Death Day (8 page)

    

    

    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.