Death Day

PART ONE

There was a dampness in the morning air which promised rain.

The sky was heavy with clouds, great, grey, washed out billows which scudded across the heavens, pushed by the strong breeze. The same breeze which stirred the naked branches of trees. They stood defiantly against the wind, shaking skeletal fingers at an invisible defiler which rocked and battered their flimsy forms. Birds huddled in the branches, feathers stirred and ruffled by the strengthening gusts.

Rain-soaked piles of leaves lay in tightly packed masses about the tree bases.

Seasonal transition had nature in limbo. The time when winter has passed but the earth has not yet erupted into that frenzy of greenery which is spring. That time was still to come.

There had been more rain during the night. Enough to darken the concrete paths of Medworth. The town had its fair share of rain, standing, as it did, in the rolling hills of Derbyshire. The nearest town of any size lay twenty miles away to the west, but the people of Medworth were content with their own patch of miniature metropolis. The town was small, a population which struggled to reach nine thousand, but there was plenty of work within the town itself. It was built around a large shopping centre. The shops themselves employed more than a third of the total labour force, many of the rest being accounted for by the town's small industrial estate built a mile or so out. It consisted of a small iron foundry and brewery as well as a number of smaller factories.

The few farms which were scattered on the hills nearby were concerned mainly with arable crops, the odd scatterings of livestock kept for the benefit of the individual farmers rather than for any serious commercial purposes.

To call Medworth a thriving community would have been an overstatement, but it ticked along comfortably, satisfied with its own seclusion.

There was little entertainment to be found. The old cinema had closed down two years earlier and now remained nothing more than an eyesore in the centre of town. A large building, almost imposing in its obsolescence, it stood at the top of the main street, now just a darkened shell.

Its presence represented a reminder of the past, of a time when life was lived at a slower pace. Progress had come slowly and almost resentfully to Medworth.

By eight o'clock that morning there were people in the streets, and, an hour later, another working day had begun.

Tom Lambert brought the Capri to a halt and switched off the engine. He looked out of the side window and read the sign which spanned the iron gates.

'Two Meadows.'

In ordinary circumstances he would have smiled. The name of the cemetery always amused him. After all, it was built on a hillside two miles outside of town. Not a meadow in sight.

Lambert sighed and ran a hand through his short brown hair, catching sight of his own pale face in the rearview mirror as he did so. He readjusted it, as though not wanting to see his reflection. The wind rustled quietly around the car, somehow far away. It seemed to him as though, here inside, he was insulated against all snd and sensations.

He wished it was an insulation against his own emotions.

As he climbed out of the car, Lambert realized just how cold the wind was. He shook himself and pulled up the collar of his leather jacket before reaching onto the back seat to retrieve a bunch of carnations. He sniffed them. No scent.

Greenhouse variety. He locked the door and pocketed the keys.

His feet clattered noisily on the pebble driveway of the cemetery. He wondered why they had never bothered to pave the path. It wound right through the cemetery before disappearing out of another gate a mile and a half further on. That was one of the things which always amazed Lambert. The sheer size of the place. There seemed enough plot acreage to bury half the population of Britain, never mind the occupants of Medworth.

He continued up the path, passing the first rows of gravestones. The plots were in various states of disrepair according to their age or the consciences of those who had buried someone there. Few of the older graves bore flowers. An urn might sport a few withered blooms but most were bare.

To Lambert's right, along a broken path, stood the church. Its great steel-braced oak doors were closed. The bell tower, topped by the twisted black spire, dominated the bleak skyline and as he looked up, he could see the battered weather vane twisting in the wind.

Almost thankfully, he reached the footpath which led off from the main drive. The noise of the crackling pebbles was beginning to grate on his nerves and as he walked along the muddy path between the rows of gravestones he was pleased by the silence. It was broken only by the mournful sighing of the wind in the nearby trees. They stood like sentries, watching him pick his way through the maze of stone memories, and if they could have spoken they would have known this young man. Lambert had been coming here at the same time for the last two weeks and he wondered how much longer he would continue to do so. Perhaps his entire life would be spent edging his way between marked and unmarked graves, looking for one in particular. The same one he came to every morning at nine o'clock.

Beneath the shade of a huge oak tree, he found it.

Amidst the brown and grey of the cemetery, the plot stood out with an almost unnatural blaze of radiance. Flowers of every kind were laid across it, some still wrapped with the cellophane in which they'd been brought. He bent and picked off two fallen leaves which had found their way from the low tree branch onto the grave. Lambert lowered his head. He didn't need to read the inscription for he had it burned into his mind. It was there constantly, gnawing away at him like some kind of parasite.

'Michael Lambert-Died January 5th 1984'

He had been twenty.

Lambert thought that most of his emotion was spent but, as he bent to lay the bunch of carnations on the grave, a single tear slipped from his eye corner and rolled down his cheek. He straightened up, wiping it away. He stared down at the grave. His brother's grave. He gritted his teeth until his jaws ached. He wanted to shout, to scream at the top of his voice. Why? Why did it have to be Mike?

He spun round in a paroxysm of helpless rage, driving one fist as hard as he could into the solid bark of the oak. Pain shot up his arm but he ignored it, his back now turned to the grave as if he could fed his brother's eyes staring out reproachfully at him. Images flashed into his mind.

The car. The screaming of brakes. The explosion.

Oh Jesus Christ, he wanted to scream again.

Lambert felt the tears running more swiftly down his cheeks now as the thoughts returned with a clarity which sickened him. Living with the memory was bad enough, if only it weren't so vivid…

They had gone out that night, ten of them including Mike and himself. What was it blokes liked to call it, the last fling? Stag night, booze up, piss party, call it what you like. It had been the night before Mike was due to get married. A right little cracker he was landing too. Sally. He couldn't remember her last name, but he realized what a lucky man Mike was. Lambert himself was to have been the best man. He was going to drive Mike home that night, he was going to be the one who kept his eye on his baby brother. (There was three years between them, Mike was twenty, Lambert had just turned twenty-three.) He was the one who was going to stay sober, let Mike get boozed up, let him enjoy his last night.

Now, as he remembered how prophetic that statement turned out to be, Lambert hated himself even more.

They had carried on drinking late into the night but it had been Mike who had remained sober, Lambert himself who had got pissed. So pissed he asked Mike to drive them home. So pissed he had not closed his car door properly (the thing that probably saved his own life). So pissed he'd forgotten Mike had only passed his driving test a few weeks earlier and had no experience at night driving.

And now he remembered, how the car went out of control as it hit the patch of black ice. How the car swerved and he was thrown clear while Mike struggled with the wheel, trying to avoid the lamp post.

Drunk and in pain, Lambert had seen the car smash into the lamp post. Seen Mike catapulted through the windscreen, heard his scream of agony as the jagged glass shredded his face and upper body. Then Lambert had crawled across to his brother's body and sat with him, ignoring the blood which had splashed for fifteen feet across the pavement, ignoring the pieces of glass embedded in Mike's face and neck, the final spoutings of his blood jetting darkly into the night.

When the ambulance arrived, Lambert had been sitting on the pavement holding his dead brother's hand. At that precise moment of course he didn't know that Mike was dead. He only realized that when the two ambulance men lifted the shattered body. There was a dull thud and the head dropped to the ground, the neck severed by the savage cuts.

At that point, Lambert had collapsed.

And now, he found the courage to look back at his brother's grave. He wiped the tears away, suddenly becoming aware of just how cold the wind was getting. He shivered, cold in spirit as well as body.

'Shit,' he said aloud, shaking his head. He inhaled, held the breath then let it out very slowly.

The family had been very understanding about it. God, how fucking ironic, how bloody magnanimous of them, he thought. Never mind about your brother, it wasn't your fault. He felt suddenly angry. So, maybe it wasn't his fault, but, he told himself, what good were consolations when you had to live with the thought for the rest of your life?

He'd woken screaming for nights afterwards. Debbie understood, she always understood. He thanked God he had her. They'd been married two years but already he wondered what the hell he'd have done without her. If he hadn't had her with him during the last couple of weeks he'd have gone up the wall. Everyone had been very understanding but it had done nothing to ease the guilt. He wondered what would.

There had been nothing about it in the newspapers. Lambert knew Charles Burton, the man who ran The Medworth Chronicle. The two men disliked one another but Lambert had managed to persuade him not to mention his name in the local rag. It wouldn't have done his reputation much good either. He'd been surprised that he hadn't heard more from Divisional HQ in Nottingham. Lambert, as head of Medworth's small police force, could do without the kind of publicity which the crash might have brought. He was surprised he hadn't been asked to resign or some such drastic measure, but, as Debbie had said to him at the time, he hadn't killed his own brother. He had only been involved in the accident which had taken his life.

Lambert was the only one who felt like a murderer.

He lingered a moment longer, then, almost reluctantly, he turned and made his way back along the path between the graves until he reached the gravel drive.

It was after nine but he was in no hurry. He'd been told to take a month off. Get his thoughts back into one piece. The men under him were all capable. Capable enough at least to run things until he returned.

He walked, head bowed, collar turned up against the wind. Lost in his own thoughts, he almost bumped into the tall man coming through the cemetery gates.

The man was carrying a pick over his shoulder and there was a younger man behind wearing a pair of bright orange overalls.

Lambert sidestepped the pair who continued up the gravel drive, their mud-caked boots making it sound as if they were walking on cornflakes. Lambert saw their council van parked across the road outside the vicarage. There was movement in the bay window of the building and Lambert saw Father Ridley standing inside. He waved cheerfully to the young man who raised a hand in weary acknowledgement. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys and unlocked the car door. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine and swung the car round, pointing it down the hill in the direction of the town. Lambert flicked on the radio but, after a moment or two found that he didn't feel like listening to music. He switched the set off.

He drove the rest of the way in silence.

'It'll take until next Christmas to clear this lot,' said Ray Mackenzie, dropping his pick dejectedly.

He was looking at a patch of ground about half the size of a football pitch, surrounded on three sides by densely planted trees. Some had even encroached into the heavily overgrown area itself. The grass and weeds were waist high in places and, as Mackenzie stepped forward, he snagged his arm on a particularly tall gorse bush. He muttered something to himself and kicked at it.

The area was beyond the main part of the cemetery, two hundred yards or more from the central driveway along which they had just come. Situated in a slight hollow, it was effectively masked from the rest of the area. Only the fact that the top halves of the trees poked up above the rim of the crest testified to its existence. The grass was neatly cut only up to the very edge of the crest then it sloped down into the area where the two men stood. Nature run riot.

'Fancy letting it get in this state in the first place,' complained the younger of the two men. Steve Pike had quite fancied the idea of working for the council at first. Weeding the flower beds in the town gardens, cutting the grass in the park? It had seemed like a good idea. As he surveyed the expanse of twisted gorse, bracken, heather and waist high grass he began to have second thoughts.

Father Ridley had called the council offices and asked if they could send some men to clear a patch of ground for him.

'Well,' said Mackenzie. 'Standing here looking at it isn't going to make it go away.'

With that he drove his pick into the ground, turning a large clod. He grimaced as he saw the size of the worm which clung to it. He broke the clod with his pick and continued digging. Steve stood watching him.

'Come on,' snapped Mackenzie. 'Get the sickle and cut some of that stuff down.' He pointed to a dense growth of ragweed which was fully two feet high. Steve went to the canvas bag they had brought with them and pulled out the sickle, then he set to work, hacking away at the recalcitrant plants. Mackenzie swapped his pick for a shovel and was soon turning the earth. But it was quite a battle.

Steve too found that the roots of the bramble and gorse bushes went deeper than he thought. Great thick tendrils of root clung to the earth like bony fingers.

They worked on. Yet despite the fury of their exertions, both men began to notice something odd. Both were soaked in sweat but both could feel their bodies trembling from the cold. A cold the like of which neither had experienced before. A deep, penetrating cold which was almost oppressive. Mackenzie stopped digging and looked up.

Another thirty minutes and the men decided that it was time they stopped for a while. Steve looked around. They had done quite well considering the size of the problem. At least a quarter of the overgrown area had been cleared, the earth now dark beneath their feet. Mackenzie looked at his watch. The second hand was frozen. It had stopped, the hands pointing to 9:30. He shook it and grunted.

'What's up?' asked Steve, taking the fag he was offered.

'My bloody watch has stopped,' Mackenzie told him.

Steve rolled up his sleeve, his forehead creasing. He tapped the face of his own timepiece.

'So has mine,' he exclaimed, extending his arm so that Mackenzie could see. The twin hands were immobile.

Stuck at 9:30.

Lambert parked the Capri in the small driveway beside the house and got out. The next door cat scampered across the front lawn as he walked up the path to the back door and he hissed at it. The startled animal spun round and fled off through a hole in the fence. Lambert smiled thinly to himself.

He found his back door key and let himself in. It was after nine-thirty so he knew that Debbie would be gone. She always left well before nine, sometimes before he even drove for the cemetery. The kitchen smelt of pine and new wood, and Lambert inhaled deeply. He crossed to the kitchen table and sat down, noting that two letters were propped up against the tea pot. He smiled again. Although the letters were addressed to Mr and Mrs T. Lambert, Debbie had left them for him to open. She always did. He considered the envelopes for a moment then dropped them back onto the table and crossed to the sink to fill the kettle. He stood for a moment, looking out of the back window, thinking how badly the grass needed cutting. The gardens on either side were in a worse state and that, at least, comforted him somewhat.

Their house was roomy, semi-detached, with three bedrooms, a dining room, kitchen and spacious living room. The third bedroom was to be used as a nursery when, and if, the need ever arose. Lambert looked down into the aluminum bottom of the sink and saw his own distorted image staring back at him. At the present time, there was no talk of children. Both he and Debbie had promising careers: he was one of the youngest Inspectors in the Midlands force and Debbie was chief librarian at the large Victorian looking building in the centre of Medworth. Lambert shook his head. An Inspector in charge of a force of less than twelve. That was police logic for you.

The shrill whistling of the kettle interrupted his thoughts. He made the tea, poured himself a cup and carried it into the living room where the daily paper was waiting on the arm of his chair. Debbie again. God how he loved that girl. He suddenly began to feel warmer, the incidents of the morning gradually subsiding. Diminishing but never fading.

He flicked through the paper, hardly seeing the words, then he folded it up and stuck it in the paper rack. Lambert gazed across at the bay window.

It was the inactivity more than anything which wore him down. The same routine every day, stuck in the house trying to find jobs that he'd already done two days before. The doctor had told him to rest for a month after the accident, but the time was dragging into an eternity. He glanced down at the phone on the table beside his chair and rubbed his chin contemplatively. Should he ring the station? Just to find out if they needed him for anything?

He grunted and turned away, warming his hands around the mug of steaming tea. He eyed the phone again but, instead, went and retrieved the letters from the kitchen. He tore the first of them open, knowing from the 'Private' stamp on the top left hand corner that it was a bill of some sort. Electricity. He muttered something to himself and re-folded it then tore open the second.

It was from his mother. He read it briefly, not really seeing the words on the blue tinted pages. Everything was all right, his father was fine. Hope he was feeling better. Etc., etc., etc. Tactfully no mention of Mike. He pushed the letter to one side and finished his tea. The same old crap every time. Debbie usually replied to them. Lambert picked up the letter once more and read the line which never failed to annoy him.

'Your father is fine.'

He threw it down. Father. Fucking stepfather. His own father had been dead for ten years. Lambert had watched him die, day by day. A little at a time. He remembered coming home from school every dinner time when he was twelve and finding his father sitting at the table, the bottle of whisky gripped in his palsied hand. Lambert hated him for his drinking, he hated him for what it had made him. But most of all, he hated his mother because she was the reason his father had begun drinking in the first place. Her and her fancy man. Mr Ted bloody Grover. 'Your father.' His new father, his fucking stepfather.

He tore the letter up savagely, hurling the pieces away from him in rage, his breath coming in short gasps.

Cirrhosis of the liver had caused his real father's death. Or precipitated it anyway. Lambert remembered finding him that day. His head thrown back, his eyes open. The yellow blobs of vomit still on his lips, the empty bottle gripped in his rigid fingers. Choked on his own puke.

Why was it, Lambert thought, that the painful memories always stayed more vivid than the pleasant ones? To him at any rate.

He reached for the phone and dialled Medworth police station. The phone rang a couple of times, then was picked up.

'Medworth Police Station,' the voice said.

Lambert smiled, recognizing the voice as sergeant Vic Hayes.

'Morning, Vic,' he said.

'How you keeping, sir?'

'Not bad. What's doing?'

There was a pause at the other end as Hayes tried to think of something he could tell his superior. His tone sounded almost apologetic, 'Nothing really. Mrs Short lost her purse in the Bingo hall, she thinks it was nicked. Two kids took a bike from outside old man Sudbury's shop and I've got bloody flu, that's all I can tell you.' The sentence was finished off with an almighty sneeze.

Lambert nodded, 'So there's nothing worth me coming in for?'

'No, sir. Anyway, aren't you supposed to be resting? I heard that the doctor gave you a month off.'

'How the hell do you know that?' asked Lambert, good naturedly.

'I bumped into your wife the other day,' Hayes explained. There was silence for a moment, then the sergeant said, 'By the way, sir, we were all very sorry about what happened.'

Lambert cut him short, 'Thanks.' He moved hurriedly on. 'Look, Vic, if anything does turn up, let me know, will you? Sitting at home here is driving me up the bloody wall.'

'Will do, sir.'

They said their goodbyes and Lambert hung up, plunged once more into the silence of the room. He clapped his hands together as if trying to shake himself free of the lethargy which gripped him. He got up, tired of the silence, and crossed to the record player. He selected the loudest recording that they had in their collection and dropped it onto the turntable.

Someone thundered out 'Long Live Rock & Roll' and Lambert went back into the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.

Already, the emotions were slipping to the back of his mind, waiting to be stirred perhaps the next day, but, for now, he began to feel brighter.

'Long Live Rock & Roll' blasted on.

Debbie Lambert looked at her watch and noted with delight that it was nearly one o'clock. She took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. There was a nagging ache behind her eyes and she closed them for a moment. The ledgers lay before her as if defying her to carry on work. This was the only part of her job she hated. Cataloguing. She was thankful it only happened once a year. Every book in the library, all 35,624 of them, had to be listed by author, publisher and serial number. She'd been working at it now for more than a week and hadn't even got half way. She resolved to take some of it home with her that night.

Mondays were usually quiet, but today there were agitated babblings from the direction of the children's section. A party of twenty kids from the local infants school had been brought in with the idea of introducing them to the delights of a library. Debbie could see two of the little darlings giggling uncontrollably as they pawed through a book on early erotic art. She barely suppressed a grin herself, especially when the kids looked up and saw her watching them. They both turned the colour of a pillar box and hurriedly replaced the book.

'Don't you just love kids?' said Susan Howard, struggling past with an armful of books.

Debbie raised one eyebrow questioningly and Susan laughed. Nice girl, thought Debbie, about twenty, a year or so younger than herself. They got on well together. All the staff in the building did. There were just four of them: herself, Susan, Mrs Grady and Miss Baxter (who took care of the research section, or reference library as everyone else liked to call it). Debbie had wondered whether Miss Baxter would resent being under a woman more than thirty years younger than herself, but there had been no animosity shown. The previous head librarian had died three years before and few people suspected that the job would go to someone as young as Debbie, but her aptitude for the job was undeniable. She had, since she took over, tried to change the image of the building somewhat. She disliked the staid, Victorian picture of libraries which most people had. Of old spinsters in long skirts and horn-rimmed glasses hobbling about the corridors, and endless leather-bound dusty volumes which no one ever read. Since she had taken over, more youngsters had joined. Attracted no doubt by the presence of Susan, and, she hoped, herself. More men were members now than ever before.

She dropped her glasses into her handbag and stood up, shaking her legs to restore the circulation. She'd been sitting in more or less the same position for nearly four hours, bent over the ledgers and her shoulders and legs felt as if someone had been kicking her. She exhaled deeply and swept a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair.

'Sue,' she called quietly, 'I'm just popping out for lunch.'

The other girl nodded and struggled on with her armful of books.

Debbie walked out, the noise of her high heels clicking conspicuously on the polished wooden floor. As she reached the exit door she eyed her reflection in the glass and smiled. She had a good figure, slim hipped, the small curve of her bottom accentuated by the tight jeans which she wore. The thick jumper which covered her upper body concealed her pert breasts and made her look shapeless, but she dressed for comfort, not show.

As she stepped out into the street, an arm enfolded her waist and she spun round anxiously.

It was Lambert.

Debbie smiled broadly and kissed him.

'I thought you were at home,' she said happily.

He shrugged, 'I ran out of things to do. You were the last resort.' He smiled as she punched him on the arm.

'Cheeky sod,' she giggled. 'I was just going for lunch.'

'I know.'

'My God, you're not a policeman for nothing, are you?' she said sarcastically, trying not to smile.

He slapped her hard across the backside. 'Come on, Miss Librarian, let me buy you some lunch.'

The nearest cafe was busy but they found a seat near the window and Debbie sat down while

Lambert fetched the lunch, picking food out from beneath the plastic fronted cabinets. He returned with a laden tray and began unloading it onto the table.

As they ate, she told him about her morning's work and about the kids. He smiled a lot. A little too much perhaps. She reached across the table to clutch his hand.

'You all right?' she asked.

He nodded, 'I walked down here to meet you,' he told her, 'I needed the air.'

She smiled, then trying to sound brighter, 'Were those letters anything important this morning?'

He told her about the bill. 'The other one was from my mother.'

'What did she have to say? Or do you want me to read it when I get home?'

'I tore the fucking thing up,' snapped Lambert.

Two women on the table next to them looked round, and the policeman met their stare. They returned quickly to their tea, and gossip.

'What did it say?' asked Debbie, squeezing his hand tighter.

He shrugged and took a sip of his tea before answering, 'The same old shit. Same as always. I don't know why the hell she can't just leave me alone. I never asked her to start writing in the first place.' He slammed his cup down with a little bit too much force, making a loud crack.

The two women looked round again and this time Lambert thought about saying something. But he returned his gaze to Debbie. Her eyes were wide, searching his own, trying to find something that lay beneath his visible feelings.

There was a long silence between them. The only sound was that of many voices talking at once, each lost in their own world, making sense alone but, combined, becoming a noisy babble of nonsense. People around them chatted about the weather, their families, their jobs. The everyday monotony of life.

'I phoned the station,' said Lambert, at last.

'Why?' asked Debbie.

'I wondered if there was anything I could do, or if they needed me.'

Debbie looked at him reproachfully, 'Tom, the doctor told you to rest. You're not supposed to be at work. Sod the bloody station. They can run things without you.'

'I can't sit at home all day doing nothing,' he protested, 'it's driving me crazy.'

'Well, going back to the station isn't going to help either.'

'At least it might give me something else to think about. That's what I need, something to take my mind off what's been happening. You don't understand what it's like, Debbie,' he gripped her hand. 'I relive that bloody accident, that night, every time I visit Mike's grave. Even when I'm not there, it's still with me, you don't forget something like that easily.'

'No one expects you to. Just stop blaming yourself.' She didn't know whether to be angry with him, or feel pity.

'Shit,' he said it through clenched teeth, his head bowed.

She watched him for long seconds, a feeling of total helplessness slowly enveloping her. Finally he looked up and swallowed hard, 'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

'Don't be,' she told him.

He shook his head, moisture brimming in his eyes. He exhaled deeply, 'I asked Hayes to get in touch with me if they need me anytime.'

She opened her mouth to speak but he raised his hand, 'It's the only way, Debbie. I'll go off my head otherwise.'

They finished eating. He looked across the table at her and smiled. She glanced up at the clock on the wall of the cafe and saw that it was approaching two o'clock.

'I've got to be getting back,' she said, reluctantly.

'I'll walk you,' he said, standing up.

The town was busier as they walked back to the library. People were looking in shop windows and talking on street corners. A number spoke to the young couple as they walked, as both were well known within the town.

When they reached the steps of the building, Lambert put his arms around his wife's waist and kissed her.

'What will you do this afternoon?' she asked.

'Never mind me,' he said, smiling. 'You get back to your cataloguing.'

He turned to leave but she caught his arm and pulled him to her, her lips seeking his. He felt her moist tongue flick over the hard edges of his teeth before plunging further into the warm wetness of his mouth. He responded almost ferociously, pressing her close to him, anxious to feel her body against his own. Finally she pulled back. He ran an index finger across her soft cheek and smiled.

'See you later,' he said.

As he turned, she called after him and he stopped, listening.

'Tom,' she said, 'I love you.'

He smiled, 'I know.' And he walked off.

Steve Pike poured himself another cup of tomato soup from the thermos and watched the steam rising from the thick red liquid. He took a sip, wincing at the plastic taste, but he persevered, taking a draw on his fag to deaden the flavour.

'Want some?' he asked, pushing the cup towards Mackenzie.

The other man shook his head, and after stuffing the remains of a sandwich into his mouth, pulled a small metal flask from the pocket of his parka.

He took a hefty swing and smacked his lips, 'Stuff your soup,' he said, 'I'll stick to this.'

From where he sat, ignoring the dampness which was seeping through the seat of his trousers, Mackenzie could see the church clock. Its metal hands were at three-twenty. He glanced down at his own watch once more. Despite winding, it still wasn't working. Bloody Russian crap. Next time he'd get a Timex.

Squatting on the dark earth, Steve looked around. They were well across the clearing, almost halfway. The high grass and weeds had been cut down behind them; tomorrow they would cut down the remaining vegetation and, after that, dig it all into the soil.

'We'll go as far as that tree stump today,' said Mackenzie, pointing to a gnarled knob of wood which jutted out of the climbing grass like a beacon. It stood about two feet high but was nearly that width across the neatly cut base. Someone, many years ago, had chopped it down and, what was more, they had done it with amazing precision. The severed trunk was as smooth as formica on its darkened diameter. It reminded Steve of a table, as if it had grown in that shape for some purpose.

'That's going to take some shifting,' said Mackenzie, taking another pull from his hip flask, 'I bet the bloody roots go down for yards.' Steve looked around the clearing: the darkened area of earth strewn with chopped down grass, and that which lay beyond, rampant with clotted outcrops of weed. Not a wild flower in sight.

'I wonder why they wanted it cleared?' he said.

'Well,' said Mackenzie, 'it is a bloody eyesore. Christ, I shouldn't think it's been seen to since the fucking cemetery was opened.'

Steve wasn't satisfied. 'But it's out of sight of the rest of the place, you can't even see it from the driveway.'

Mackenzie turned on him irritably, 'What the bloody hell does it matter why they want it cleared? Perhaps they're expecting lots of people to peg out and they want somewhere to put them. How the bleeding hell should I know why they want it cleared?'

'All right, keep your shirt on. I was just curious.'

Mackenzie grunted. 'Why bother about it? As long as we get paid for doing it I couldn't give a bugger what they want it for.' He drained the last drops of brandy from his flask. He shook the flask and dropped it back into his pocket.

'I'll tell you what,' he said, 'it's getting colder. I reckon we'll have a frost tonight.'

'It is bloody cold,' said Steve, softly, almost to himself.

He threw what was left of his soup onto the ground and pushed his thermos into his lunchbox.

Grumbling, they returned to cutting down the sea of weeds and grass. Mackenzie straightened up sporadically and massaged the small of his back, groaning with the ache that had settled there. He drove his spade down hard and felt it connect with something solid. He pawed away the earth and saw a root as thick as his arm. And the tree stump was more than three feet away. He groaned inwardly. Shifting it was going to be harder than he'd anticipated. He lifted the spade above his head and brought it crashing down on the root, severing it with a powerful blow.

'Steve.'

The youngster turned.

'There's a couple of hatchets in the work bag. Go and get them. We'll chop the bloody thing free.'

Steve nodded and headed off to fetch the tools. Then he heard Mackenzie call again. 'And bring the crow bars too.'

He returned a moment later with the tools to find Mackenzie leaning on the tree stump. He took an axe from Steve and set to work, hacking through the thick roots until the sweat began to soak into his coat. But neither of them removed their jackets because it was getting so cold. Mackenzie could feel the biting iciness catching in his throat and he half expected to see his laboured breath frosting before him in the freezing air. Steve too, slashed away at the tentacles of root, watching as sap oozed, bloodlike, into the earth.

It took them nearly half an hour to free the stump.

Panting, Mackenzie picked up the crow bar and motioned for Steve to do the same. They slid the clawed prongs under two sides of the stump and, at a given signal, pressed down on the iron levers as hard as they could. Their faces turned bright red with the effort and veins stood out angrily on both men's foreheads.

'Hold it a minute,' gasped Mackenzie.

Steve was fit to drop. He had never known exertion like this in his life and, if he had his way, he'd never have it again. They tried again but the stump remained stuck fast as if driven into the soil with some gigantic steam hammer. It was like trying to pull a masonry nail from a wall with your fingers.

'Couldn't we both try it from the same side at once?' offered Steve, not really caring now whether they moved the bloody thing or not. He didn't know why they just couldn't have gone round it.

Side by side, they prized the crow bars deep beneath the stump, Mackenzie eventually shouting in angry frustration.

'Fuck the bloody thing.' He threw his bar to the ground and stood, hands on hips, staring at the recalcitrant stump which seemed to grin back at him as much to say, you might as well forget it.

'Does it matter that much?' Steve asked timidly.

Mackenzie exploded, 'Of course it matters, you stupid little bastard. How the hell are they supposed to turn it into a fucking burial plot with that stuck in the middle?'

He retrieved his bar.

'Come on,' he snarled and they set to Work again. To Mackenzie, it had become a matter of pride; he intended moving that stump if he had to stay there all night and do it.

There was a slight creak and it lifted an inch. They pressed down harder and it lifted a little more.

'It's moving,' shouted Mackenzie, triumphantly.

Inch by agonizing inch, the tree stump rose, bringing with it more thick roots which hung like hardened veins from its dirt encrusted base.

It lifted a foot. Then eighteen inches, a great sucking sound filling the air as it began to come free.

Then they noticed the smell. A fetid, choking stench which smelt like excrement and made them gag. Steve felt his muscles contract, the hot bile clawing its way up from his stomach.

'Keep pushing,' shouted Mackenzie, tearing the lump of wood from its earthy home until the many-rooted base was at a ninety degree angle to the ground. Both men put their shoulders to it, preparing to push it over.

It was then that they looked down into the hole.

Mackenzie opened his mouth to scream but no sound would escape. The cry caught in his throat and rasped away. His eyes, riveted to the sight below him, bulged madly, the blood vessels in the whites threatening to burst. Steve made no attempt to stop himself and vomited violently, not quite daring to believe what he saw.

Lying in the hole, its body coated in thick slime, was a slug the size of small dog. Its body was a sickly greyish white colour, covered from head to tail with thick slime. As the horrified men stood transfixed, its twin antennae slowly grew towards them, lengthening like car aerials, until they had reached their full height. The bulbous eyes waved gently at the end of the antenna and the abomination slithered forward.

With a scream of sheer horrified revulsion, Mackenzie snatched up the crowbar and struck the creature. It made a hideous gurgling noise, the antenna retracting swiftly. Mackenzie struck again but, seeing that the blows were having little effect, he grabbed the axe, lying discarded by the tree stump and brought it down with terrifying force on the monstrous thing.

His blow split it in half and, a shower of virulent pus-like blood spouted into the air, some of it spattering him. Screaming like a maniac he brought the axe down again, this time splitting the thing lengthways. A reeking porridge of blackened entrails spilled onto the ground, the stench nearly making Mackenzie faint. Sobbing now, he brought the axe down once more, this time slicing off one of the antenna. He sank to his knees, the slimey mixture of yellow blood and dark viscera covering him. He gripped the axe and screamed.

Steve Pike lay unconscious behind him.

It was a full hour before Mackenzie was able to think clearly, or even to look at what remained of the thing in the hole. God alone knew how long it had been there, what it had fed on. And only now did he see that it had been lying on something. A box of some sort.

Steve had come to about twenty minutes ago, seen the creature's body and thrown up again. Mackenzie didn't blame him. Now both of them sat looking down into the hole left by the torn up tree stump, wondering what was in the box on which the slug had been lying.

'It looks like a coffin,' said Steve, quietly.

Mackenzie nodded and leapt forward, tentatively touching the wooden lid. It was soft to the touch, like mildew. He poked it with the crow bar and a lump fell off. Both men stepped back.

'What if there's another one of those things in there?' said Steve, apprehensively.

Mackenzie ignored him and stepped down into the hole. Christ, it was deep, a good three feet deep, the rim of it level with his waist.

The sky above was growing dark and he had to squint to read what was on the lid.

'It's a name or something,' he said.

Steve swallowed hard and looked around him. The wind had sprung up and the trees were rustling nervously. 'For Christ's sake hurry, Mack,' he said. Night was drawing in fast, clouds gathering like premonitory warnings above the cemetery. Birds, returning to their nests, were black arrowheads against the purple sky.

Mackenzie bent and looked closer. There was a name plate but the name had been scratched out making it unreadable. Only the date was visible, caked over with the mud of four hundred years.

1596.

'Christ, it's old,' said Mackenzie.

He slid his crowbar under one corner of the lid and wrenched it open.

Both men found themselves looking in at a skeleton.

'Jesus,' groaned Steve, noticing that the empty eye sockets had been stuffed with rag. The blackened skeleton lay in what remained of a shroud, now little more than rotted wisps of linen. The mouth was open, drawn wide in a way that made it look as though it were screaming.

But the most striking thing was the medallion.

It hung around the neck of the skeleton, almost dazzling in its brilliance. As if the rigours of time had been unable to make an impression on it.

'Fucking hell,' gasped Steve, 'it must be worth a fortune.'

The medallion consisted of a single flat circle of gold suspended on a thick chain. There was an inscription in the middle, and more jumbled lettering around the rim of the circlet but, as Mackenzie leant forward, he could see that it was no language he recognized. He hazarded a guess at Latin and would have been pleased to know that his theory was right.

'Shouldn't we tell the vicar about this?' Steve wanted to know.

Mackenzie shot him a warning glance, 'You're joking. After what we've been through getting this, I want a souvenir.' Reaching down, he ripped the medallion from around the neck of the corpse. Smiling, he studied it lying in the palm of his hand.

'A fortune,' he said quietly. It was then that he noticed the slight sensation of warmth in his palm. At first he dismissed it as imagination, or the sweat of his exertions. But the heat grew stronger, the skin on the palm of his hand began to sizzle and, as he watched, the medallion began to glow.

He dropped it with a startled grunt. It stared back at him from the damp earth.

'The bloody thing burned me,' he said, looking up at Steve.

The younger man frowned and looked down at the medallion. He reached forward and prodded it with his fingers.

'Seems alright to me,' he said, picking it up.

Mackenzie snatched it from him, holding it for a moment or two. Nothing happened. Perhaps it had been his imagination. He looked down at the palm of his hand. There was a scorch mark the size of a milk bottle top on the flesh of his hand. He dropped the medallion into his pocket and picked up his spade.

'Let's fill it in,' he said.

'I still think we should tell the vicar,' Steve persisted, shovelling earth.

'Shut up and keep digging.'

They buried the coffin and its skeletal occupant and the slug, then set off back to the cemetery proper. Mackenzie was quiet, staring ahead of him as he walked, and Steve had to hurry to keep up with him.

'What are you going to do with the medallion?' the youngster asked.

'Mind your own fucking business,' rasped Mackenzie.

Steve swallowed hard, disturbed by the tone of the older man's voice. What he had just seen had caused him enough trouble, he didn't want to end his first working day with a fight.

When they reached the van, parked outside the cemetery, they dumped their tools in the back and Mackenzie threw the ignition keys to Steve.

'You drive,' he ordered, 'I've got a blinding headache.'

Steve didn't argue. He got in, started the van and drove off towards Medworth. Mackenzie sat silently beside him, head bowed, his breathing low and guttural.

The youngster put his foot down. He would be pleased to get home.

Debbie Lambert turned the big master key in the door of the library and smiled at the three women behind her.

'Another day, another dollar,' she grinned.

The women said their goodnights on the steps of the library then went their separate ways into the chill night. Although it was only six-fifteen, frost was already beginning to speckle the roads and pavements. It would be black ice by ten that night.

Debbie shivered and walked around the side of the building to the car park. She was struggling under the weight of a large plastic carrier bag she held. It was jammed full of ledgers. Reluctantly she had, as expected, been forced to take some work home with her.

After dumping the carrier on the passenger seat she slid behind the wheel and started the engine of the Mini. It spluttered a little then burst into life and she guided the car out into the street in the direction of home.

The journey didn't take her long. Their house stood on a small private estate about ten minutes from the centre of town, in a street with only six houses on each side of the road. As she turned into the street she could see lights blazing from the living room windows of their house. She parked her Mini behind Lambert's Capri and walked around to the back door.

The smell of cooking met her as she entered the kitchen, and she sniffed appreciatively. Lambert, dressed in a plastic apron with a bra and knickers drawn on it, was standing by the cooker stirring the contents of a large saucepan.

Debbie took one look at him and began laughing.

'I bet this never happens to Robert Carrier,' he said, grinning.

She crossed the kitchen and kissed him, peering into the saucepan.

'What is it?' she asked.

'What is it?' he mimicked her. 'It's stew, woman, what does it look like?'

She nipped the end of his nose and retreated into the living room. There, she dumped her carrier bag full of ledgers on the coffee table and called to Lambert that she was going to change her clothes. He shouted something about slaving over a hot stove and she laughed as she bounded up the stairs.

His mood had changed, she thought with relief. But that had been the problem since the accident. His temper and character seemed to fluctuate wildly. One minute he was happy, the next he was plunged back into the abyss of self-reproach and guilt. Debbie removed her clothes and left them in an untidy heap on the end of. the bed. She fumbled in the drawer for a t-shirt, stood before the mirror, unhooked her bra and threw it to one side before pulling on the t-shirt.

Her nipples strained darkly against the white material. She slid into a pair of faded jeans, patched so many times she'd lost count, and padded, barefoot, downstairs.

Lambert was ladling out the stew when she walked into the dining room.

They ate slowly, at a leisurely pace, chatting about this and that, feeling the tensions of the day slowly drain away.

He poured her another glass of wine and sat down again, gazing across the table at her as she drank.

'I'm going back to work at the end of the week,' he said quietly.

She paused, her glass midway to her lips and asked why.

'Because I can't sit around like this any longer.'

'You know what the doctor said.'

'Oh, sod the doctor. He doesn't know what it's like. Sitting here every day and night thinking about that bloody accident. I need to go back. I need something to occupy my mind.'

'You said yourself that there was nothing doing.'

'I know,' he took a sip of his wine, 'but at least I wouldn't be shut up here in the house all the time.'

'Just give it a little longer, Tom,' she asked.

'It's been a fortnight now,' he said, his voice growing to a volume which he didn't intend. He looked down at the patterned table cloth and then across to her again. 'I don't think I'll ever be able to face it, so I might as well just keep running.' He drained his glass and poured himself another.

'And what happens when you can't run anymore?' she wanted to know.

He had no answer.

Ray Mackenzie stood on the pavement outside his house as the van drove away and rubbed his eyes. Christ, the bloody headache was getting worse and now his eyes were starting to throb. He felt as if he hadn't slept for a week. He looked up into the dark sky and inhaled deeply. As he walked, the medallion bumped against his thigh, secure in his trouser pocket.

There was a small tricycle lying outside the back door and he bumped his shin against it as he rounded the corner. Snarling, he lashed out at it, sending the tiny object hurtling across the yard.

Inside, June Mackenzie sighed. It looked like one of those nights. She had been expecting him for the last hour and a half. He'd probably been down the pub for a couple of pints. Well, she'd give him a piece of her mind when he came in. Half past seven. What sort of time did he call this? It was the same every day, wondering if he'd be home straight from work or down the bloody pub with his mates. She had put up with it for the ten years they had been married but she sometimes wondered how much more she could stand. If not for Michelle, now nearly five, she would have left him long ago. At thirty-four, she felt that life was somehow passing her by. Even if he'd offer to take her out once in a while that would be something. But no, same routine every night. He came home, stinking of booze. Had his dinner, went back down the pub until nine then flopped in front of the TV for the rest of the evening. Christ, what a way to live a life. His idea of a great night out was sitting and watching a darts match down the local. He'd asked her to come with him occasionally but there was no one to look after Michelle and, besides, she didn't fancy sitting with a bunch of boozy men all night, cracking jokes about their wives' frigidity.

June shook her head. There must be more to life than this?

She had thought about trying to get a flat for herself and Michelle but the waiting list was four years long and, with the child just starting school she didn't want to move too far away. Besides, her own measly wage could never support them. She worked part time as a cleaner in a car showroom but there had been talk of cut-backs and she was beginning to wonder how much longer they would keep her on. Ray didn't earn a lot. Just enough to pay the rent and the H.P. They had everything on H.P. If he ever lost his job and the payments couldn't be met, half the house would be repossessed. She shuddered at the thought.

The back door flew open and Mackenzie staggered in.

'Who left that fucking thing outside the door?' he shouted, rubbing his bruised shin.

'Do you have to shout?' she demanded, 'do you want the whole street to hear you?'

He walked off into the living room, grunting at Michelle who was playing on the rug in front of the gas fire.

'Your dinner is ready,' called June, 'and has been for the last hour.'

He ignored her and stormed upstairs, his heavy boots crashing heavily across the landing. She knew that he must have gone into their bedroom. She shook her head angrily.

'What's the matter with Daddy?' asked Michelle.

Mackenzie moved about the bedroom without turning on the lights. His headache had grown steadily worse and he found that bright fight aggravated it. Despite the blackness in the room, broken only by the dull glow of the street lamp outside, he moved with assurance. Sitting on one corner of the bed, he pulled the medallion from his pocket and studied it. He guessed by its weight that it must be solid, a good pound and a half. He tried to guess at the value but the persistent buzzing pain which throbbed behind his eyes and in his temples made rational thought impossible. He sighed, disturbed at the intensity of the pain. It felt as if someone were driving red hot nails into his scalp. He stood up, shakily and crossed to a drawer where he pulled out his wife's jewel box. It was wooden, the top carved ornately, making it look more valuable than it actually was. He flipped it open, emptying its meagre contents onto the floor. Then, carefully, he laid the medallion inside. It seemed to wink mockingly at him and, for a moment, a wave of icy air enveloped him. He shut the box lid and -it passed. He hid the small box beneath his pillow and walked out of the bedroom.

When he entered the kitchen, his dinner was on the table. ItTiad dried up long ago, the chips looking like mummified fingers.

'I don't want any dinner,' he growled, raising one hand to shield his eyes from the bright glow of the kitchen's fluorescents.

'Look,' said June, 'it's not my fault it's like that. If you'd come home at the right time.'

He cut her short. 'No fucking dinner.' He screamed the words, grabbing the plate and flinging it at the far wall where it shattered, splattering food in all directions. He turned on her, spittle sticking in white blobs to his lips. June was suddenly afraid.

She took a step backward, watching him as he glanced up at the light. He hissed and covered his eyes as if the white glow were causing him pain.

He rushed to the switch and slapped it off, plunging the room into darkness.

'Ray,' said June, her tone softening, wondering just what was happening, 'what's the matter?'

'Light,' he grunted, 'can't stand the light.'

He turned and stalked into the living room, recoiling madly from the shaded hundred and fifty watt that illuminated the room.

'Turn it off,' he screamed and dashed for the switch.

The room was now lit only by the glow of the television screen and Mackenzie growled something as he stood looking at it. Michelle got to her feet and ran to her mother, suddenly frightened by her father's behaviour. He put both hands to his head and moaned, slumping into one corner of the room, head down.

June crossed to the phone and began dialling, 'I'm going to get a doctor,' she said.

Mackenzie leapt to his feet and was across the room in a second, his hand closing around his wife's wrist in a grip which threatened to snap the bone. She gasped and tried to pull away. The phone dropped uselessly from her hand and swung by its cord. His voice almost a whisper, now surprisingly calm, Mackenzie said, 'No doctor.'

She looked down at the hand which gripped her arm and tried to pull away. Mackenzie smiled, his eyes blazing in the reflected glare of the TV. He released his grip and pushed June away. She bumped into a chair and nearly fell.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' she said, becoming angry, 'had too much to drink?'

He snarled and stepped towards her, bringing his arm back then striking forward with the back of his hand. The blow lifted June off her feet and sent her crashing into the metal guard of the gas fire. She rolled forward, blood weeping from her split lip. Still stunned from the force of the blow, she peered up at him. Mackenzie stood, legs astride, glaring down at her, his eyes narrowed to protect himself from the light of the TV.

'You bastard,' she said softly. 'You mad bastard.'

Michelle began to cry. She had been standing in the doorway between kitchen and living room and had seen it all. Now she watched as her father turned and stormed out of the room, his feet slamming up the stairs. She heard the sound of a door being smashed shut. Then she ran to her mother who had managed to drag herself up onto her knees. She caught the little girl and hugged her to her chest, feeling her own blood dripping slowly down her chin.

This time he'd gone too far.

June looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It said ten thirty-five.

She had put Michelle to bed two hours before and had sat, alone, staring blankly at the television. There had been no sound from Ray. She had gone up there once and tried to open the door but found that he had locked it from the inside. She licked a tongue across the swollen cleft in her lip. The bastard must have fallen asleep. She had called his name but there had been no answer. Not a sound from inside the bedroom. She had then gone to the child's bedroom at the far end of the landing and peeked in. Michelle had been asleep, a ragged old Snoopy clutched between her tiny hands.

Then June had returned to the living room. She had sat there all this time. Wondering what to do. If Ray wouldn't open the door, she'd just have to sleep on the sofa. She gritted her teeth. God, would she give it to him in the morning!

She waited ten more minutes, until the hands of the clock had crawled onto ten forty five, then she moved quickly through the house, locking doors and windows, pulling plugs and prepared to go upstairs. She doublechecked the back door. Burglars had always been one of her biggest fears. Though, God knew, they had nothing worth taking. Nevertheless, she pulled the bolts tight, peering out of the small window into the darkness beyond. The street lights still glowed like trapped fireflies and one or two lamps burned in front rooms but apart from that, the street was quiet.

She closed the hall door behind her and walked wearily up the stairs. As she reached the landing, she cautiously opened the door to Michelle's room. The child was still sleeping. June smiled and pulled it shut. Then she padded along to her own bedroom. There was no sound from inside and she put her hand on the knob, expecting to find it twist impotently in her grip.

Instead, the door opened.

She half smiled. The sod must have come to his senses. June went in, closing the door quickly behind her. Mackenzie was lying in bed, his head covered by the blankets, facing away from her. She undressed quickly and slid into bed beside him. He grunted as she did so, a deep guttural sound which made her sit up. His body moved slightly and she saw his hand slowly pull the covers down. June found herself staring at the back of his head.

'Ray,' she whispered, touching his shoulder.

He didn't move.

'Ray.' She shook him harder and this time he rolled over and looked straight at her.

She would have screamed had he not fastened one powerful hand around her throat. He pulled her close and she felt and smelt his fetid breath on her face.

His eyes were gone.

No whites, no pupils. Nothing. Just two blood red orbs which swelled like crimson blisters from the dark skin which surrounded them. Saliva ran in a crystal river from both corners of his mouth, his red lips flecked with spittle. The nostrils flared as he tightened his grip on her throat and she made a gurgling noise and tried to pull his hand away.

He was on his knees now, above her, bringing more pressure down on her, as if he wanted to force her through the very bed itself. She struck out at him, her long fingernails raking his skin and tearing three bloody furrows but he kept up the pressure, that insane grin still smeared across his face. The rictus which showed his yellowed teeth, dripped mucous. June saw white stars dancing before her eyes and she knew she was blacking out. Then, suddenly, and with a force far beyond that of a normal man, he lifted her in that one hand and threw her across the room.

She slammed into the wall, cracking her head. June slumped down, clinging desperately to consciousness. She had one thought. One rational thought in a world gone mad. She must get to Michelle.

But the creature with the burning red eyes, the creature which had been her husband, rose slowly from the bed and walked purposefully towards her.

She staggered to her feet, wondering if she could make it to the bedroom door. If only she could get past, lock him in…

Dazed, she bolted for safety but Mackenzie caught her arm and, with terrifying force, hurled her backwards. She slammed into the dressing table, her head snapping forward to smash into the mirror which splintered. Shards of glass sprayed out into the room, one of them falling at Mackenzie's feet. He bent and picked it up. Razor sharp, it was the length of a milk bottle. He could see his own vile reflection in it as he advanced on her.

June began sobbing, blood pouring down her face from a cut on her forehead. She tried to scream but it came out as a strangled cough. She raised a hand to ward him off but he brought the shard of mirror sweeping down and it carved off her thumb.

'Ray,' she croaked and he was upon her.

The bedroom door opened slowly and Michelle stood there. The noises from her parents room had woken her. Now she stood quietly, watching as her mother died, bleeding from a dozen savage wounds. The child didn't move, her eyes riveted to the slaughtered body.

There was a movement beside her and she looked up, not quite realizing that the thing with the burning red eyes which stood above her, clutching a length of blood splattered mirror, had once been her father.

Debbie yawned and took off her glasses. She shook her head and sighed deeply. The ledgers stared back up at her, defiantly. Her eyes were beginning to grow tired and she could feel the pain gradually gnawing its way from her shoulder to her neck and up the back of her head. She leant back in her chair and stretched, letting out a moan. The room, lit only by the light of the table lamp, seemed to crowd in on her and she promised herself that she would finish in half an hour. She'd been at it solid for three hours.

'Enough.'

Lambert slapped his hand down on the ledger spread out in front of her and she jumped.

'Christ,' she said, 'you frightened me.'

'Wrap your gums round that,' he said, handing her a steaming mug of coffee.

He stood behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, massaging gently. She purred contentedly.

'Call it a night, Debbie,' he insisted, his fingers working more strongly. She flexed her shoulders, enjoying his expert touch.

'What have you been doing?' she asked him, closing her eyes.

'Watching TV, reading. Nothing much.'

She took a sip of her coffee, squirming as one of his hands slipped down and touched her breast. She reached up and held it, pressing his hand to her bosom. He responded by squeezing it, feeling the nipple grow hard beneath his palm. He ran his free hand through her blonde hair, tracing one finger across her cheek until he reached her mouth. She parted her lips slightly and- licked at the end of the probing digit. He pulled it away and allowed his hand to find its way to her other breast. Both hands now clamped firmly on the pert mounds, he gently rubbed them, becoming aroused himself by Debbie's tiny moans of pleasure.

She put down her coffee and swung round on the swivel chair to face him. He smiled down at her, watching as she pulled off her t-shirt, revealing her firm breasts, the hardened nipples now pink buds.

She reached forward and fumbled with his belt, pulling it free and undoing the top button of his jeans, slowly easing the zipper down. She pulled him closer to her, excited by the sight of his erection. She bent low and kissed him and he groaned from the sensations in that most sensitive area. Her lips fastened around his swollen organ and she drew him still closer, bringing her hands round to grip his buttocks. He held her head, not wanting her to stop the motion of her mouth and tongue but also wanting to enjoy her more fully. Gently, he pulled away and knelt before her, helping her to slip out of her own jeans and knickers.

She raised one foot which he caught and kissed, taking each toe into his mouth in turn before allowing his tongue to flick its way up the inside of her leg towards her own pulsing desire.

She edged forward on the chair, giving him better access and, as his tongue parted her nest of light hair, she gasped. He plunged deeper, allowing his probing tongue to taste her flowing juices and she pressed hard against his face until he put his hands beneath her and lifted her to the floor, impaling her on his erection.

Slowly at first, but then with increasing urgency, Debbie moved back and forth until her gasps became cries, mingled with his own muffled gasps of pleasure as they reached a peak together and he buried his head between her breasts.

As the sensations subsided, they lay beside one another, aware only of the warm glow from the other's body and the plaintive howling of the wind outside.

Debbie leant over him and kissed his chest before looking into his face. He smiled up at her and stroked her cheek with one hand.

'Maybe cataloguing isn't so bad after all,' she said and they both laughed, holding one another tightly.

They lay there on the floor, naked, for a little while then Debbie said: 'I wonder what it's like to go through life without someone to love. Without someone who loves you?' She twisted the hairs on his chest into little spirals with her index finger.

Lambert shrugged, 'I've never thought about it.'

She smiled, 'What was it Shakespeare said, "It's better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." '

'Something like that,' said Lambert, trying to suppress a smile.

'What's so funny?' Debbie wanted to know.

'You're very philosophical.'

'Am I getting boring?' She looked into his eyes.

He tutted and sighed, 'I might have to give that some thought.'

She pinched him.

'Ouch,' he said, sitting up, 'you bitch.'

She giggled.

'Assaulting a police officer is a very serious offence,' said Lambert in an officious voice. 'You have been warned.'

'And what if I do it again?' she asked, teasingly.

'I shall have to consider my verdict carefully.'

Debbie kissed him on the cheek, 'How about an early night?'

He agreed.

Lambert sat up, sweat coating his body. He stared wildly around the room, his breath coming in gasps. Glancing down at the alarm clock he noticed that it was four A.M. The luminous arms of the clock glowed like gangrenous glowworms in the darkness. Beside him, Debbie stirred, murmured something in her sleep, and was silent again.

As carefully as he could, Lambert swung himself out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He turned on the cold tap, filled the basin with water and splashed his face. As he looked up, a haggard face stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. The dark lines under his eyes looked as if someone had drawn them with charcoal. He peered down into the clear water and splashed more onto his face.

When he was sure he had calmed down, he let the clear liquid out of the basin and padded back to the bedroom, pausing on the way to look out into the night. He could see nothing. Not a light anywhere, just the watery moon slowly being smothered by banks of thick cloud. He shivered, realizing that he was still naked, and hurried back into bed.

He closed his eyes and waited for sleep, but it wouldn't come. No peaceful oblivion, just that same stubborn image. The one which had woken him in the first place.

The car careening towards the lamp post, smashing into it. His brother hurtling through the windscreen, while he sat in the road watching.

Morning was a long time coming.

Maureen Bayliss piled the last of the breakfast dishes in the sink and looked at her watch. She sighed. Time to get the kids off to school. The washing up could wait until she got back.

'Mum. Mum, I can't find my boots,' shouted little Ronnie Bayliss from the living room.

Maureen hurried to the door and pressed a finger to her lips. 'Don't shout,' she rebuked. 'Your Dad's trying to get some sleep.'

She looked up at the ceiling as if fearing that her husband, Jack, had been woken by their son's frenzied howlings. Jack worked nights at Medworths Foundry, and if he was disturbed while trying to sleep, he'd be like a bear with a sore back for the rest of the day. That she could do without. She told Ronnie that his football boots were in the kitchen and he pushed past her to find them, eventually stuffing them into the red vinyl bag along with his other games equipment.

'Is Carol ready?' asked Maureen, glancing once more at her watch. 'We're going to be late.'

A moment later, the hall door opened and Carol Bayliss emerged. She was a year younger than Ronnie, about six, and Maureen was pleased that they went to the same school so that the boy could keep his eye on her. Carol was a quiet child, withdrawn. Exactly the opposite of Ronnie. Just the type of child whom other kids seem to find a source of amusement. She herself had been to the school twice to report instances of Carol being bullied by older girls and she didn't intend letting it happen again.

Now she helped the child into her navy blazer and straightened her pig-tails, kissing her lightly on the top of the head.

Maureen peered out of the living room window and saw that the sun was shining, but she put on her leather coat just in case. There were dark clouds gathering to the east and she didn't fancy getting caught in a shower on the way back from the school. She struggled with the buttons, horrified to see that she was indeed putting on weight as Jack had told her. She breathed in and managed to button it, hardly daring to exhale for fear of the buttons flying across the room.

'Everybody ready?' she said, and the kids scurried out of the front door before her.

She followed, closing the door as quietly as possible so as not to wake Jack, and headed up the garden path. As she turned the corner, she couldn't help but notice that the curtains of the Mackenzie house were still drawn. It was unusual for June to be so haphazard, thought Maureen. She was usually a stickler for detail. They had lived next door to one another for the last ten years and had become close friends, both of them having their children about the same time. Now they walked, with the kids, to school every morning, did their shopping together and generally went about their business as one.

Ronnie opened the gate which led down the path to the front door of the Mackenzie house and, as Maureen followed him, she saw that upstairs curtains were drawn as well. They've probably slept in, she thought to herself and reached for the brass knocker, smiling to herself, imagining June's panic when she realized what had happened.

Maureen struck hard, stepping back in surprise as the door swung open. Ronnie was about to dash in when she grabbed him.

'Let's go and wake them up,' he said, leering mischievously.

Maureen suddenly felt uneasy. Why should the front door be open when all the curtains were drawn? Perhaps Ray had gone out early that morning and forgotten to close it behind him. Perhaps they hadn't locked it the night before, there had been a strong wind after all.

Perhaps…

Perhaps what?

Maureen took a step back, pulling Ronnie with her. He looked up at her, 'What is it, Mum?'

'Come on,' she said, trying not to convey the note of anxiety in her voice. No, why lie to yourself Maureen Bayliss, she thought, for some unknown reason you are scared. There's something wrong here.

She locked the gate behind them and told the kids to stand still while she went and fetched Jack. She fumbled in her purse for the front door key, went in and rushed upstairs. She pushed open the bedroom door, waking Jack immediately. He rolled onto his back, his eyes bleary.

'God, what is it, love?' he said, trying not to sound irritable.

'It's next door,' she told him. 'The curtains are all drawn and there's no answer when I knock.'

'They probably just overslept.'

He tried to roll over again but she pulled him back, 'Jack, for Christ sake, the front door is open.'

'So what?' He was losing control of his temper.

'There might be something wrong,' she persisted.

He snorted, 'Like what?'

'You never know, you read of all sorts of things happening these days, they might all be dead. Burglars or something.'

He waved her away, 'You're going to have to stop reading The News of the World. Things like that don't happen around here, love. This is Medworth, not bloody New York.'

'Then I'm going to phone the police,' she told him, heading for the landing.

He swung himself out of bed and caught her at the bedroom door. She could see that he was angry. 'All right, I'll go and look.' He pulled on his dressing gown and stormed off down the stairs.

'You're not going like that?' she asked.

He turned as he reached the front door, 'Why not? They're going to think I'm off my bloody head when I walk in there and they're all tucked up in bed anyway. I might as well look the part.' Muttering to himself, he headed out into the street.

Ronnie and Carol saw him coming and started to laugh.

'You can shut up too,' he said and headed down the path towards the Mackenzie house.

Maureen ran after him and he paused at the door, still open. 'You'd better wait here,' he said, sarcastically. 'I mean, if they have all been butchered, the killer might still be around.' He shook his head and banged on the open door.

'Ray,' he shouted.

The house greeted him with silence.

Mrs Baldwin from across the road passed by, giving Jack Bayliss a funny look. She turned her nose up and walked on. He bowed mockingly and the old lady hurried past. Ronnie and Carol laughed again.

Jack took a step inside and shouted once more. There was no answer, no sound of movement. Nothing. The hall door to his left was closed, the staircase straight ahead of him. The curtains at the top of the landing were drawn, plunging the house into a kind of murky twilight. He walked into the hall and pushed open the door. Christ, it was dark in there. He swallowed hard, squinting into the gloom, and called again.

Silence.

He took a step into the room, casting a furtive glance around. Jack could feel the tension building within him as he padded towards the closed kitchen door and, he almost hit the roof when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Scarcely stifling a yell he turned to find Maureen standing there.

'Did you have to do that?' he panted, his heart thudding against his ribs.

'I told you there was something wrong,' she persisted.

He peered into the kitchen and found nothing, discovering his scepticism rapidly draining away. His tone, when he spoke again, had lost its flippancy.

'I'm going to look upstairs,' he told her. 'You wait in the hall.'

As he ascended the stairs he looked around. Nothing had been disturbed; whatever had happened it hadn't been a visitation by burglars.

He reached the landing and looked around. There were four doors facing him, set in a kind of L shape. He leant over the banister and saw Maureen looking up at him. Angry with himself for allowing the atmosphere to affect him, he opened the door nearest to him and looked in.

A child's room, he realized from the scattering of toys on the floor and the flowered bedspread. No sign of anyone. He closed that door and moved to the second. It was an airing cupboard. He tutted and was about to open the third door when something caught his eye.

It was lying outside the door of the fourth room, which was, itself, slightly ajar. He crossed cautiously to the discarded object and picked it up. It was a toy, a stuffed animal. Of course, Carol had one. It was Snoopy.

He dropped it when he noticed the blood which covered its floppy head.

His eyes suddenly darted round the darkened landing, flitting from door to door. Fear and anger vied for control of his emotions. He slowly pushed open the door to the fourth room.

From her position in the hall, Maureen Bayliss heard her husband scream. A sound which was rapidly choked away as he vomited.

She called his name and raced up the stairs taking them two at a time. As she reached the landing, he staggered drunkenly from the room, waving her back. His face was the colour of cream cheese and thick mucous was dribbling down his chin.

'Jack,' she said, terrified.

'Call the police,' he gasped, struggling for breath.

'What is it?'

'Do it,' he roared at her, dropping to his knees, his entire body shaking. He tried to control his heaving stomach but, as the door swung back gently on its hinges once more, he couldn't. For although he had his back to the horror he had discovered, the thought alone was enough to make him throw up again. He reached back and slammed the door shut, listening as his wife dialled 999 and babbled out her message. He heard her put the receiver down and then he fainted.

Sergeant Vic Hayes stood in the bathroom of the Mackenzie house and drank down another tumbler full of water. He stood against the sink for a moment, regaining his composure, then, taking one last mouthful of water, he walked back into the bedroom.

At fifty-two, and with more than thirty years experience on the force, he had seen some sights. Road accidents, industrial accidents, baby batterings. But never anything like this and in Medworth, of all places. He'd been a sergeant here for more than fifteen years and there hadn't been anything worse than a bad case of G.B.H. in all that time. The offender was doing five to ten in Strangeways; Hayes had given evidence at the trial. The man had attacked his girlfriend's father with a spanner. Made a right mess of his face too.

But never anything like this today.

He entered the bedroom and saw Doctor John Kirby leaning over the first of the bodies, just as he had been doing when Hayes had left the room. Hayes didn't care for Kirby much. He was good at his job, but a bit of an arrogant little bastard. He'd come straight from medical school to his position as Medworth G.P. and he also doubled as Police doctor. Not that his services had been needed until now.

Two ambulancemen stood by the door with a stretcher, their eyes looking at the floor. In fact, looking at anything other than at what Kirby had at his feet.

Hayes took a deep breath and leaned over him.

'Whoever did this was a very strong man,' said Kirby, matter of factly. 'It's difficult to tell of course without an autopsy, but, I'd say these cuts are nine or ten inches deep.' He pointed to the throat. 'This particular blow practically severed the head.'

'And the little girl?' asked Hayes, not daring to look behind him. Lying beside the open door was the body of Michelle Mackenzie, her tiny form disfigured by a dozen wounds.

Kirby nodded. 'The injuries are the same, so is the disfigurement.' He stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Strange.'

Hayes nodded. He knew of which 'disfigurement' Kirby spoke and it was that final touch of horror which had forced him out of the room when he had first seen the two bodies.

Both had had their eyes torn out.

'As I said before,' said Kirby, 'without an autopsy it's difficult to give precise details, but from the scratch marks on both of their faces and…'

Hayes cut him short, 'All right, doc. I'll wait for the reports.' He walked out, leaving the ambulancemen to load the bodies onto their stretchers. Kirby followed them out. Hayes watched him leave. He stood on the deserted landing for a moment then wearily made his way down to the living room. Through the open front door he saw the two bodies loaded into the ambulance which, after Kirby had climbed into the back, drove off. Hayes took off his cap and flopped into one of the arm chairs. Where was Ray Mackenzie? Could the husband be the killer?

'Find anything?' he asked, wiping his forehead.

P.C. Gary Briggs nodded and lifted a plastic bag from the coffee table. It contained the jewel box which had belonged to June Mackenzie. Hayes took the box out and opened it.

'We found it upstairs,' Briggs told him, 'under a pillow on the bed.'

Hayes looked into the box and saw the medallion. He studied it a moment then looked up at Briggs. The youngster shrugged. 'It's bloody old, whatever it is.'

Hayes handed it back. 'Take it down to the station. Lock it in the safe.'

Briggs nodded and dropped the medallion back into the jewel box.

'Did anyone talk to the woman who reported this?' asked the sergeant.

'Tony did,' answered Briggs, nodding out of the window, indicating P.C. Walford standing outside the front gate talking to a group of people who were trying to see into the Mackenzie house. 'Her husband found the bodies. She reported it straight away.'

'Poor bastard,' said Hayes, quietly, 'it must have been quite a shock for him.'

Hayes struggled to his feet, feeling more aware of his ample stomach than usual, and replaced his cap on his balding head.

'What do you want us to do, Sarge?' asked Briggs.

'Just keep this quiet. I don't want word getting about, understand? This is a nice town. The people aren't ready for this sort of thing. If any reporters turn up, tell them to fuck off.' He paused as he reached the door. 'I'm going back to the station, I'm going to get in touch with Inspector Lambert. I think we need him on this one.'

He walked out into the fresh morning air and inhaled deeply, allowing the crisp wind to wash the stench of blood and death from his nostrils.

He nodded to Walford as he passed, on his way to the Panda car parked across the street. Hayes slid behind the wheel and started the engine, picking up the car's two-way radio as he guided it out into the street. He flicked on the transmitter and spoke through the crackle of static, 'Puma One to base.'

The static crackled more fiercely.

'Puma One to base, move your self, Davies.' There was a buzz as he flicked to receive and a metallic voice came through, 'Sorry, Sarge, the kettle was boiling, I had to turn it off.'

'Well, put mine out, I'll be back in two minutes and Davies, remember, one sugar, I'm trying to slim. Over.'

'About time, Sarge.' A giggle. 'Over'.

'Fuck off. Over and out.'

Lambert heard the phone ringing as he stepped out of the Capri. He hurriedly locked the door and sped towards the house, wondering who was calling and hoping they wouldn't ring off before he got to the phone. He fumbled out his front door key and dashed in, snatching up the receiver in the nick of time.

'Hello,' he said, breathlessly.

'Hello, sir.'

Lambert recognized the voice immediately as Hayes. 'Sergeant. What can I do for you?'

'I've rung twice before, I didn't think you were there.'

'I was at the…' Lambert's voice trailed off and Hayes realized that his superior had been to the cemetery. 'What's so important Sergeant?'

'Well, sir, you asked me to tell you if anything happened.'

'Yes.' Lambert suddenly felt excited.

'I'm afraid we've had a double murder.'

'Where, for Christ's sake?'

'Elm Street. Number…' Lambert heard the rustling of papers at the other end of the line, then Hayes came back on, 'number twelve. The wife and daughter. The husband is missing. We're treating the husband as prime suspect.'

'What do you make of it?' asked Lambert, scribbling something down on the pad beside his telephone.

'Knifings sir, both of them.'

'Got the weapon?'

'Not yet.'

'What're the names of the victims?'

'Mackenzie. June, that was the wife, and Michelle, the little girl, aged about five we think.'

Lambert wrote the details down on the pad,

the receiver cradled between his shoulder and his ear.

'Do you need me down there?' he asked hopefully.

'Not at the moment, sir. I've got some men out looking for the suspect and Doctor Kirby is doing autopsies on the victims this afternoon.'

'Ring me back the moment you get the results of those,' Lambert told him, 'or if anyone sees this Mackenzie, right?' He hung up, a sudden surge of adrenalin firing his body. He had forgotten about Mike for a moment, had managed to push that thought to the back of his mind. He had his work again. Now nothing would stop him from returning. He sat down, his thoughts jumbled, and read what he had written on the pad.

Double Murder. June and Michelle Mackenzie. Husband chief suspect, disappeared. Knifed. No murder weapon found. Autopsies performed.

What was Debbie going to say? He haif smiled.

The phone rang again at four twenty-three that afternoon. The policeman snatched it up. 'Lambert,' he said.

'Hayes here, sir. We've got the results of the autopsy.'

'Go on,' said Lambert, suddenly realizing that he hadn't got a pad or pen. 'Hold it a minute,' he said, retrieving them from the coffee table. 'Right, fire away.'

'Dr Kirby's here, if you want to speak to him, sir,' Hayes told him.

'Put him on,' instructed Lambert, hearing the murmurings at the other end of the line. A second later, he recognized Kirby's voice. They exchanged pleasantries, then Lambert said, 'What's the verdict, John? And keep it simple, please.'

'Messy ones, Tom, both of them. I found traces of skin under the fingernails of the woman. I would think your suspect is probably walking around with some pretty hefty scratch marks on his cheek. What order do you want them in?'

Lambert was puzzled, 'What do you mean?'

'The mother or the girl first?' Kirby told him.

'It doesn't matter,' said Lambert, impatiently. There was a pause at the other end and the policeman could hear the sound of papers being rustled, then Kirby again. 'The little girl. I found six separate wounds, mostly around the upper body and neck. The deepest was eight inches, the fatal wound probably, situated just below the larynx. If it's any consolation, I think she was dead before he cut her badly.'

Lambert scribbled details, 'And the woman?'

'Twenty-three separate wounds.'

'Shit,' murmured Lambert, still writing. Kirby continued, 'Mostly in the abdomen, chest and neck as before. The weapon was double-edged, jagged and tapering, which would explain the width as well as the depth of the wounds.'

'What do you think? Butcher's knife, something like that?'

'No. I know what it was, I've got it in my office right now. It was a piece of glass, or mirror to be more precise and the reason your boys couldn't find any murder weapon was because it was still embedded in June Mackenzie's body. I took a piece of mirror nearly fifteen inches long from behind the rib cage. It had been driven in from above, just behind the right clavicle, collar bone to you, and it had punctured the heart. I'd say that was the death wound.'

'Jesus Christ,' said Lambert.

'One more thing Tom,' added Kirby, as if the catalogue of atrocity hadn't quite been enough, 'the eyes were taken.'

'Taken? What do you mean taken?' It sank home. 'Oh God, he didn't cut those out too did he?'

'Well now, that's the whole point. My examination revealed that they were removed without the use of any external implements.'

Lambert's nauseated anger broke forth, 'What the hell are you trying to say? Did he cut out their eyes or didn't he?'

Kirby's voice was low, controlled, 'From the scratches on the cheeks and bridge of the nose, I'd say he tore them out with his bare hands. The fingerprints matched those of Ray Mackenzie.' Lambert tried to write down that last piece of information but, as he pressed down on the paper, the point of his pencil splintered.

'Tom?' Kirby's voice called, 'you still there?'

Lambert exhaled deeply, 'Yes, sorry'.

'Did you get all that?'

'I got it. Put Hayes back on, will you?'

The sergeant's voice replaced that of Kirby, 'Yes sir.'

'Get every available man out looking for Mackenzie. I want that fucking maniac caught before this happens again.' He hesitated a moment then said, 'I'll be in touch. If anything happens in the meantime, let me know.'

He put the phone down. For long moments he stood staring at the pad, the scrawled details of the twin deaths.

Eyes torn out.

Lambert threw the pad down and crossed to the cabinet beside the bay window. He pulled it open and took out a bottle of scotch. He poured indiscriminately, filling the tumbler practically to the brim, then he swallowed half its contents, wincing as the amber liquid burned its way to his stomach. He held the glass, considering it in his hand, then he drained it. Rapidly refilling the crystal tumbler, he wondered how many more of them he'd need before Debbie got home.

She found him sitting in the darkness, only the light from the streetlamp outside illuminating his dark outline. He sat still, the glass still clamped in his hand, staring out of the window, scarcely turning when she entered the room and flicked on the table lamp. The room was suddenly alive with subdued light, changing from the drab place of darkness it had been a second ago into a warm grotto.

He smiled at her.

'Tom, what's the matter?' she asked, crossing to him. Immediately she smelt the drink on his breath.

He lifted the glass in salute and swallowed its contents before setting it down gently on the carpet beside his chair.

'Would you like a drink?' he asked. 'There's plenty more where that came from.'

She took hold of his hand. 'What's wrong?' she repeated.

He looked at her, his smile fading. 'Last night, two people were murdered. A woman and a little girl. Do you know how old that little girl was? Five. Only five years old. They were stabbed and then their eyes were torn out. Bodily.'

Debbie shuddered, 'Oh my God.'

'The crazy bastard who did it is still on the loose.'

They looked at each other, their eyes probing, searching the other's for some sign.

'I'm going back, Debbie,' said Lambert, flatly. He reached out and stroked her cheek, noticing the moisture building within her eyes. She gripped his hand and pressed it to her face, kissing it.

'Tom,' she said, a tear running down her cheek, 'I just want you to be all right. This business with Mike, it's torn you apart and now this on top of it. Please, give it a couple more days, they can manage for a couple more days.' Tears were flowing quickly now and he reached out and brushed them aside.

'I'll be all right,' he said. 'They need me. If this bastard did it once, he might do it again. I can't let that happen. I have responsibilities. I'm supposed to be the law here.'

She stood up, suddenly angry, 'Oh, for Christ sake, you-make it sound like a bloody Western. The law. Your responsibilities. You don't have to carry the can for everything, Tom. Not for every bloody cause going. You don't have to feel guilty about all the things you do. You'll be telling me next it was your fault those two people were murdered.' She wiped away the tears, rubbing her eyes when they clouded her vision. 'You know I think you actually enjoy it at times. Being the bloody martyr, shouldering the troubles of the world.'

He watched her, standing before him like some sort of nubile prosecution counsel.

'It's called caring,' he said, softly.

She didn't move, just stood still in the centre of the room shaking gently, tears staining her cheeks. He got up and crossed to her, his arms enfolding her. She tried to push him away at first but, finally, her arms snaked up around his neck and she pulled him closer, tasting the whisky on his breath but not caring. Wanting him near to her, to feel his body next to hers.

They stood there for a long time, locked in passionate embrace, clinging to each other in that twilight room, while outside the dark clouds of night began to invade the sky.

The photo on top of the television smiled back its monochrome smile at Emma Reece. It showed a young couple on their wedding day, the bride resplendent in her white dress (though now looking somewhat sepia tinted because of the age of the photo). The young man was kissing her on the cheek. She looked across at her husband, slumped in the chair, and smiled.

'It's hard to believe that was twenty-five years ago,' she said.

'What's that, love?' he said, his eyes not lifting from the topless girl in the newspaper he held.

'The photo.'

Gordon Reece put down the paper and looked up, also seeing the picture. He smiled. 'God, I was a handsome bugger in those days.'

Emma snorted, 'And still as modest.'

He winked at her, 'If you've got it, flaunt it, that's what I always used to say.'

'You used to say a lot of things,' said Emma, running a hand through her hair. 'Do you think I should have it dyed before Saturday?' she asked.

'What?'

'My hair. Do you think I should have it dyed before the party on Saturday?'

He shook his head. 'Women. Why the hell can't you just grow old gracefully? If you're grey, you're grey. Who cares? You never hear me complaining about the colour of my hair.'

'It's different for men,' she told him. 'Besides, I want to look my best for our Vera. If she's flying all the way from Australia just for our twenty-fifth anniversary, the least I can do is look presentable.'

'She's coming to see you, not your bloody hair.' Emma pulled at the greying strands, watched by her husband who smiled benignly and shook his head. He returned to his paper.

'It'll be marvellous to see her again after all these years,' said Emma, wistfully.

'Yes dear,' answered Gordon, his head still buried in the paper.

'I wonder what the little boys will think of England.'

Gordon looked up and grunted. 'They'll probably wonder why it's so bloody cold all the time.' There was a rustling from behind Emma's chair and their three-year old Labrador bitch, Sherry, emerged wagging her tail frantically. Emma patted the dog and it stretched out in front of the fire. Gordon moved his feet to give the animal more room.

'I think she wants her walk,' said Emma, retrieving the leash from the sideboard. There was a photo of their daughter on it and she paused to study the photo for a moment before handing the leash to Gordon.

'She's all right where she is,' he protested, nudging the dog with his toe. The animal looked round. 'You don't want to go out, do you girl?'

He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to convince the Labrador that he was right.

'She needs it,' persisted Emma.

Gordon grunted and began fitting the leash, glancing up at the clock on the mantlepiece as he did so.

'It's nearly half past ten,' he said.

Emma half smiled, almost knowing what was coming next.

'So?' she said.

'There's a match on after the news. A big game. Arsenal and Liverpool, it's…'

She cut him short. 'Oh all right, I can take a hint.'

Emma went into the hall and pulled down her old navy blue duffle coat and fastened the buttons. She held out her hand for the leash, the dog now excitedly waiting. Gordon winked at her.

'I don't know how I've put up with you for twenty-five years,' she said, trying not to smile. She could hold it back now longer when he blew her a kiss. Laughing, she led the dog out into the hall. Gordon heard her say, 'Back in a bit,' and then the front door slammed shut.

He settled down to watch the game.

As Emma stood on the doorstep, fastening the last toggle of her coat, she shivered. She had not realized just how cold the wind was. Now it lashed her face with icy barbs and felt like a portent of frost or even snow. The sky was clear, the full moon suspended on invisible wires like some huge fluorescent ball. It cast its cold glow over the town, guiding Emma as she walked. The dog tripped along nimbly beside her, its breath forming white clouds in the chill atmosphere.

Lights burned in most front rooms as she walked down the street, and their muffled glow made the night seem a little less forbidding. The estate on which they lived was clean, populated by families well known to one another, and there was a feeling of belonging which Emma had never encountered before. She and Gordon had lived in Medworth for over twenty years, London before that. Both of them found the solitude and peacefulness of country life a positive lift after the hustle and bustle of the capital. Her parents had both come from around this area, so she herself was no stranger to their ways.

She had finished work for good when Vera was born. Gordon had had a good job and his wage was more than enough to keep them comfortably. With their own anniversary due on Saturday, just two days away, things looked rosy. They were only having a small get together, family mainly, and a couple of close friends. But what really made the occasion for Emma was the fact that she would be seeing her daughter again after so long. Suddenly she forgot the cold of the night, instead overcome by that familiar warm glow which comes with expectations.

At the bottom of the street, the road curved sharply away to the right and more houses. Straight ahead lay a large expanse of rough ground and thickly planted trees which locals called The Wasteland. Emma laughed to herself. If old Henry Myers, who owned the land, could hear them, he'd go mad. Myers had a small farm right on the edge of the estate. No livestock, just arable crops like the other small holdings dotted around the outskirts of Medworth. Still, he made a living from it. However, with this particular field, he seemed to have given up. Nothing but stumps of grass and a positive jungle of weeds grew there, the whole thing flanked by a string of cedars. A muddied footpath led to a stile over which one had to climb to get into the field; and it was up this path that Emma led the dog.

The animal scrambled beneath the rotted obstacle while Emma struggled over the top, nearly slipping off. Sherry was panting excitedly as Emma unhooked her leash.

'Off you go, girl,' she said, and the dog bounded away into the field, leaping about like a lamb in spring. Emma leant against the stile for a moment watching the dog, then she began to walk around the perimeter of the field.

The trees crowded in on her from one side, kept back to a certain degree by a high fence of rusty barbed wire. The fence was broken in numerous places, the lengths of wire hanging down in the mud.

The wind combed through the branches creating a sound which reminded Emma of sheets blowing on a washing fine.

She jumped back as a low branch, propelled by a gust of wind, snatched at her face. She decided to move further away from the trees, perhaps even to join the dog in the centre of the field.

There was a loud snap as a branch broke behind her.

She spun round, her heart thumping. There were scuff marks around the base of the bushes and beneath her lower strands of barbed wire, wliich she took to be the work of rabbits.

Or rats?

The idea of being in a field with rats made her shudder and she looked across towards the dog, anxious now to get home. Back to the warmth of the fire and the comforting glare of electric light. She looked up at the moon, suddenly covered by a bank of thick cloud. The field was plunged into momentary darkness and Emma felt suddenly, unaccountably, afraid… She rebuked herself as the cloud cleared and cold white light once more flooded the ground. Nevertheless, she pulled the leash from her pocket and prepared to call the dog.

There was more movement in the bushes behind and she turned, convinced that the creator of the disturbance was much too big to be a rabbit or a rat. Perhaps some kids messing about. She tried to fix that idea in her mind, her eyes glued to the source of the disturbance. She stood riveted for long moments then turned slowly back to call Sherry.

The dog was crouching in the centre of the field, its head resting on its front legs, whimpering quietly. Even from as far away as fifty yards, she could see it was quivering, its eyes fixed on something in the bushes behind her.

She turned, the breath catching in her throat.

The thing that had once been Ray Mackenzie hurtled at her from the cover of the bushes, a shower of leaves accompanying his charge.

Emma opened her mouth to scream, her eyes riveted to the contorted face, now lit obscenely by the moonlight. The feral grin showing discoloured teeth, the three deep scratch marks on one cheek but above all, and this was the last thing she saw before he was upon her, the glowing red orbs that were eyes, burning with the fires of hell.

Mackenzie launched himself at her, cleared the fence and slammed into her, knocking her into the soft mud.

Emma screamed, the sound finally choking away as Mackenzie fastened both talon-like hands around her throat and lifted her off the ground. He held her up at arms' length, her legs dangling uselessly, trying to kick him, trying to ease the grip which was killing her. Through eyes clouded by pain, she saw him grinning, those terrible red eyes burning madly. Then he flung her, as an angry child might fling a rag doll. She crashed into the barbed wire fence, the cruel spikes gouging her flesh and ripping her cheek. She tried to rise but he was upon her again, his weight forcing her down, one hand clamped across her face, pushing her head down as if he wished to drive it into the very earth itself. She struggled vainly, striking feebly at him, her tear-filled eyes catching sight of his other hand. A hand which reached for a length of broken barbed wire. Ignoring the barbs which tore open his palm, Mackenzie snapped the wire free as if it had been thin string. He released his grip, momentarily, on Emma's face, holding the two foot length of barbed wire above her. She made one last desperate attempt to get up and did, indeed, manage to stagger a few feet from him. But her legs gave out and Mackenzie caught her, looping the barbed wire around her neck and using it like some kind of spiked garotte. He pulled with all his strength, watching as Emma raised one hand to ward off the attack. It was useless.

The barbs tore her flesh, puncturing the twin carotid arteries sending spouting fountains of blood spraying into the night air. Blood filled her mouth and, mercifully, she blacked out. But Mackenzie kept pulling, those insane red eyes glowing like beacons, yellow spittle dribbling down his chin. He jerked the body up, hardly realizing that she was dead, failing to appreciate that the wire was embedded so deep it had practically severed her head. He dropped the corpse and stared down at it for a moment.

The eyes were still open, glazed and wide with terror and agony.

Mackenzie dropped down and bent over the head.

In the middle of the field, the dog watched silently as its mistress was killed. Fear pinned it down as surely as if six inch nails had been driven through its paws. It had seen the man emerge from the woods, seen the awful struggles of its mistress. Then finally it had seen the man bend over her, his hands groping at the lifeless face with frenzied movements before he disappeared once more into the woods.

Only then did the dog wander slowly over to the lifeless body, its nose twitching at the stench of blood and excrement. It whimpered, nuzzling against the corpse as if trying to stir it into life. It stood there for long moments, howling up at the moon, then it scampered off, leaving the body of Emma Reece alone.

'You stupid sod,' yelled Gordon Reece, shaking his fist at the television screen, 'I could have put the bloody thing in from there.' He flopped back in his chair, watching as Liverpool mounted another attack.

'Five hundred pounds a bloody week and he can't score,' grunted Gordon.

It was approaching half time and the scores were still tied at one all. He hoped Liverpool would win. He had a lot of money riding on it, both in the betting shop and at work. Besides, he'd never live it down with Reg Chambers at work, a bloody Arsenal supporter. He'd really rub it in if Liverpool lost. But more importantly than that, Gordon had a fiver bet with him on the result. He didn't tell Emma about his little flutters at work, it would only worry her. She sometimes asked him how he got through his money so quickly. He couldn't tell her it was because he was fond of using that well worn phrase 'Put your money where your mouth is'. Unfortunately, just lately, Gordon's mouth had got the better of his wallet. He'd been losing a lot recently. Still, never mind. The reds would do it in the second half. He hoped.

Half time came and with it the commercials. He pottered off into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Emma should be back soon. The least he could do was make her a cup after having been out in that freezing wind. He lit the gas beneath the large whistling kettle and retired to the living room.

It was then that he heard the scratching.

At first he thought it was the beginning of rain against the windows, but as it became more insistent he realized that it was coming from the front door.

Emma, he thought. Forgotten her key probably. He flicked on the hall light and opened the front door.

The labrador stood on the doorstep, its baleful eyes dark with the horror it had witnessed. Silent testimony to a secret beyond death itself.

Gordon looked at it, shivering before him. It was only a second before he noticed that the dog held something between its jaws and a second more until he realized what it was.

A blood splattered leash.

Lambert could hear the persistent ringing and, at first, thought that the noise was in his head. He sighed when it didn't fade and opened his eyes.

The ringing continued.

It was the phone in the hall. He glanced across at the alarm clock on his bedside table and then down at his own watch. No discrepancy between them. It was four-thirty a.m.

He rolled onto his back as the ringing continued, persistent and unceasing. Debbie had one hand across his chest, her fingers nestling softly in the hairs. He smiled and traced a pattern on the back of her hand. She moaned in her sleep and rolled over.

The phone kept ringing.

'Shit,' muttered Lambert and swung himself out of bed, shivering slightly. It was still dark outside and he didn't want to put the bedroom light on for fear of waking Debbie. So he tiptoed across the carpet to the door and, closing it behind him, hurried downstairs to silence the phone.

'Lambert', he said, sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

'Sir.'

He recognized the voice at the other end as Hayes, equally weary but with an edge to it. 'There's been another one.'

Lambert shook his head, trying to dislodge the last vestiges of sleep which still clouded his brain. 'Another murder?'

'Yes, sir.'

He exhaled deeply, 'Oh God.' A moment's pause. 'Who?'

'We got the name as Emma Reece. Fifty-two years old, lived up the estate near old man Myers' farm.'

'Who found her?'

'Her husband. Apparently she took the dog out for a walk, across some field at the bottom of the road. The dog ran back to the house carrying its own leash. The husband went looking for her and found her lying in the field.'

Lambert yawned and cleared his throat, 'Where's the body now?'

'Doctor Kirby's got it at the morgue,' Hayes told him.

'I'll be right there.' He hung up.

Lambert sat staring down at the dead phone for a second, lost in his own thoughts, then he padded quickly upstairs. Moving as quietly as he could, he pulled his clothes from the wardrobe and crept out again. He dressed in the living room, drinking a cup of black coffee while he did so. Then he found a piece of paper and scribbled a note:

Duty calls, darling.

Love you.

Tom

He propped the note up on the kitchen table and left by the back door.

The drive to the police station took him less than fifteen minutes and, as he parked the car in its usual position, dawn was beginning to claw its way into the sky. The air felt heavy with dew and the smell of cut grass, and Lambert inhaled deeply as he mounted the set of steps which led to the main door.

The small annexe inside the main door was hung with various crime prevention leaflets, some of which were so old they looked like parchment. Lambert smiled to himself. He had almost forgotten what the place looked like. He walked through the double doors which led into the station proper and found Sergeant Hayes propped up behind the desk with a mug of tea in front of him.

'Hello, guy,' he said, smiling.

Lambert smiled back. Just like old times, he thought. He passed his office, a door to his left marked with his name and thought about going in. But he had no reason to, so he lifted the flap of the desk and walked through into the duty room beyond.

It was a large room, its floor covered by a carpet the colour of rotten grapes. There were three or four worn leather armchairs and a couple of hard backed wooden chairs dotted about. The notice board, which covered the entire far wall, was littered with pieces of paper. Duty rosters, areas to be patrolled, who was due for night beat etc. The paraphernalia of normal police work. He recognized P.C. Chris Davies, slumped in one of the chairs and nodded at him. Davies, a big man with ginger hair, raised a hand in acknowledgement and stood up. Lambert waved him back to his seat.

'You were first there?' asked the Inspector.

Davies nodded. 'Whoever it was made a bloody mess of her. I've never seen anything like it.'

The constable looked younger than his forty-three years, but this particular experience had given him the appearance of a man who had been deprived of sleep for a week. He took a sip of his tea, hands still shaking.

Lambert walked out of the room and back to Hayes.

'Where's Kirby?' he asked.

'Downstairs. I don't think he's finished yet.'

Lambert made his way down the corridor which passed his own office, and headed towards a green door marked private. To his left and right were the cells. The green door was the entrance to the police pathology lab and Lambert hesitated before turning the knob.

The smell hit him immediately. The pungent odour of blood and chemicals which always made him heave. He blew out a long breath and descended the five stone steps which led down to the lab itself.

It was, as seemed common to these establishments, green and white in colour, the floor of shiny white ceramic tiles contrasting with the sea green of the walls and ceiling. A bank of fluorescents threw a cold white light across the grisly proceedings below. In the centre of the room was an aluminum table. The work bench, as Kirby liked to call it. There was a body on it, covered at the moment by a thick white piece of rubber sheeting.

The door to the little bathroom at the side opened and Kirby emerged, wiping his hands with a towel. He was chewing something which Lambert took to be a peppermint. The doctor smiled and offered one to Lambert, who declined.

'Finished?' asked the policeman, indicating the corpse.

'I was just about to start,' said Kirby rolling up his sleeves. He crossed to a closet and pulled out a plastic apron which he quickly put on. 'I can tell you without a post mortem that this woman was killed by the same person who killed that little girl and her mother.'

Lambert looked puzzled. 'How, for Christ's sake?'

Kirby pulled back the sheet and Lambert felt his guts turn a somersault.

Emma Reece's eyes had been torn out.

'Jesus,' gasped Lambert, stepping back, unable to look any longer at the mutilated sockets. 'You're sure it's the same killer?'

'The scratches around the cheeks and nose are identical to those on the first two victims. There's no doubt about it. Mackenzie's marks are all over the body.'

The doctor stood beside the corpse, looking at Lambert, whose own gaze was riveted to the deep, savage gashes in the woman's neck.

'How was it done?' he asked.

'He strangled her with barbed wire,' said Kirby flatly.

Lambert pushed past the doctor and pulled the sheet back over the body. 'Forget the autopsy,' he said.

'Are you sure? I mean it's standard procedure…'

'Fuck standard procedure,' snarled Lambert, loudly. He bowed his head and leant back against the table. When he spoke again his tone was more subdued, weary even. 'What's the motive, John?'

'You're the policeman,' said Kirby smiling.

Lambert grinned weakly and nodded. 'No motive. The bastard hasn't even left us a motive.' The inspector walked past Kirby. 'I'll be in the office if you want me,' he said and left.

Kirby took off his apron and hung it up again. He looked at the corpse beneath the sheeting for a second then he crossed to his bench and began writing his own report.

Lambert had a pad before him on the desk and, on it, he was trying to make a list, but the words wouldn't go down in coherent order. He read back what he had:

No motive. Injuries identical. Ray Mackenzie.

He circled 'No motive' and got wearily to his feet. The wall clock said six-twenty A.M. Lambert yawned and rubbed his eyes. Debbie would be up by now, she'd have read his note. He wasn't sure what her reaction to it would be. Not that it really mattered.

He thought of Mike.

Should he visit the cemetery today? He sat down on the edge of his desk, reaching for the pad. He reread his notes. Notes. That was a laugh. What bloody notes? A page full of maybes and whys. He read it once more.

No motive.

The words stuck out like compound fracture.

But they carried with them a resonance which Lambert found all the more disturbing. If there had been no motive for the three killings, then Mackenzie could strike anywhere and at anytime. Christ alone knew who was going to be next. The wife and daughter, perhaps he could understand. Maybe Mackenzie had come home in a drunken rage and killed them both in a fit of temper. But Emma Reece…

And the eyes. Why take the eyes? Was there some significance in that particular mutilation?

Lambert threw the pad across the room in a fit of impotent annoyance. They had to catch Mackenzie, and fast.

He tried to imagine what Gordon Reece must have felt like, finding his wife like that. The poor bastard was imder sedation at home. The funeral was tomorrow and he had refused to speak to any policemen until after it was over. Lambert had learned that it was to have been the Reeces' silver wedding anniversary the following day. There was nothing to celebrate now. The family were united to see Emma Reece buried, instead of to celebrate a union which had lasted twenty-five years. Lambert suddenly felt very angry. He wondered how he was going to be able to face Gordon Reece on that coming Sunday. Still, he'd learn to live with it. Everybody had to sooner or later.

Lambert thought about Mike again. Should he visit the cemetery?

He could fight the urge no longer. Telling Hayes where he could be reached, he hurried out of the police station and, climbing into the Capri, headed for Two Meadows.

As he drove, he wondered how much longer it would be before the memory faded.

He wondered, in fact, if that day would ever come.

Debbie heard the car door slam in the driveway, followed a second later by footsteps heading for the back door. She turned expectantly towards it as Lambert entered.

He smiled tiredly at her.

'You look wrecked,' she said, quietly.

'That is the understatement of the year,' he said, kissing her gently on the forehead. He walked into the sitting room and got himself a drink. 'Want one?' he called.

She asked him for a vodka and he poured it. His own tumbler full, he drained it quickly, then poured another before returning to the kitchen where he sat at the table.

'You got my message this morning?' he asked.

She nodded, sipping her drink.

Lambert exhaled deeply and took a large swallow of scotch.

'Was it another murder?' she asked.

'Yes. A woman in her fifties.'

'What was her name?'

He smiled at her, 'That's supposed to be police business.' There was a moment's silence then he said: 'Emma Reece.'

'Oh my God,' said Debbie, putting down her drink. 'I knew her. And her husband. She was a regular at the library. When did it happen?'

'Last night. She was out walking the dog and…' he drew an index finger across his throat in a cutting motion.

'Was it the same one who killed the Mackenzies?' she wanted to know.

'Yes.' He would say no more.

'What about Mr Reece?'

'He's sedated, apparently. The funeral's tomorrow. I've got to talk to the poor bastard on Sunday.' He finished his drink. 'You know I can understand how he feels. It's like being punched in the guts when something like that happens to someone close, like having all the wind knocked out of you.'

'You went to the cemetery again today.' It came out more as a statement than a question.

He nodded, prodding his food with his fork as she laid it before him. She too sat and they ate in silence. After a while, she looked across at him.

'Want to talk about it?' she said, smiling. 'About what?'

'Anything, I'm game.'

They both laughed.

'I'm sorry, love,' said Lambert, 'it's just that, well, this whole business worries me. I feel so fucking helpless. Do you know that in all the police records of this town there's never been one murder, one rape or one mugging? And now, in the space of three days, I've got three corpses on my hands.'

'You make it sound as if it's your fault.'

He shook his head. 'That's not what I mean. I wanted to get back to work, you know that. But not under these circumstances. Christ, three bloody murders. I didn't think things like that happened in Medworth.' He fetched them both another drink and sat down again, pushing away the remains of his meal.

He looked up to see her eyes on him, something twinkling behind them, the beginnings of a smile on her lips.

'What's up?' he said, also smiling.

She shook her head. 'My old man. The copper.'

He laughed. 'What sort of day have you had?'

'Don't ask.'

She got up and walked around the table. He pushed his chair back from the table and she sat on his knee. He put both arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. She kissed his forehead.

'What do you want to do tonight?' she asked. 'We could drive into Nottingham, see a film, take in a club.'

He shook his head.

'I just thought it would be a break.'

'I don't think I could concentrate on a film tonight. What's showing anyway?'

She giggled, ' "Psycho." ' She leapt to her feet and dashed into the living room.

'That's not funny,' he called after her and set off to catch her.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her down onto the sofa beneath him. She was laughing her throaty laugh as he pinned her arms and glared at her.

'That was not funny,' he repeated.

Then suddenly, they were kissing, their mouths pressed urgently together, tongues seeking the other. He pulled away and looked down at her, her blonde hair ruffled, her cheeks flushed, her mouth parted slightly and moist with the kiss. She pulled him to her again her left hand reaching further, fumbling for the zip on his trousers. He slid his hands inside her blouse, causing one button to pop off in the process. He felt the firmness of her breasts, kneading them beneath his hands feeling the nipples grow to tiny hard peaks. She squirmed beneath him, fumbling with the button of her own jeans and easing herself out of them. But, as she rolled over to pull them free, they both overbalanced and toppled off the sofa. They lay there, entwined, laughing uncontrollably.

'This never happens in films,' said Lambert, giggling. 'They always do it right.'

She ran a hand through his hair and licked her lips in an exaggerated action of sexuality. She couldn't sustain the facade and broke up once more into a paroxysm of giggles.

'What about the washing up?' said Lambert in mock seriousness.

'Screw the washing up,' she purred, tugging at his belt.

'There are more interesting alternatives,' he said and, once more, they joined in a bout of laughter. Laughter - something Lambert thought he had forgotten.

At roughly the same time as Lambert and Debbie were eating their meal, Gordon Reece was pouring himself his fifth scotch of the evening. He had begun drinking at four that afternoon, large wine glasses full of the stuff, and now, two hours later, the first effects of drunkenness were beginning to descend upon him. The drink brought a kind of numbness with it. But it gave him no respite from the image of his dead wife. Her eyeless, mutilated corpse lying in that field like some discarded scarecrow.

He filled his glass again and stumbled into the living room which was lit by the light of a table lamp. The labrador was stretched out in front of the open fire and the animal turned and licked his hand as he stroked it. Reece felt a tear well up in his eye. He tried to hold back the flood but it was impossible. He dropped to his knees, the glass falling from his grasp, the brown liquid spilling and sinking into the carpet. Sobs wracked his body and he slammed his fists repeatedly against the carpet until his arms ached.

God, he thought, please let tomorrow pass quickly. The funeral was at ten in the morning. There wouldn't be many there: he had specifically asked that it should be a small affair. He had phoned Vera earlier in the day, told her what had happened. He'd broken down over the phone. The doctor had given him some tranquilizers and he knew that he should not be mixing drink with them, but what the hell did it matter anymore.

He looked up at the photo on top of the TV and the tears came again. Gordon Reece sank to the ground, the dog nuzzling against him as if it too could feel his grief.

Saturday came and went. The funeral of Emma Reece went off without incident. Father Ridley did his duty as he always did. Gordon Reece wept again, finding that anger was slowly replacing his grief. He felt as if there was a hole inside where someone had hollowed out his body. No feeling any longer, just a void. A swirling black pit of lost emotions and fading memories of things that once were but would never be again.

It had been a beautiful day: bright sunshine, birds singing in the trees, God, that seemed to make it worse.

The guests had gone now. The hands on the clock on the mantelpiece had crawled on to twelve fifteen a.m. and Gordon Reece lay sprawled in his chair with a glass in his hand and the television screen nothing but a haze of static particles. Its persistent hiss didn't bother him because he couldn't hear it. He just sat, staring at the blank screen and cradling the nearly empty bottle of scotch in his lap. He had taken a handful of the tranquilizers. He didn't know how many precisely, a dozen, perhaps more. Washed down with a full bottle of whisky, that should do the trick nicely, he thought and even managed a smile. It hovered on his lips for a second then faded like a forgotten dream.

The doctor had told him not to drink with the tablets. Well, fuck the doctor, he thought. Fuck everything now. He would have cried but there was no emotion left within him, no tears left. All that remained now was that black hole inside him where his life used to be.

His bleary eyes moved slowly from card to card, all put out on the mantelpiece.

'With Regrets.'

'In Deepest Sympathy.'

He looked away and poured what was left of the scotch into his glass. He flung the bottle across the room where it struck the far wall and exploded in a shower of tiny crystals.

In the kitchen, the dog barked once, then was silent.

Reece watched the stain on the wall, the dark patch slowly dripping rivulets of brown liquid. He finished his drink and gripped the glass tight, staring at the photo of his wife on the TV. He clenched his teeth until his jaws ached, his hand tightening around the glass, squeezing.

He scarcely noticed when it broke, sharp needle points of crystal slicing open his palm. The blood mingling with the whisky as it dripped onto his chest. He felt no pain, just the dull throb as his blood welled out of him. He dropped the remains of the broken tumbler and closed his eyes.

Surely it wouldn't be long now.

He awoke at three that morning, aware of the burning pain in his torn hand. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool and there was a band of pain running from temple to temple which gripped tighter than an iron vice. He moaned in the depths of his stupor, the noise coming through vaguely as if from another world.

The television was still on, its black face dotted still with the speckles of white static.

The dog was growling.

But there was something else. A noise louder than the others, the noise which had woken him. He listened for a moment.

There it was again. A persistent rattling and banging.

Reece tried to rise and the pain in his head intensified. He almost sank down again but the rattling continued and he hauled himself up, nearly toppling over again from the effort of standing. His clouded brain tried to locate the source of the sound and he finally realized that it was coming from the back door. He grunted and staggered out into the kitchen.

In the darkness he almost stumbled over the dog. The animal was making no sound now, just lying with its head on its outstretched front paws, whimpering. Its eyes riveted to the back door.

Reece stood still for a second, listening. His own blood roared in his ears and he was more than aware of his laboured breathing.

The rattling began again, louder this time, he squinted through the darkness, trying to clear his head, trying to see what was making the noise. He stepped closer and then, in the dull light which was escaping from the living room into the kitchen, he saw it.

The handle of the back door was being moved up and down.

Reece swallowed hard.

Someone was trying to get in.

If he had been sober, perhaps his reaction would have been different. Perhaps he would have noticed the dog, cowering in one corner, perhaps he would have noticed the deep cold which had filled the room. Perhaps he would even have called the police.

As it was, he reached for the handle, his other hand turning the key in the lock.

The rattling stopped and, through clouded eyes, Gordon Reece saw the handle slowly turn as the door was pushed open. He took a step back, rubbing his eyes, his heart thudding against his ribs.

The door swung back gently on its hinges and the room suddenly became colder.

Reece gasped, not sure whether he was asleep or not. Was he dreaming? Perhaps he was already dead and in hell. His dulled brain had no answer to give him this time.

Standing before him, the dirt of the grave still clogging her empty eye sockets, was his wife.

There was a blur of gold as the labrador bolted through the open door into the night and Gordon opened his mouth, not knowing whether to be sick or scream.

The thing which had once been Emma Reece took a step towards him. Her lips slid back to reveal teeth dripping saliva and Gordon saw the savage wounds on her throat which had killed. her, the deep scratches around her eyes. Eyes? There was nothing there. Just the torn sockets, black and empty as night. But there was something more and now Gordon prayed that his mind was playing tricks on him. For in those twin black voids were two pin pricks of red light. Light that glowed like the fires of hell and, in his last moments, Gordon saw that red light fill her empty eyes.

He had no time to scream before she was upon him.

Lambert looked at his watch and then up at the clock on the police station wall. It was nine fifteen, Sunday morning.

'Shit,' he said, 'might as well get it over with.'

Hayes nodded.

'What's Reece's address?' asked the Inspector.

Hayes flicked through the files and found it. Lambert wrote it down. He looked around the duty room. There were only three constables on duty this morning. Three at the station at any rate. The other seven were out looking for Mackenzie.

'P.C. Walford, you drive me,' Lambert smiled. 'Why the hell should I use my own petrol?'

Walford followed him out into the car park and unlocked one of the four Panda cars which the force possessed. Both men got in and Walford started the engine.

'It's a beautiful day,' Lambert observed as the Panda moved slowly through the streets of Medworth. 'Too nice to be doing this sort of thing.'

Walford smiled. 'Where do you reckon Mackenzie is, guv?'

Lambert shrugged. 'He's probably left the area by now. I mean, looking at it logically, if he was still around here we'd have found him by now.' Walford wasn't convinced. 'There's plenty of places to hide in the hills around town. There's caves that run for miles.'

'Maybe. We'll see what turns up.'

'My Mum's scared about all this, guv.'

'You haven't been talking have you, Walford? I don't want too much of this getting out. In a small town like this panic could spread quickly.' He paused, looking out of the car windows. 'I just wish we could find the bastard before he has the chance to do it again. I'd rather people read about this sort of thing in the paper after we caught him. If there's too much talk before hand, it won't make our job any easier.'

They drove for a little way in silence then Lambert asked, 'You live with your parents then?'

Walford nodded. 'I've been trying to find a place of my own but I can't afford it.'

The Inspector studied his companion's profile for a moment. The lad wasn't much younger than him. He guessed there were three or four years between them.

'I sometimes wonder why I joined the force,' said Walford suddenly, swallowing hard and looking at Lambert as if he had said something he shouldn't. The Inspector was staring straight ahead out of the windscreen. He was silent for a time and the constable wondered if he had heard, then Lambert said:

'It makes me wonder why anyone joins.'

'What about you, sir? Why did you join?' asked Walford, adding quickly, as an afterthought, 'If you don't mind me asking.'

Lambert shook his head. 'Sometimes I wonder. At one time I would have said principles.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'But now, I don't know. I thought at one time that, well, I thought I could better myself. Sounds like bullshit doesn't it?' He glanced across at Walford but the P.C. had his eyes on the road. 'I didn't want to end up like my old man. A nothing for the whole of my fucking life.' His voice had taken on an angry edge. 'This job gave me something I never had before. Self respect. A sense of importance, that what I was doing was making some difference to a tiny part of the world.' He grunted indignantly.

Walford brought the car to a halt.

'That's it, sir,' he said, pointing across the road. Lambert flipped open his notebook and checked the address. He nodded.

The house was the end one of a block of three. Two storey dwellings, the standard, council built red brick structures. Identical to all the other houses in the street. In fact, the same as every one on the remainder of the estate. Lambert noted that the curtains, upstairs and down, were drawn. He inhaled deeply, held the breath then let it drain out slowly.

'You stay here,' he said, opening the door and getting out. Walford watched him as he walked across the street and down the path to the front door of the Reece house.

He knocked twice and waited for an answer.

When none came, he walked around the side of the house. There was a purple painted gate barring his way into the back yard but he found, to his relief, that it was unlocked. Perhaps Mr Reece was in the garden.

As he walked around the back, Lambert could see that the garden was deserted. At the bottom was the shattered remnants of a greenhouse, the wooden frame now bleached and bare like the bones of some prehistoric creature. The garden was badly overgrown. He knocked on the back door loudly and called Reece's name.

There was no answer.

Lambert tried the door and found, to his -joy, that it was open. He stepped into the kitchen, recoiling immediately from the smell. It reminded him of bad eggs. And, Jesus, it was cold. He pulled the back door closed behind him and looked around. Nothing unusual. A dog basket in one corner near the larder. A calendar which was a month behind where someone had forgotten to turn the page. Lambert looked down at the floor. There were scuff marks on the lino. He bent to get a closer look, nothing unusual about them. Traces of dirt around too. He stood up and walked into the living room, which was still in darkness because of the drawn curtains. Lambert noticed the shattered bottle of scotch, the broken glass beside the chair and fragments of it still stained with blood. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and, using his handkerchief, picked up one of the fragments and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, particles of dust swirling around in its beams. But, despite the warmth of the sun, the room still felt like a fridge.

Lambert went out into the hall and called up the stairs.

'Mr Reece?'

Silence greeted him. He hurried up the stairs and checked the two bedrooms and bathroom. All were empty.

From the Panda car, Walford saw him emerge from the house and stride down the path of the house next door. He knocked three times, receiving no answer.

'Where the hell is everybody in this bloody street?' said Lambert under his breath.

The front door of the house beside opened and a woman popped her head out. She was in her forties, her hair in curlers and she reminded Lambert of a hedgehog in a dressing gown.

'Do you know Mr and Mrs Reece?' asked Lambert.

'Why?' asked the woman, suspiciously, retreating further behind the half open door until only her head was sticking out.

'I'm a policeman,' Lambert told her. 'I wanted to talk to Mr Reece but there's no one in. Have you seen or heard him around today?'

'Terrible business that,' said the woman, shaking her head. 'And with it only happening down the street too. Makes you scared to go out.'

'Have you seen Mr Reece?' persisted Lambert.

'And what with that other couple being murdered too. I tell you, I don't feel safe, even when my old man's home.'

Lambert was losing his patience. 'Have you seen Mr Reece today?'

'What?'

The Inspector bit his lip. 'Reece. Have you seen him go out, did you hear anything during the night?'

The woman looked horrified. 'He's not dead too, is he?'

Give me strength, thought Lambert. 'No, I just wondered if you'd seen him.'

He turned and set off back up the path, annoyance bubbling within him.

'You'd better hurry up and catch the killer, we could all be murdered in our beds,' called the woman.

'Thank you for your help, madam,' said Lambert and slammed the gate behind him. It was as he looked across the road that he saw Walford climbing out of the Panda.

'Inspector, quick,' he called.

Lambert ran across to the car.

'Message from the station, just come through,' explained the constable.

The Inspector climbed into the car and reached for the two-way radio. He flicked the transmit button.

'Puma Two to base. Lambert here. Come in.'

A hiss of static then Hayes: 'Guv, you'd better come back. We've got Mackenzie.'

There was a grin of satisfied relief on Lambert's face.

'Be right there. Puma Two, out.' He put down the two-way and pointed ahead. 'Let's move.'

With a screech of spinning tyres, the Panda sped off.

Hayes met Lambert at the door of the police station and, together, they hurried down the corridor towards the cell where Mackenzie was being held.

'Where did they pick him up?' asked the Inspector, excitedly.

'He was run down by a car, outside Two Meadows early this morning,' Hayes told him.

Lambert looked puzzled. 'What the hell was he doing up at the cemetery?'

The question went unanswered.

'Who's with him now?' asked Lambert.

'Dr Kirby and Davies and Bell. They brought him in. The bloke who ran Mackenzie down phoned the station, I got them to pick him up.'

'Well done Vic,' said the Inspector. He suddenly stood still. 'You said he was run down. Is he hurt badly?'

Hayes smiled humourlessly. 'That's the funny thing. There's not a mark on him.'

Lambert pushed open the door to the cell and walked in. Standing on either side of the door were Constables Davies and Bell. Sitting on a chair next to the bed was Kirby and, lying on the bed itself, was the motionless figure of Ray Mackenzie.

'All right, lads,' said Lambert, motioning the two constables from the room. He closed the door behind them and looked at Kirby.

'Well?' he said

Kirby smiled, 'I haven't done a thorough examination yet.'

Lambert walked across to the bed and looked down at the prostrate form, the eyes tightly closed, mouth slightly open. He noted with disgust that a thin trail of saliva was dribbling from it. Kirby got up and crossed to the small wash basin in the cell, spashed his hands and dried them quickly. Then he reached into his black bag for his stethoscope. He pressed it to Mackenzie's chest, hearing at the same time the guttural laboured breathing.

'The heartbeat's strong,' said Kirby.

He checked the blood pressure and found it a little low, but nothing out of the ordinary.

As he rummaged for his pen light, Lambert said, 'Hayes told me a car hit him.'

'Apparently,' said Kirby, still searching.

'Was he unconscious when they brought him in?'

The doctor nodded, finally laying hands on his pen light. He bent closer to Mackenzie and pulled back one closed eyelid.

'Jesus Christ.'

Both men stepped back.

'What the hell is wrong with his eyes?' gasped Lambert.

Kirby, annoyed with himself for having been startled, now leant forward once more and gendy pushed back the eyelid. He found himself staring into a glazed orb of blood. No whites, no pupils. Just the fiery red of blood. He exhaled deeply and flicked on the penlight.

'It looks as though there's been some sort of haemorrhage in the vessels of the eye.' He checked the other one and found it was the same. Slowly, he bent forward and shone the tiny beam of light into Mackenzie's right eye.

The man roared a deep, animal bellow of rage and struck out. The powerful fist caught Kirby in the chest and knocked him back against the wall. He coughed, gasping for air.

Mackenzie lay still again.

'You all right?' said Lambert, helping the doctor to his feet.

Kirby coughed again and shook his head. His face was flushed and he rubbed his chest painfully. Only after a minute or so did he find the breath to speak.

'Tom, I want him strapped down before I continue the examination.' He groaned, 'Christ, the bastard nearly broke a rib.' Kirby sucked in air, finding the effort painful but gradually it passed and he retrieved his pen fight. Davies and Bell, meantime, had entered and were binding Mackenzie to the bed with thick rope. The Inspector checked that the bonds were secure and looked at Kirby.

'Pull his eyelids up,' instructed the doctor, watching as Lambert moved to the head of the bed. He leant over and gently drew back Mackenzie's thick lids, exposing the red spheres beneath. Kirby, keeping his distance, directed the pen fight at them.

Mackenzie roared again and tried to lunge forward but the ropes held him down. Lambert exerted an iron grip on his head giving time for Kirby to get a decent look. Mackenzie's screams of enraged pain echoed around the small cell, nearly deafening the two men. Kirby leaned closer, smelling the fetid breath in his face and nearly wincing away from it. But he kept the beam focused on the red eyes until he was satisfied. Then he flicked it off and Mackenzie's body went limp. The room, silent now, was disturbed only by his guttural breathing.

Kirby shook his head. 'Like I said, I would think it's something to do with the blood vessels in the eye. Possibly a disturbance of the cornea.'

'Would that explain his sensitivity to light?' asked Lambert.

'Not really. If it is corneal haemorrhage then there'd be no sight at all; he wouldn't even have been able to see the light.'

'What do you recommend?' Lambert wanted to know.

Kirby shrugged. 'Leave him for now. I'll come back in the morning and take another look. But Tom, I'd leave those ropes on.'

Lambert nodded and both men walked out, the Inspector being careful to lock the cell behind them. He posted Davies outside, telling the constable to let them know if there was any sign of movement from Mackenzie.

The Inspector looked at his watch. It was ten forty-three. It had been some morning.

'Fancy a drink?' he asked and Kirby nodded.

The snug bar of 'The Blacksmith' was empty when they walked in. The grate, where a coal fire burned at night, was empty. Just a cold black hole and the room itself was chilly but neither of them noticed. Lambert bought the drinks and returned to the table.

'Cheers,' he said, downing a large mouthful of scotch.

Kirby returned the compliment and sipped delicately at his half of lager.

'You realize this is unethical,' said the doctor, smiling.

'What?'

'A doctor and a police Inspector drinking on duty.'

Both men laughed.

'Sod the ethics, John,' said Lambert. 'Right now, I need this.' He took another swig and cradled the glass between his hands.

'I wonder what the local paper would make of this?' pondered Kirby.

Lambert grunted. 'They've got enough to keep them going at the moment without wondering whether you and I are drinking.' He paused for a moment. 'Three murders. Jesus. In a town this size.'

'Just be thankful you've got the killer.'

'I am, don't get me wrong. But there're things about this case that don't add up. And more than that, I've got a missing person on my hands too. Gordon Reece has…' struggled for the word, '… disappeared. I went to talk to him about his wife's death this morning and there was no sign of him. The neighbours haven't seen or heard him about since yesterday morning and I found this in the living room of the house.' He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. Unwrapping it carefully he revealed the bloodstained lump of glass.

'Three murders, the victims mutilated, and the husband of the third victim has disappeared without trace. Can you tell me what the hell is going on in this town?' He drained his glass and slammed it down on the table.

'I don't see your problem, Tom,' said Kirby, 'you've got the killer. The missing man probably just left town, couldn't face the questioning or whatever. It's probably quite simple.'

Lambert exhaled deeply, his eyes riveted to the lump of blood-stained glass lying on the table in front of him.

Four fifty P.M. and the purple hues of approaching night were beginning to colour the skies above Medworth. Dusk hovered expectantly, a portent of the dark hours to come. It was the time when working people began to count the minutes to signal the end of the day's labours. A cold breeze had sprung up during late afternoon and there was a promise of frost for the coming night.

Tom Lambert shivered a little in his office and stared down at the solid gold medallion lying on his blotter. He prodded it with the end of a pencil, reading over and over again the strange inscription on it and around its edges. He had scribbled the words down on the edge of his blotter and he determined to look up their meanings when he got home. Debbie might even know. She knew a little Latin. He looked at the pencilled words:

MORTIS DIEI

Below it, the symbols which ran around the edging of the medallion:

UTCON (scratch mark)

XER (scratch)

ERATICXE (two scratches)

SIUTROM (scratch) A.

Lambert shook his head. The second set of words didn't even look like Latin.

He'd found the medallion quite by accident that afternoon. Returning from the pub about one, he had gone to deposit the chunk of blood stained glass from Reece's house in the safe where items of evidence were kept. He'd noticed the jewel box which had belonged to June Mackenzie and asked Hayes what it was. The sergeant had explained how they had found the box in the bedroom of the first victim and, upon opening it, Lambert had discovered the medallion.

Now he sat with it before him, wondering how on earth a man like Mackenzie had come to possess an object so obviously valuable. The policeman couldn't begin to guess at the age of the thing but, from the weighty of it and the thickness of the chain which supported it, he could at least ponder over its value. It was as he looked closely at it that he noticed the gossamerlike strands clinging to the links of the chain. He bent closer and pulled one free. It felt coarse as he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. There was more attached to the other links and something else.

It looked like dried mud.

Lambert exhaled deeply. Perhaps a forensic test would establish exactly where the gold circlet had originated. He pulled a few of the coarse strands free and scraped some mud away with the tip of his pen knife. Then he reached into his desk drawer and took out a tiny plastic bag. Into this, he carefully pushed the fibres and mud. He sealed it with a piece of cellotape and left it on his desk, reminding himself to ring Kirby before he went home, perhaps even run the stuff around to the doctor himself.

Once more he looked down at the medallion, the inscriptions causing his forehead to crease as he tried to make sense of them.

MORTIS DIEI

The words had been engraved across the centre of the circlet but the other inscription…

Running around the outside of the medallion, he wasn't sure where the words began and where they ended. He determined to take it home that night, let Debbie take a look at it. The thought of her made him look up at the clock. He smiled when he saw the time and realized that he would set off soon. He was looking forward to getting home. It had been a long day. Every day seemed to be a long one just lately and he told himself it was just a matter of getting back into the swing of things. There was nodiing more he could do at the station that night. Mackenzie was still flat out in his cell, tied securely by the ropes. Davies was outside the cell just in case there was any sign of movement from him. The constable had orders to contact Dr Kirby immediately if there was any change.

Lambert pulled another plastic bag from his drawer and slid the medallion into it, then he popped the little package into the pocket of his jacket.

He got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office. Night had descended now, casting its black shadow over the land. Lambert could see the lights of houses in the town twinkling like a thousand stars. The police station was about a mile out of town, built on a hillside which looked over Medworth like a guardian. Far below him, the town lay spread.

Lambert yawned.

The door of his office flew open, slammed against the wall and rocked on its hinges, the impact nearly breaking the frosted glass in it.

Davies stood there panting. 'It's Mackenzie, sir, he's going crazy.'

Lambert dashed past the constable, heading for the cell, aware now of the noise coming from the end of the corridor. Hayes emerged from the duty room and joined the other two men as they reached the cell door. Lambert eased back the sliding flap of the peephole and drew in a quick breath.

Mackenzie had broken his bonds and was throwing himself against the walls frenziedly, every now and then turning towards the open peephole and fixing Lambert in a stare from those blazing red eyes. The Inspector felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. Then Mackenzie spun around and hurled himself at the small window at the far end of the celi. It was about half way up the wall. No more than a foot square, it was set at a height which would have made a man of average size stretch to reach it. Wire mesh covered the bars which firmly blocked the narrow opening.

As Lambert watched, Mackenzie leapt at the window, tearing away the wire mesh as if it had been fish netting. Then he fastened his powerful hands around the bars and pulled, roaring in frustration when they wouldn't budge. The darkness outside called him and he would stop at nothing to reach it. Realizing that he could not move the bars, he turned his attention to the cell door. He slammed into it, pressing his face to the peephole and for a split second Lambert found himself staring into those empty crimson eyes. There was nothing there. No emotion registered in them. Nothing. Just the glazed red of two enormous blood blisters. The rage and hatred was registered on Mackenzie's face, the lips drawn back to reveal the yellowed teeth, saliva spattering the room as he spun about in a frenzy.

'How long has he been like this?' Lambert asked Davies, who was white with fear and thankful that a twelve inch thick steel door separated him from the maniac inside.

'A couple of minutes,' he answered, 'as soon as it got dark, he started.'

Lambert looked at Hayes but the sergeant looked blank.

'Get Kirby down here fast,' snapped the Inspector, watching as Hayes scutded off.

Peering once more into the cell, Lambert said, 'Why isn't the light on in there?' He looked up at the hundred watt bulb, unshaded, in the ceiling of the cell.

'I was just going to do it when I looked in and saw what was going on,' explained Davies.

Lambert stroked his chin thoughtfully, remembering how violently Mackenzie had reacted to light that morning.

'Turn it on,' he said.

Davies flicked a switch and the cell was suddenly bathed in cold white light.

Mackenzie screamed and raised his hands, snatching at the light bulb, trying simultaneously to shield his eyes and to reach the blinding object. His head throbbed as he tried to shield himself from the glare and he backed into a corner like a dog who knows he's about to be beaten. As Lambert watched, Mackenzie slumped to his knees, bowed his head and covered it with his arms. He was growling, the sounds gurgling in his throat. The Inspector watched amazed as Mackenzie slowly raised himself up again, one arm shielding his eyes, and staggered towards the light. Then, with a howl of rage, he leapt and smashed a fist into the bulb, shattering it and ripping the flesh from his knuckles. He seemed not to notice the pain, relieved only that the room was, once more, in darkness. Blood dripped from his lacerated hand but he grunted and raised a dripping fist defiantly towards the peephole.

Lambert slammed it shut and exhaled deeply.

'Jesus,' he breathed, softly.

'What do we do, sir?' said Davies, listening to the sounds coming from inside the cell.

Lambert had no answer for him. He pushed past the constable and headed for his office. Davies squinted through the peephole just in time to see Mackenzie tear the wash basin from its position on the wall. He lifted it above his head and flung it to the ground where it shattered. Large chunks of porcelain flew about the room like white shrapnel. Water from the ruptured pipes jetted into the cell spattering Mackenzie, but he ignored it, turning once more to the tiny window and gripping the bars in a frenzied effort to tear them free.

Davies closed the flap. He swallowed hard and sat down outside the cell, the noises of destruction from inside ringing in his ears.

While he was waiting for Kirby to arrive, Lambert phoned home to tell Debbie that he'd be late, but he got no answer. She couldn't be home yet, he reasoned. He slammed the receiver down and said to no one in particular, 'Where the hell is Kirby?'

Hayes emerged from the duty room carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He handed it to Lambert who smiled.

'I could do with something stronger, Vic.'

The sergeant grinned and pulled a silver flask from the pocket of his tunic. He unscrewed the cap and poured a small measure of brown liquid into the Inspector's mug. Then he repeated the procedure with his own.

'Purely medicinal, sir,' he said.

Lambert smiled broadly and drank a couple of mouthfuls.

From down the corridor they could still hear the frightful noises coming from Mackenzie's cell.

'He's mad,' said Hayes, flatly.

'I hope so,' said Lambert, enigmatically. 'I really do hope so.'

Hayes looked puzzled.

The door leading from the annexe opened and both men looked up. It was only constables Ferman and Jenkins arriving for night duty.

'What's all the noise?' asked Ferman.

'Never mind that,' snapped Hayes. 'Just get on with your job.'

Ferman raised two fingers as he walked past, making sure that he was behind Hayes when he did it. The two men disappeared into the duty room.

Kirby walked in, his black bag clutched firmly in his hand. He nodded curtly.

'About fucking time,' snapped Lambert, impatiently. He hurried out from behind the enquiry counter and led the doctor down towards the cell.

'My receptionist told me you called,' explained Kirby. 'I'd been out on an emergency.'

'Well, we've got an emergency here, right now,' growled Lambert.

Kirby caught him by the arm. 'Look, Tom, my responsibilities are to my patients. I'm a G.P. first and foremost, a bloody police doctor second. Understand?'

The Inspector held his gaze for a moment. 'Listen to that,' he said, inclining his head towards the cell.

Kirby heard the sounds of pandemonium and frowned. He followed Lambert to the cell door and peered through the peephole. Mackenzie was hanging from the bars with his talonlike hands, blood from his injured limb pouring down his arm.

'He broke the light bulb,' explained Lambert, 'the light drives him crazy. It seems to cause him pain.'

'How long has he been like this?' asked Kirby, not taking his eyes from the hole.

'Since it got dark,' said the Inspector, flatly. 'What can you do?'

Kirby let the flap slide back into position, covering the hole. 'Nothing. If I give him a shot of something there's no guarantee it'll knock him out. That's assuming I can get close enough to administer it in the first place.'

'There must be something you can give him,' snapped Lambert.

'I've just told you,' said Kirby, his tone rising slightly. 'I've got Thorazine in here, but there's no way of knowing if it'll work and I, for one, don't intend going in there with him like that.'

The two men stood silently for a moment, looking at one another. Then Kirby said, more gently, 'Just leave him. I'll look at him in the morning. If he's calmed down.'

'And if he hasn't?'

The doctor peered through the peephole again, 'This will hold him won't it?' He banged on the metal door.

Lambert nodded, 'Yeah.' There was a note of tired resignation in his voice.

'I suggest we both go home, Tom. If anything more happens during the night…' The sentence trailed off and he shrugged.

Lambert touched the metal door gendy, listening to the bellowing and crashing coming from inside.

'I just hope it does hold him,' he said, quietly.

Lambert lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the wind whispered quietly past the windows. A low, almost soothing whoosh, which occasionally grew in power and rattled the glass in its frame, as if reminding people of its power. But, at the moment, it hissed softly past the dark opening.

The clock on the bedside table ticked its insistent rhythm, sounding louder than usual in the stillness of the night. The luminous hands showed that it was after three in the morning.

Lambert exhaled and closed his eyes. Images and thoughts sped through his mind with dizzying speed.

Mackenzie. The disappearance of Gordon Reece. The medallion.

The medallion.

He had shown it to Debbie earlier on and she had confirmed his own suspicions that the inscriptions were, indeed, Latin. Well, the central one at any rate. The gibberish around the rim of the circlet foxed her too. She said that she would try to find out what the inscriptions meant. There were reference books in the library which might tell them. He had dismissed the idea, telling her that there was probably no significance in it anyway. But something nagged at the back of his mind. Something unseen which had plunged teeth of doubt into his mind and had held on as surely as a stoat holds a rabbit.

He sat up, trying not to disturb Debbie. She was asleep beside him, her breathing low and contented. As regular as the ticking of the clock.

Every minute he expected the phone to ring. To hear Hayes telling him that Mackenzie had broken out. Lambert dismissed the thought. That was impossible. The cell door was a foot thick, the bars of the windows embedded two feet into the concrete. He couldn't possibly get out. Lambert swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and brought his knees up, resting his head on them.

Again the thoughts came back. Alien thoughts with no answer.

Mackenzie's sensitivity to light. His eyes (if that was the word). The frenzy which overcame him during night-time. The mutilation of the three victims. Why had the eyes been torn out?

'Oh Christ.'

He said it out loud this time, cursing himself as he heard Debbie moan in her sleep. He watched her sleeping form for a moment, worried that he had woken her. When she didn't move he returned to his previous position. Head bowed on his upraised knees.

'What's wrong, Tom?'

Her voice startled him and he turned to see her looking up at him.

'I'm sorry I woke you,' he said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it.

'What is it?' she asked, her voice gentle.

He sighed, 'I can't sleep.'

She snuggled closer to him and he felt the warmth of her body, naked beneath the sheets. 'What were you thinking about?' she wanted to know.

'This and that,' he said, smiling wanly.

'Don't give me that crap,' she said, forcefully, squeezing his hand until he made a cry of mock pain. 'It's this business with Mackenzie isn't it?'

'Debbie, I've never seen anything like it. He's like a wild animal. But it only seems to be at night. Jesus, I don't know what the hell is going on.'

'You know that medallion? I was thinking, why don't you take it to an antique dealer? Old Mr Trefoile in the town would be able to date it for you; he might even be able to decipher the inscriptions.'

Lambert nodded. He was silent for a while, rubbing his eyes. He felt a hand trace its way from the top of his knee to his thigh. Debbie pressed herself closer to him, her hand finally brushing through his pubic hair and closing around his flaccid penis. She looked up at him, surprised.

'You really are worried,' she said.

He grinned and she tried to pull her hand away but he held it there, feeling the warmth of her fingers as they stroked, coaxing him to hardness. When he was fully erect, she ran her index finger from the tip of his penis to the testicles, now drawn up tightly with excitement. She cupped them briefly before returning to his swollen shaft. He moaned softly as she closed her hand around him and began rubbing gently. As her movements became more insistent he lay back, thrusting his hips towards the stroking hand. At the same time, he sought the wetness between her legs, his fingers teasing her clitoris before plunging deeper into the oozing cleft of her vagina. She drove herself hard against him, finally pulling him onto her, his hard organ sliding easily into her.

A moment later they climaxed savagely and clung to one another long after the sensations had died away. He rolled off and lay on his back, both of them panting. She leant across and kissed him, eventually falling asleep with her head on his chest. He stroked her hair with his hand, feeling its soft silkiness beneath his fingers.

He returned to staring at the ceiling, wishing that sleep would come, but the hands of the clock pointed to four-fifteen before he finally drifted off into peaceful oblivion.

Kirby stood up as Lambert entered the room. He had been sitting on a chair next to the cell bed on which Mackenzie lay. Mackenzie was still, his eyes closed, arms by his sides. Sunlight streamed in through the small window in the wall of the cell. Constable Ferman was also in the room, standing at the far end of the bed and looking down at the body of Mackenzie, who was now securely tied down with thick bands of hemp.

'Morning, Tom,' said Kirby.

The inspector nodded a greeting and looked down at the immobile figure of Mackenzie.

'What happened?' he asked in awe.

Kirby motioned to Ferman and the constable coughed, clearing his throat as if he were about to make a public address.

'Well sir,' he began, 'I was sitting out there this morning, listening to all the din going on in here and, well, about five o'clock everything went quiet. I looked through the viewing slot and Mackenzie was lying on the floor.'

'Dawn was at five o'clock,' Kirby clarified.

'I waited for about fifteen minutes,' continued Ferman. 'He didn't move, so I came in, put him on the bed and tied him down again.'

'The light,' said Lambert.

Kirby nodded. 'The darkness triggers him off, the light shuts him down. This man is like a light sensitive machine, only, if you'll forgive the flippancy, his mechanism is working in reverse. He comes alive during the darkness and…' he shrugged, 'switches off during the daylight.' Lambert looked down at Mackenzie's body, his mouth almost dropping open in awe.

'His vital signs are practically nil,' said Kirby. 'The heart has slowed to less than forty beats a minute, the pulse and blood pressure are so faint I could hardly get readings. He's in a torpor.'

'What the hell is that?' snapped Lambert.

'Coma if you like.'

'What do we do?'

'I wish I knew.'

'You're a doctor for Christ's sake, John; you must have some ideas.'

'Look. During the night, he's fine.'

Lambert cut him short. 'Fine? He's a psycho during the bloody night.'

Kirby waved away the policeman's protests.

'What I meant was, his life signs are all in order. There's nothing wrong with him bodily.'

'Apart from the fact that he's a maniac with the strength of ten men,' said Lambert, his voice heavy with scorn.

There was an awkward silence then Kirby spoke again.

'I think the problem is in his brain, not his body. It's psychosis of some sort, but we don't know why it's triggered by darkness.'

'This is getting us nowhere,' said Lambert impatiently. 'I want to know what we have to do. This is going to happen again tonight, right? I want an answer quick, John. I'm asking you for a medical answer to this problem. And keep it simple.'

'You've got a number of alternatives, Tom. I either pump him full of Thorazine now and we wait and see if it keeps him out during the night, we keep him locked in here until someone qualified can look at him, or…' He hesitated.

'Or what?' Lambert demanded.

'We give him an E.E.G.'

Lambert looked puzzled.

'It's an Electroencephalogram. It tests brain waves.'

'I know what it does,' snapped Lambert, 'I don't see how it would help.'

'It might tell us why the darkness triggers off this savagery at night, why he's terrified of light. That's my last theory.'

The policeman nodded. 'Where would it be done?'

'There's a unit in the hospital in Wellham, about twenty miles from here. I know the specialist in charge of it. If I get in touch with him now, we could have this done before nightfall.'

'Do it,' said Lambert and Kirby scuttled out of the room.

The Inspector looked down at the body of Mackenzie and then at the wrecked cell.

Ferman coughed. 'What if it doesn't work, sir?' he asked tentatively.

Lambert looked at him for a moment, searching for an answer, then turned and walked out.

Lambert felt the need to shield his eyes, even though he stood behind a screen of tinted glass. The light inside the examination room was blinding, pouring down from four huge fluorescent banks.

Mackenzie was strapped to a trolley in the centre of the room and, as the policeman watched, two men dressed in white overalls undid the straps and lifted him onto a table. They hurriedly secured him again and one of them, a tall man with blond hair, pulled each of them to ensure they were tight enough. The man turned towards the glass partition behind which stood Lambert, Kirby and Dr Stephen Morgan. The man raised a thumb and Morgan nodded.

He was in his forties. What people like to refer to as 'well-preserved,' for he looked barely older than thirty. He had a carefully groomed moustache which seemed as though it had lost its growing strength when it reached the corners of his mouth and drooped downwards. His blue eyes were obscured somewhat by thin tinted glasses which he removed and began polishing with a handy tissue.

Lambert looked back into the examination room. Mackenzie was now lying, apparently unconscious, on a hinged couch which could be adjusted by a large screw on the side and, as he watched, the intern with the blond hair twisted it so that Mackenzie was propped up slightly. His mouth opened briefly, as if he were going to protest, then it closed tightly. A tiny dribble of yellowish saliva escaped and ran down his chin.

A nurse dressed in a white smock entered from a door which led off to the right. She paused beside the couch, looking briefly at Mackenzie, then she looked at Morgan. He jabbed a finger towards a trolley which stood beside the couch. The nurse reached for a swab and dipped it into a kidney dish full of clear liquid. She dabbed it carefully onto five places on the top of Mackenzie's head.

'What's that?' asked Lambert, fascinated by the ritual which was taking place before him.

'Conductant,' explained Morgan.

The Inspector nodded abstractedly and continued to watch the preparations. Next, the nurse attached five electrodes to the places where she had applied the swab. She looked at Morgan who swiftly checked his readout. The machine which he stood beside looked, to Lambert, rather like a computer. It had a long length of thin paper running through it and, across this, lay a metal arm which would translate into visual terms, by means of lines, the brain waves received from Mackenzie. Lambert almost laughed. It reminded him of a he detector he had once seen on an American crime film.

Morgan flicked a switch and a red light came on, signalling that the machine was ready for operation. He raised his hand and the nurse and both interns retreated from the room. A second later they joined Lambert and the others in the observation area.

Morgan flicked another switch.

'We'll test the motor impulses first,' he said.

'I thought the machine usually recorded all the waves at once,' said Kirby.

'Most of them do,' Morgan told him. 'This modification, testing each centre of the brain individually, makes it easier to pin down the trouble and it makes things a damn sight easier for me.'

He pressed the green button and the machine whirred into life.

'Here goes,' muttered Morgan.

Lambert didn't know where to look. His eyes flitted back and forth, from Mackenzie to the machine, from machine to Mackenzie. Morgan stood over the readout, a deep furrow creasing his brow. He readjusted his glasses, as if that act would somehow rectify what he was seeing.

'There's no movement at all,' he said, softly. The arm on the paper was immobile, the tiny piece of graphite it held was stationary. Just one continual black line drawn on the paper, unbroken and unwavering. No loops, no zigzags. Nothing.

'There's no brain impulses at all,' said Morgan, scarcely believing what he saw.

'Perhaps the machine is acting up,' said Lambert hopefully.

Morgan shook his head. He turned to the blond intern, Peter Brooks. 'Turn off the lights.' Brooks slapped a switch and, immediately, the examination room was plunged into darkness. Two huge shutters had been put up at the vast plate glass windows which looked into the room and not a single chink of light infiltrated the blackness.

'Christ,' whispered Morgan, watching as the needle swung back and forth with a ferocity which threatened to tear it loose. It drew parabolas, pyramids, all with vast savage strokes.

'Lights,' snapped Morgan and, once more, the examination room was filled with blinding white light.

The needle on the readout stopped swinging and settled back into its unerring parallel course, never deviating from the straight line it drew.

'That's incredible,' muttered Morgan.

'You see what we mean about the light?' said Kirby. 'In bright light he's dormant, but in darkness he goes crazy.'

Morgan stroked his chin thoughtfully. He looked down at the readout and then across at the still form of Mackenzie. He'd never seen anything like this before and the discovery sent a thrill of excitement through him. He told Brooks to turn off the lights once more.

It happened again. The needle swung crazily back and forth across the readout sheet, never settling into a pattern, just looping and tearing up and down.

Lambert looked worriedly at Kirby. He had noticed that Mackenzie had moved his right hand, was flexing the fingers.

'Put the lights back on,' he snapped.

Brooks hesitated.

'No, wait,' said Morgan, fascinated by the course the needle was taking. So intent on watching it was he, that he didn't notice Mackenzie raise his head and look up.

The nurse stifled a scream as she saw the twin red orbs which had once been eyes, staring at her through the darkness.

Lambert now crossed to the light switch, seeing that Mackenzie was straining against the straps. With a loud crack, one of them securing his arms broke and he began tearing at the broad one which covered his chest and pinned him to the couch.

Morgan looked into the examination room, horrified as he watched Mackenzie breaking free.

Lambert pressed the light switch.

Nothing happened.

Frantic, he pressed it again. Jesus Christ, he thought, what's happened to the fucking lights?

Mackenzie was sitting up now, tearing at the strap which was fastened across his thighs. Another few moments and he would be free.

Lambert slapped the switch frenziedly. For a brief second he thought they were going to work. All four powerful banks flashed with brilliant white light and Mackenzie screamed as the brightness scorched his blazing red eyes. But then, one by one, the tubes blew, exploding in a shower of hot glass, their ends glowing red as they died. Smoke rose from them in silvery wisps.

The darkness was total.

With a last desperate surge of strength, Mackenzie tore free of the final strap and swung himself off the couch. The nurse screamed.

Brooks reached for the door which connected the examination room with the observation booth.

'Get some light in there,' screamed Lambert, following him.

The Inspector stood no more than three feet from Mackenzie, staring into those bottomless red eyes, riveted by the obscene thing before him. Then Mackenzie leapt.

Lambert, with a speed born of fear, threw himself to one side and avoided the rush. Mackenzie crashed into a surgical trolley but was up in an instant and grabbing for the policeman once more.

'The shutters,' screamed Lambert, 'open the shutters!'

Mackenzie was upon him, powerful hands grasping for his throat, forcing him back over the couch. Lambert smelt the fetid breath in his face, disgusted as the yellow spittle dripped onto him. He struck out, his fist slamming into Mackenzie's forehead. The grip slackened momentarily and Lambert brought his knee up into the man's stomach.

Brooks, meantime, was struggling to tear down the shutters. A chink of light lanced through the blackness and he almost laughed. Another second and the room would be flooded with light. The intern tore at the catches, pulling one of the shutters wide.

Sunlight flooded the room and Lambert suddenly felt the grip on his throat removed as Mackenzie screamed and raised both hands to shield his eyes. The Inspector rolled clear, searching for something to fight back with. It was scarcely necessary. Mackenzie turned towards the window, his red eyes narrowed against the light but fixed on Brooks who was in the process of tearing down the second shutter.

With a roar, Mackenzie ran at Brooks, launching himself at the intern.

He crashed into his prey with the force of a steam train, hurling him backward.

The nurse screamed as both men hit the window.

The glass exploded outward, huge shards flying into the air as Mackenzie and Brooks crashed through the window. They seemed to hang in the air for a second before plummeting the twelve storeys to the ground below.

Lambert scrambled to his feet, hearing the sickening thump as both men hit the ground. Cool air blew in through the broken window and, being careful to avoid the pieces of shattered glass, the Inspector leaned over the sill.

A hundred feet below him, still locked together, lay the bodies of Mackenzie and Brooks. Around them, a spreading pool of blood was mingling with fragments of smashed glass.

'Oh God,' groaned Lambert, bowing his head.

The second intern comforted the nurse who was sobbing uncontrollably.

Kirby and Morgan walked slowly across to the window and also peered down at the smashed bodies.

No one spoke. What was there to say? Lambert ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply, suddenly aware of the pain in his neck where Mackenzie had attacked him. He touched a fingertip to it and saw a smear of blood when he withdrew it.

Kirby tilted the policeman's head back and looked at the cut.

'Just a graze, Tom,' he said.

Lambert nodded.

'I don't know what to say,' murmured Morgan. 'I've never seen anything like it. No brainwaves.'

Lambert stood up. 'Is that all that bothers you? Two men have just died, for Christ's sake.' He sighed and sat down on the edge of the couch.

'It would appear our problems are over, Tom,' said Kirby, trying to sound cheerful.

Lambert regarded him balefully for a second and thought about saying something, but held it back. Kirby was right. He had to admit that. Now the only problem he had was finding Gordon Reece. It seemed petty in comparison to the problems he'd had these last few days. The nurse had stopped crying and the second intern was helping her out of the room. Morgan watched them go.

The Inspector got to his feet and headed for the door.

'Where are you going, Tom?' asked Kirby.

'Back to work,' snapped Lambert and walked out.

Lambert drove back to Medworth alone. He felt as if he needed his own company. He didn't want to talk about what he'd just seen and he drove with both windows open as if the fresh air blowing into the car would cleanse his mind. The smell of damp earth and grass was strong, a welcome contrast to the antiseptic smell of the hospital he had just left. He hated hospitals, always had, ever since he was a child, and what he had just seen had done nothing to change his mind.

The countryside rushed past him as he drove, perhaps a little faster than he needed. He inhaled, held the breath and then let it out slowly, trying to calm himself down. His foot eased off the accelerator and he glanced at the falling needle of the speedometer. Finally, he slowed to about twenty, swung the car into a layby and shut off the engine.

The road was narrow, flanked on either side by tall hedges. To his right lay hillside, green and shimmering in the early morning sunlight. To his left, down the hill, lay Medworth. He could see smoke belching from the foundry on the far side of the town, but from this distance, it looked like nothing more than a grey wisp. Lambert got out of the car, slammed the door and leant on the bonnet, arms folded. He looked out over Medworth.

'Gordon Reece, where are you?' he said aloud, then smiled to himself. The smile dwindled rapidly as he felt the pain from the scratches on his throat. He rubbed them, remembering the power in Mackenzie's hands. If not for Brooks, he wouldn't have had a chance. Fuck it, he thought, Mackenzie had been a powerful bastard. Lambert thought about the three victims he had claimed. He wondered how they had struggled. He dismissed the thought.

There would be a full autopsy on Mackenzie that afternoon and he had been told, before leaving the hospital, that he would be contacted as soon as the results were ready. Lambert shook his head. Four people had been killed, Mackenzie himself was dead. Their knowledge would do them no good now. He sighed, still unable to believe what he had seen that morning, not wanting to believe what had happened in Medworth during the past week or so.

He suddenly thought of the medallion. Could there be a tie up between it, the transformation of Mackenzie, and the disappearance of Gordon Reece? He climbed back into the car and started the engine.

The medallion.

It was time he took a trip to the antique shop.

Howard Trefoile prodded the brown mass of liver and onions before him and plucked up the courage to take a bite. He chewed it slowly. Not too bad, after all. He stirred the brown mass around and continued eating. He would have preferred to have gone out to lunch but that cost money, and the way things had been for the past couple of months he couldn't afford three course meals every day. The business wasn't exactly floundering in the wake of the recession, more like languishing. Things were stable. That, he decided, was the best way to describe them. He comforted himself with the thought that other businesses in the town had gone broke while his still remained on a paying basis.

The antique shop had been left to him by his father when he died, and Howard had run it successfully for the last eight years since that sad event. He and his father had always been very close and it had been more or less preordained that he should take over when his father retired. Unfortunately, cancer had got his father before he could reach retiring age and Howard had been thrown in the deep end, so to speak. But his years of working with his father had stood him in good stead and he found it relatively simple to carry on the business.

His mother had died when he was ten and he could vaguely remember her, but the image wasn't strong enough to cause him pain. He stared across his kitchen table at her photo and sighed quietly. Kitchen. He smiled to himself. It could scarcely be called a kitchen. A small room at the back of the shop which served as dining room, working room, and kitchen. Beyond it lay his tiny sitting room, full of the discarded objects of times gone by. Things which he could never hope to sell in the shop itself, but which he had come to find an affection for. Upstairs was his bedroom and a store room. That was next to the bathroom and toilet.

The building, sandwiched between a shoe shop and grocers, was small, but it was adequate for Howard's needs. He lived and worked alone. There was no one in his life, but he had his work so he needed no one. At fifty-six he sometimes wondered what would become of the shop if anything happened to him, but he knew in his heart what its fate would be. It would be demolished. He felt suddenly sad. Not for himself, but for his departed father. The man had spent his entire life building up the business. The thought that it might someday just cease to exist troubled Howard. Still, he reasoned, what could he do about it now? He couldn't afford to pay staff to carry on running it should he himself pass on, so there seemed no alternative. The shop would become as anachronistic as the things it sold.

He dismissed the thoughts and continued eating. The empty packet which had housed the frozen liver and onions lay on the draining board beside him. Everything for convenience these days, he thought. Speed was of the essence in the modern world. Howard sometimes thought that he had been born twenty years too late.

As he was pushing the last soggy chunk of liver into his mouth, he heard the familiar tinkle of the bell above the door. He tutted. He must have forgotten to put the "Closed" sign up. He often did that. He got to his feet and walked to the door which led out into the shop itself.

The man standing in the shop had his back to Trefoile and, wiping a trickle of gravy from his mouth, the shop owner said;

'Excuse me sir, I'm sorry, but I'm closed for lunch, if…'

The man turned and Trefoile let the sentence trail off as he recognized Tom Lambert.

'Inspector Lambert,' said the antique dealer, smiling, 'I didn't realize it was you.'

Trefoile walked past him and turned the sign on the door around so that it showed "Closed" to the street outside.

'I hope I'm not interrupting anything,' said Lambert, apologetically.

'Just my amateurish attempts at lunch,' said Trefoile, smiling. 'What can I do for you?'

'I've got something that I think you might be able to help me with,' said Lambert, reaching into his pocket.

Trefoile perked up. 'Oh yes?'

The inspector laid the medallion on the counter and motioned towards it with his hand. 'What do you make of that?'

Trefoile looked excited as he bent closer, fumbling in the pocket of his waistcoat for his eyepiece. He stuffed it in and squinted at the medallion.

'Might I ask where you acquired this, Inspector?' he asked.

Lambert sighed. 'Well, let's just say it's part of an investigation I'm working on at the moment.'

Trefoile looked at him for a moment, appearing like some kind of cyclopean monster with the eyepiece still stuffed in position. He bent to examine the medallion once more.

'What exactly did you want to know about it?' he asked. 'The value?'

'Is it valuable?' asked Lambert. 'I mean, it's gold isn't it?'

Trefoile picked up the circlet and hefted it in his hand. He inclined his head and raised his eyebrows. 'This is a very interesting piece of work, Inspector. I can only guess at its value of course, but from the age, weight, and purity of the metal, I'd say its value would run into thousands of pounds.' He took the eyepiece out and handed the medallion back to Lambert who looked at it in awe. He shook himself out of the stupor and gave it back to the older man.

'What period would you think it is?' he asked. 'It's very old. I would say, possibly even sixteenth century.'

Lambert scribbled the words down in his note book.

'I'd need to do certain tests of course to ascertain the exact period,' Trefoile added.

'What about the inscriptions?' said Lambert.

Trefoile bent closer. 'Latin. It's medieval script, I couldn't decipher this on the spot. My Latin isn't up to much anymore.' He laughed and the policeman found himself grinning too, but there was no humour in the smile.

Trefoile frowned. 'You know, Inspector, this might sound ridiculous, but I think I've seen this medallion somewhere before.'

Lambert was instantly alert, his pen poised. 'Where?'

'Not in the flesh, so to speak. But in a book. My father had a large collection of antique books, and this particular object seems to ring a bell.' Trefoile shook his head, as if annoyed at his own loss of recall.

Both men stood in silence, staring down at the circlet of gold on its thick chain.

The antique dealer looked at the inscription around the outside of the medallion and shook his head. 'I don't recognize any of that.'

'Is that Latin?' Lambert wanted to know.

Trefoile shrugged. 'I don't know. If only I could think where I'd seen it before.' He squeezed the folds of skin beneath his chin, plucking at them. Lost in thought. Finally he said, 'Look, Inspector, could you leave it with me? I can make some tests on it, check out its authenticity. Perhaps even decipher the inscriptions.'

Lambert nodded. 'That would be marvellous. Thank you.' The two men shook hands. Lambert gave him a number to ring if he should come up with anything, then the policeman left.

Trefoile looked at the medallion, the tinkling of the door bell dying away in the solitude of the shop. Something nagged at the back of his mind. He had seen this before. If only he could remember where. And the Latin inscription. He studied it once more, something clicking away in the forgotten recesses of his mind. He looked at the inscription across the centre of the circlet:

MORTIS DIEI

He frowned:

MORTIS

His eyes lit up. He began to remember. Of course, he should have realized. He recognized that word at least.

MORTIS

He smiled to himself, its English meaning now clear. The first word in that central inscription stuck out in his mind.

Death.

Lambert sat in his car outside Trefoile's antique shop but he didn't start the engine. He looked up at the sign outside the shop, blowing gently in the light breeze.

The medallion's value must run into thousands. The antique dealer's words rung in his ears. He drove back to the station where Hayes told him that the results of the autopsy on Mackenzie had come through. There were no unusual features about it. Apart from the eyes, everything was normal. Kirby had been wrong though; it hadn't been corneal haemorrhage which caused the redness in the eyes and nothing had been found to indicate why Mackenzie had become psychopathic during the dark hours. In other words, thought Lambert, the entire damned thing had been a waste of time and they were no nearer finding the motive for the killings.

Still, as he drove home he comforted himself with one thought, Mackenzie was one off the list. Now all that remained was to find Gordon Reece. Men were combing the area under his orders. Maybe he was letting his imagination get the better of him, but Trefoile's words haunted him: the medallion's value must run into thousands.

Lambert frowned as he turned the Capri into his driveway.

Where the hell would Mackenzie get something like that?