Death Day

by Shaun Hutson

  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 m
e? 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?

  PART TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Medworth was well and back to normal.

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'I am the Resurrection.'

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

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

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