Death Day Page 7

  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. T
he 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.