.

The hands of the clock had crawled on to ten thirty and there were seven butts in the ashtray before Lambert when the buzzer finally sounded and a little red light flared on the panel before the receptionist. She leant forward and spoke into the intercom.

'Yes, sir,' she said.

Lambert heard something babbled but couldn't understand what it was. He gritted his teeth and exhaled deeply. If there was one thing he hated, it was being kept waiting. He ground out his cigarette angrily and looked across at the receptionist who still wore that perpetual grin.

'There are two gentlemen to see you, sir. An Inspector Lambert and…' she looked up, realizing that she didn't know the other man's name.

'Dr Kirby,' he said.

'Dr Kirby,' she repeated.

There were more metallic babblings from the other end and then she nodded and flicked the switch back to 'Off.'

'You can go in,' she said.

'Three bloody cheers,' muttered Lambert. He knocked once and a voice from inside told him to come in. The two men entered the office. It was small, not the grandiose abode which the Inspector had imagined. There were several banks of filing cabinets, a rubber plant on one window sill, and of all things, a tropical fish tank set on a table beside one wall. Baron himself was bending over the tank when the two men entered. He looked up and smiled, extending a friendly hand which they both shook.

'Fascinating things, fish,' said Baron, cheerfully and sat down behind his desk. He pointed to two plastic chairs upon which his visitors seated themselves. So, thought Lambert, this is the great James Baron? The man who had solved more murder cases in this area than he'd had hot dinners? Baron's reputation was a formidable one and well known to all those under him. He'd been a colonel in the Chindits during the war and still bore a scar, running from the corner of his left eye to his left ear, as a legacy of those days. Two broken marriages and countless affairs had charted his rise to the very top of his profession, a position which he intended holding until he retired. Another eight years. There was, Lambert had been told by men who had worked directly under Baron, a feeling of ambivalence towards the man. On the one hand he was respected for his abilities as a policeman, but on the other hand he was hated for his hardhearted cynicism, the latter being something that Lambert was all too aware of as he tried to figure out what he was going to say to his superior. Baron was not a favourite with the media either. His policy of releasing only tiny pieces of information had led to him being regarded as uncooperative and rude. That at least, was something Lambert could respect about him. Baron had been in the force for nearly thirty years and had held the rank of D.C.I. for fifteen of those. During his term in command, the force in that area had undergone a radical change, dealing with troublemakers in a tougher way which had many crying police brutality. But Baron cared nothing for the reactions of the press and television. As far as he was concerned he was there to do a job and he would do it as he thought best and the way he could best achieve results.

Now, as he sat back in his seat, Lambert studied this powerful man. Well preserved for his age and, considering the responsibilities which he carried, remarkably untouched by the rigours of worry. No wrinkles or grey hairs here. Just the slightest hint of a paunch, visible as it strained against the tightly buttoned waistcoat which he wore. His jacket was hung up behind the door along with his overcoat. Neat.

Baron looked at Lambert and smiled.

'Inspector Lambert, eh?' he said, his voice gravelly.

'Yes sir.'

'You're a young man to hold such a responsible position. You must be good at your job.' He smiled warmly. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

'Yes, please,' said Kirby and Lambert too, agreed.

Baron flicked a switch on his intercom and spoke rapidly into it, telling his secretary to fetch three coffees. He sat back in his chair once more, hands clasped across his broad chest.

'Which area are you from?' Baron asked.

'Well, we're based in Medworth, but we cover most of the area round about,' Lambert explained.

'How many men are under you?'

'Ten.'

Baron nodded.

'Married?' he asked.

Christ, thought Lambert, it's like a bloody interview.

'Yes, sir.'

'And you doctor?' Baron wanted to know.

Kirby shook his head. 'No, I'm still a free agent.'

'And quite right too,' said Baron laughing. 'They're more trouble than they're worth, women.'

The other two men laughed nervously. There was a knock on the door and the coffee arrived. Carol set it down on the edge of the desk and left. The three men helped themselves to milk and sugar and Baron sat back in his chair, stirring slowly.

'Well, Inspector, what exactly can I do for you?' said the older man. 'It must be important for you to come all this way.'

Lambert and Kirby exchanged brief glances and the Inspector coughed nervously. He put his coffee cup on the corner of the desk.

'I need your help, sir,' he said. 'I need some of your men.'

Baron took a sip of his coffee and regarded Lambert over the rim of the cup.

'Why?' he wanted to know.

Lambert opened the attache case and fumbled inside until he found what he was looking for. It was a photograph of the body of Father Ridley, hanging from the bell rope. Baron took it and studied the monochrome print, his eyes coming to rest on the damage done to Ridley's face. He nodded gently, looking at the second photo which Lambert handed him. It was of Emma Reece.

'Both the work of the same person?' mused Baron, his gaze settling on the torn eye sockets of both victims.

Kirby reached for two of the manila files in the case with Lambert watching him anxiously. 'The marks on the bodies of the first victims match those on the bodies of the latest ones,' said the doctor, pushing the files towards Baron.

The D.C.I. peered briefly at the files, shaking his head.

'Twenty-four people have disappeared inside a month,' Lambert told him. 'We can't find a trace of them. All we ever find at the scene of the assault is lots of blood.'

'That proves nothing,' said Baron flinging the files back onto the desk.

'People don't just disappear,' said Lambert, his voice rising in volume, 'there's a pattern to it.'

Kirby pointed to the marks on his neck. 'These wounds were inflicted by a woman who had been buried for over a week.' There was a long silence as Baron regarded the two men suspiciously.

'You're both bloody crazy,' said Baron, smiling.

'Sir, for God's sake, can't you at least offer an explanation? We've tried every possible avenue to find a plausible answer. There is not a plausible answer,' said Lambert, barely able to control himself.

Kirby returned to the wounds on his neck. 'This woman attacked me. She rose from the grave and attacked me. I was as skeptical as you until that happened but I'm telling you, I was attacked by a living corpse.'

There was a moment's silence, during which time Baron's smile faded. He leant forward, his voice now hard-edged and emotionless.

'Now you listen to me, both of you. I'm a busy man, I've got lots of responsibilities and I haven't got the time to sit around listening to two raving lunatics trying to tell me that they've got a town full of living corpses.' He pointed a stern finger at Lambert. 'If you were a man off the street I might find this whole thing amusing. But you're not, you're an Inspector in Her Majesty's Police force and, listening to what you've just told me, you make me wonder how you ever got past the cadet stage, let alone become an Inspector.' The older man's face was going scarlet with rage. 'How old are you, Lambert?'

'Twenty-two,' he replied, the fury likewise building within himself. He felt like dragging Baron across the desk, strapping him in the car and driving him back to Medworth to leave him at the mercy of the things which roamed the town at night. Perhaps then the old sod would begin to understand.

'Well, when you've been in this bloody game as long as I have perhaps you'll have the sense to keep your idiot fantasies to yourself instead of wasting my time with them.'

Lambert clenched his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily. He gripped the sides of his chair until he threatened to tear them loose.

'All I want is half a dozen men to back up my boys,' he said quietly, the anger seething behind his words.

'Forget it,' snapped Baron, returning to his coffee and looking out of the window as if the two men didn't even exist.

'We can't manage on our own,' snarled Lambert, his voice rising in volume.

Baron swung round. 'Get out of here before I have you both thrown out,' he-shouted.

Kirby gathered the photos and files and dropped them into the case.

The D.C.I. hadn't finished: 'Another thing, Lambert. If I hear anything more about this… ridiculous affair, if I see anything in the paper about it, I'll tell you this now, sunshine, within a week, you'll be back walking a damned beat.' He paused a second: 'Now get out before I have you both locked up.'

Lambert hesitated. 'All right, if you won't give us men at least give us guns.' That was it. The words hung in the air. Make or break.

Silence reigned supreme in the sunlit office. There was a high pitched squeaking sound as Baron leant forward in his chair. The Inspector wasn't sure whether or not a smile was hovering on his lips, and when he finally spoke, his tone was soft, gende even.

'You know something, Lambert, you really have got nerve, haven't you?'

Lambert swallowed hard. 'The guns sir. Please.'

Another long silence followed then Baron reached forward and flicked a switch on his intercom.

'Carol,' he said, 'have Dayton come in, will you?'

He sat back again, gazing at the two men who stood before him like naughty children in front of an angry headmaster. A second later the door to Barton's office opened and Chief Inspector Mark Dayton walked in.

'You wanted something, guv?' he said, without looking at either Lambert or Kirby.

'Take Inspector Lambert here down to the basement. Issue him with all he wants.'

Dayton looked puzzled, he raised one eyebrow and looked quizzically at the two men then he said, 'Come on, follow me.' The trio turned but, as they reached the door Baron called: 'Lambert.'

The young Inspector turned. 'Sir?'

Baron's voice was low, soft with menace. 'If this turns out to be bullshit, I'll have your fucking head.'

Lambert closed the door gently behind him. 'Cunt,' he muttered under his breath and hurried off to catch up with Kirby and Dayton who were already half way down the corridor.

Dayton leant up against one corner of the lift as it dropped the six floors to the basement. He regarded the men opposite him with indifference. Lambert guessed that the policeman must be ten, perhaps fifteen years older than himself. Dayton was tall but in an ungainly way and his feet seemed to have been designed for someone much smaller than him. That would probably account for his shuffling walk. He had thick eyebrows which snaked upwards giving him a look of perpetual surprise.

The lift came to a halt and the doors slid open. Both Lambert and Kirby were immediately taken aback by the overpowering smell of oil and cordite, an odour which the Inspector rapidly recognized as gun oil.

They walked across the stone floor of the basement, their footsteps echoing on the hard surface and the sounds reminded Lambert of an underground car park. They came to a heavy iron gate which Dayton unlocked. He ushered them in.

The room was small but all four walls held racks which sported row upon row of rifles, shotguns and pistols. There was what looked like a counter over by the far wall and a man in a white smock was cleaning a revolver behind it. He looked up when he saw the trio enter, then looked down again, returning to his task.

'Pete,' called Dayton, 'we want some stuff.'

Peter Baker put down the pistol and nodded. He wiped a hand across his forehead, forgetting it was still smeared with grease, and left a black mark from temple to temple. Lambert looked up at the rows of guns.

'How many in your force?' asked Dayton.

'Ten,' Lambert told him.

'What are they like with weapons?'

Lambert shrugged, 'God knows. I doubt if any of them have even touched a gun let alone fired one. I haven't myself.'

Baker grinned and reached to the rack behind him. He pulled the gun down and handed it to Lambert who was surprised by its weight.

'What is it?' he asked, hefting it back and forth.

'An automatic shotgun,' Baker told him. 'The Yanks call them pump guns.' He looked at Dayton and both men laughed. Lambert couldn't see the joke. He held the gun up to his shoulder and squinted down the sight.

'No need for that,' said Baker, smiling, 'it isn't a hunting rifle. Just make sure you're on target when you pull the trigger and hang onto it tight. Whatever you hit with that won't get up again.'

'Let's hope not,' said Kirby, cryptically.

'With just a bit of practice you'll be able to handle it,' Baker assured him. 'But like I said, hang on tight when you pull the trigger, it's got quite a recoil. You could blow a hole in a house with one of those.'

'Give him ten,' said Dayton.

'What about pistols?' Lambert asked.

Dayton looked aghast. 'Are you planning a commando raid or something? This is England. Not bloody New York.' He shook his head. 'Pete, give him a couple of Brownings too.'

Baker nodded and laid down two automatic pistols beside the stack of shotguns and ammunition.

'Bring your car round to the back of the building,' said Dayton. 'We'll have this lot sent up and you can load it straight in.'

By one that afternoon, Lambert and Kirby were on their way back to Medworth, the guns safely stored in the boot of the Capri. Neither of them spoke.

The Inspector put his foot down, anxious to get back. He had to tell his men what had happened, tell them that from now on they were on their own. He realized too that he and the rest of the small force would have to practise with the weapons if they were to be any use.

He sighed. They didn't even know if guns would stop the creatures. Baker's words passed fleetingly through his mind: 'Whatever you hit with that won't get up again.'

Lambert prayed to God he was right.