Death Day (9 page)

    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?'