Death Day

by Shaun Hutson

  The Inspector sighed and rubbed his chin.

  It was scarcely necessary, because all of them could see through the holes that the coffin was empty, but Lambert gave the order nonetheless.

  'Open it up,' he said, jabbing a finger towards the splintered box.

  Davies wedged the corner of the shovel underneath one edge of the lid and pushed down. It came free with a shriek of cracking wood.

  White satin greeted the men. A few specks of earth had fallen onto it but, apart from that, it was untouched.

  No corpse. Nothing.

  'Jesus,' said Briggs under his breath.

  Lambert noticed some tiny dark specks of colour on the satin of the lid and jumped down into the hole alongside the two astounded constables. Leaning close he saw that the stains were dried blood. There was more smeared on the inside of the coffin. He straightened up and looked up at Hayes. The sergeant was expressionless, his lips and face white, bloodless.

  'And the other one,' said Lambert, pointing to the grave of Peter Brooks. 'We've got to be sure.'

  Davies groaned and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He gave Briggs a helping hand up from the hole and the two of them set to work on the second grave.

  That too was empty.

  Lambert bowed his head and, for long moments, no one spoke. Then Briggs said, nervously, 'What's going on, sir?'

  'You tell me,' said Lambert, reaching for another cigarette.

  Lambert drove home with his mind in turmoil. He told the men to keep quiet about the empty graves until they all had a better idea of what was happening. Probably someone having a sick joke, thought the Inspector. He hoped to Christ he was right. The men were edgy, Hayes too. Lambert had never seen the old sergeant like that. Usually nothing could get him rattled, but this time he strutted around the station trying to find jobs that didn't exist and snapping at the younger constables and making everyone feel all the more uneasy.

  Lambert had left them sitting around in the duty room drinking cups of coffee. He had given them no orders. After all, he would have felt slightly foolish asking his men to keep their eyes open for two missing corpses. If the situation had been different he might have laughed about it. 'Just keep on the look out for the missing bodies. They'll turn up somewhere. Probably just been misplaced.' He could hear himself saying it.

  He had no answers as yet. No theories floating about in that supposedly logical mind of his. On the other hand, what he had seen that morning defied logic. A priest murdered and hung from the bell rope of his own church. Two empty graves, one of them formerly belonging to a mass murderer, and the last and most disturbing thing, holes in the tops of both coffin lids.

  Lambert had no theories but what did make him shudder was the fact that the wood was bent outward in both cases. As if some powerful force had stove it out… FROM THE INSIDE.

  * * *

  He was shivering as he swung the Capri into the driveway of the house. He left it in front of the garage and went in the front door.

  He found Debbie sitting in the lounge, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands. She got up and crossed to him, setting the mug down on the small table beside her chair.

  'I could do with one of those,' he said, embracing her and nodding towards the mug of tea.

  She hurried into the kitchen to fetch him one and returned to find him slumped on the sofa, head bowed in thought. He smiled up at her as she handed him his tea.

  'You all right?' he asked.

  She nodded. 'What happened?'

  He sighed, staring down into the steaming brown liquid as if an answer lay there. 'Both the graves were empty.'

  'Both?' She seemed puzzled.

  'Mackenzie and Brooks.' He took a sip of his tea. 'I'm waiting for the autopsy results on Ridley.'

  She sat beside him and reached for his hand, squeezing it. 'How about dinner?' she said.

  'Not for me, love,' he said, smiling. 'I seem to have lost my appetite.' He took another sip of his tea, watching a tiny brown tea leaf floating on the surface.

  Debbie went to the record player and turned it down. Elton John faded into the background.

  Lambert hardly noticed and, when the record finally came to an end, neither of them got up to take it off the turntable. It stuck in the runoff grooves, the steady click-click the only sound in the room.

  When the phone rang it seemed to galvanize them both into action. Debbie snatched the record up while Lambert grabbed the receiver.

  'Hello,' he said.

  'Tom.'

  He recognized the voice as Kirby.

  'John, what have you got?'

  'Well,' Kirby sounded tired. 'Not much really. Ridley died of a heart attack.'

  'What caused it?'

  There was silence on the other end and Lambert repeated his question before Kirby finally, and falteringly, said:

  'It's hard to say. He was overweight, anything might have triggered it. I can't be sure, Tom.' A long pause. 'But, from the condition of the arteries around the heart and the condition of the heart itself there would appear to have been massive cardiac failure. His heart burst, to put it simply.'

  'You're hedging, John.'

  'He died of fright.'

  The words came out flatly. No inflection to soften the statement. Cold hard fact. Simplicity itself.

  Lambert swallowed hard. 'The other injuries?'

  'I compared the scratch marks on the cheeks with those on the faces of Emma Reece and the Mackenzies.'

  'And?'

  'They match up.'

  Lambert inhaled quickly. 'So what does that mean?' His own mind was telling him an answer which he could not, dare not, accept.

  'Ridley was killed by the same man who killed the other three. Or so it would appear. That, of course, is impossible.'

  There was a long silence. Lambert held the phone down, Kirby's voice seeming far away, as if it were in a vacuum.

  'Tom? Tom!'

  Finally, the Inspector raised the receiver to his ear.

  'Sorry, John.' His tone changed. 'Look, can you come over here tonight?'

  'To your house?'

  'Yes. About seven?'

  'Yes. Tom, what is it?'

  'Bring all the papers relating to the previous victims, and those on Ridley. And the autopsy reports on Mackenzie and Brooks.'

  'Sure, but…'

  Lambert cut him short, his voice edged slightly with worried impatience. 'Just do it, John.'

  They said their goodbyes and Lambert dropped the phone back onto its cradle. Debbie looked at him and he returned her gaze, their eyes locked together. He sat down beside her and reached for his tea. He took a mouthful and winced. It was stone cold. He put the cup down and crossed to the drink cabinet.

  Right now he needed something stronger.

  * * *

  It was a minute before seven that evening when there was a sharp rapping on the front door of the Lambert household. The Inspector checked his watch as he crossed to the door. Punctual as usual, he thought smiling. He opened the door to find Kirby standing there, a briefcase in his hand. The policeman ushered him in, his eyes gazing out into the night. The darkness was broken only here and there by the glow of street lamps. He closed the door and led Kirby through into the living room.

  There was a pleasing warmth within the room which Kirby enjoyed, and he loosened his tie.

  'Sit down,' said Lambert, and the doctor gratefully accepted, placing himself at one end of the sofa.

  Debbie emerged from the kitchen. She was wearing a faded old blue blouse and jeans and Kirby ran an appreciative eye over her figure.

  'Hello,' she said, gaily.

  The doctor tried to rise but she waved him back. 'Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee or something stronger?'

  'Tea is fine,' said Kirby, smiling.

  She retreated into the kitchen and Lambert pointed to the briefcase lying beside Kirby. He flipped it open and took out a number of manilla files, each stamped with a number and name. He laid them on the coffee
table before him and opened the first one.

  'Ridley,' he announced. 'Like I told you over the phone, Tom, it was heart failure. The rest…' he hesitated, '… was done afterwards.'

  There was a long silence as the policeman flicked through the slender report. He closed the file and looked at Kirby. 'You said over the phone that the scratch marks on Ridley's face matched those on the other three victims.'

  Kirby nodded.

  'What conclusions would you draw from that?'

  The doctor shrugged. 'I'm not a policeman, Tom.'

  'Imagine you were. What would you think?'

  'I would say, against my better judgement, that Ridley was killed by the same man who killed the other three.'

  'Which of course is impossible,' said Lambert, something mysterious dancing behind his blue eyes.

  'Well of course it's impossible. Mackenzie's dead,' said Kirby, almost smiling.

  Lambert got to his feet and crossed to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a large scotch and downed a sizeable gulp before continuing.

  'John, there was another reason I wanted you here tonight. I think it might be linked with Ridley's murder.'

  Kirby interrrupted him. 'He wasn't murdered. He died of a heart attack.'

  'He died of fright,' said Lambert, his voice rising in volume slightly. 'Besides, some mad bastard did that to him. Some fucking headcase tore out his eyes and hung him up.' There was anger in his voice, tinged with something else which seemed, to Kirby, like fear. The policeman drained his glass. 'Look, as I was saying, something else happened up at the cemetery. The graves of Mackenzie and Brooks were tampered with.'

  Kirby looked vague.

  'Dug up. Desecrated. Call it what you like. The bodies were taken.'

  'How do you know?' Kirby swallowed hard.

  'I ordered the graves to be opened. Both bodies were gone.'

  'So how does this tie up with Ridley?' Lambert poured himself another drink and inhaled slowly.

  'What would you say if I told you I think Ridley was killed by Ray Mackenzie?'

  Kirby almost smiled. 'I'd say you should consider visiting a psychiatrist.'

  'You said the marks on the faces of all four victims matched.'

  'Tom, he's dead. I did the autopsy myself,' said Kirby incredulously.

  Debbie emerged from the kitchen carrying a cup of tea which she handed to Kirby. He thanked her and sipped tentatively at it. She got one for herself and joined them, curling up in one of the armchairs beside the fire. Lambert too, sat down, his third glass of scotch cradled in his hand.

  Kirby smiled. 'You do realize, Mrs. Lambert, that your husband is a total lunatic?'

  'This is no joke,' snarled Lambert. 'What's your explanation?'

  Kirby eyed the Inspector warily and stirred his tea needlessly. 'Tom, there must be a logical explanation for what happened. It's some sort of sick imitator. They must have read about the other murders in the paper and well…' He let the sentence trail off.

  'No details of the murders were published in the paper,' Lambert corrected him, 'especially the taking of the eyes.'

  'Coincidence,' said Kirby.

  'Bullshit,' snapped Lambert. He took a sip of his drink. 'Look at what we've got here. A man is murdered, or mutilated anyway, in exactly the same way as three previous people. We've got two empty coffins, one of which belongs to a killer. Now, you tell me why anyone would want to steal those bodies and kill Ridley.'

  There was silence in the room. The glow of the fire and single table lamp which had at first seemed so comforting now became almost oppressive. Shadows in the corner of the room were thick, black, almost palpable, and Debbie drew her chair closer to the fire.

  'Tom, you're a logical man, for Christ's sake,' said Kirby.

  Lambert held up a hand. 'O.K., let's look at it logically. God knows I want to find a logical explanation for all of this. Both coffins were empty, right? Both had large holes in the lids. The wood was bent outward.' He paused. 'Any theories?'

  Kirby shrugged. 'Body snatching.'

  'But why? Who'd want to steal two corpses? What are you going to do with them? Hang them over your fireplace?'

  Debbie suppressed a grin, especially when she saw the pained expression on her husband's face. 'There is another explanation,' said Kirby.

  'I'm waiting,' Lambert said, impatiently.

  'Have you ever heard of catatonia?'

  'I've heard of it, but I don't know exactly what it is.'

  Kirby put down his tea. 'It's very rare now; it was quite common at one time but, what with advanced examination procedures it's become more or less obsolete.'

  'Get to the point, John,' demanded Lambert, quietly.

  'In a catatonic state, sometimes called a catatonic trance, the patient displays all the appearances of death. The bodily functions slow down, sometimes even stop altogether. It can last for seconds or hours.'

  'So what are you saying?'

  'That Mackenzie could have been in a state of advanced catatonia when he was buried.' A pause. 'He could have been buried alive.'

  Lambert shook his head. 'John, he fell over a hundred feet from that hospital room. That's what killed him. He was dead. Dead as a bloody doornail and to hell with your scientific explanations. Besides, the grave of Brooks was empty too. Even if this crap about catatonia was right, the chances of it happening to two men at exactly the same time are millions to one.'

  'What else do you have?' said Kirby, wearily.

  Lambert shook his head. 'Nothing. Not a goddam thing.'

  The three of them sat in silence. Outside, a motorcycle roared past, breaking the solitude for a second before the harsh sound gradually died away. Kirby sipped his tea but found that it was cold. He winced and put the cup down again, declining when Debbie offered him another.

  'All right,' began Lambert, 'sticking with this idea of catatonia, how do you explain the holes in the lids of both coffins?'

  Kirby shrugged. 'They were trying to get out.'

  Lambert shook his head. 'Have you ever felt a coffin lid? It's about two inches thick. Solid oak. You'd need to be bloody strong to punch a hole in that. And then, assuming they managed that, they clawed their way up through six feet of earth?'

  'Tom, you've just defeated your own argument. It's impossible. It had to be body snatchers, there's no other logical explanation for it.'

  Lambert shook his head. 'Why does the answer have to be a logical one? There's been nothing logical about this whole bloody case ever since it started; why the hell should we start worrying about it now?' He took another hefty swallow from his glass before continuing. 'Look at the facts, John. An ordinary man in an ordinary job with an ordinary family suddenly goes crazy. Butchers his family, tears out their eyes then kills another woman, tears out her eyes. During the day he's in a torpor. At night he's like a wild animal. A brain test shows that, to all intents and purposes he's dead, but what happens when the lights go out-he gets up and kills himself and another man. Now, two weeks after he's buried, our vicar is found hanging from his own bell rope, both eyes tom out after having died of fright and the grave of the murderer is empty.' Lambert's voice had been rising steadily as he spoke but now he was almost shouting, his breath coming in quick gasps. Now, the veins on his forehead standing out angrily, he slammed his fist down on the coffee table and shouted: 'Now you tell me that's logical.'

  He slumped back into his chair, hands covering his eyes, totally drained. No one spoke, then, after what seemed like an eternity of silence Lambert said, 'And there's another thing.' His voice had regained its composure; it was low, resigned almost to the horrors he had just described. 'Mackenzie had a medallion with him. It was old, very old. There was inscriptions on it, in Latin. I think that is the key to all of this.'

  'Where is it now?' asked Kirby.

  'Trefoile, the antique dealer in town, has got it. He said he recognized it from somewhere.'

  'What makes it so important, Tom?' Kirby wanted to know.

  Lamber
t smiled humourlessly. 'Maybe I'm wrong. Perhaps this is what's known as clutching at straws but, right now, it's all I've got.'

  'What are you doing about Mackenzie and Brooks?'

  'What can I do? Tell my men to be on the look out for two of the living dead? Report in lads, if you happen to bump into anyone who was buried recently, that sort of thing? Frankly, John, I don't know what the fuck to do.' He looked long and hard at the doctor. 'All I know is, it must be kept out of the papers. If the press get hold of this, we'll have half the country crawling over Medworth trying to find out what's going on.'

  'Call in help.'

  'Where from?'

  'Tell your superiors what's going on.' Lambert laughed bitterly. 'Can you imagine what Detective Inspector John Barton would make of this? He'd have me locked up. No, I can handle it for now.' He exhaled deeply. 'Christ, if only we had a motive. I mean, what kind of person steals corpses?'

  The Inspector's eyes suddenly flared. He pointed an inquisitive finger at Kirby.

  'Assuming, just assuming, that someone is trying to imitate Mackenzie's crimes and also working on the assumption that that same person stole the bodies, then surely they would have taken the corpse of Emma Reece as well.'

  'Why?' Kirby wanted to know.

  'Because she was one of his victims.'

  'Was her grave tampered with too?'

  'I don't know, I never thought about her at the time.' The Inspector got to his feet. 'We've got to find out now.'

  Debbie looked worried. 'Tom, what are you going to do?'

  'We have to see if her body has been taken as well,' he said flatly.

  'You mean dig her up?' gasped Kirby.

  'We've done it twice today already,' said Lambert.

  Kirby lowered his head. 'But…'

  Lambert's tone was soft, but stern. 'We have to know.'

  The doctor swallowed hard and looked up at Lambert. He nodded almost imperceptibly. A thin smile creased the policeman's face, and he hurried out of the house to fetch the tools. Debbie and Kirby stared at one another, neither of them able to speak. The cold draft from the open back door blew into the room, temporarily driving away the warmth and making them both shiver.