by Shaun Hutson
'Don't you have any bloody heating in here?' he said. He passed a radiator and pressed his hand to it, withdrawing it quickly as it singed him.
'Shit,' he grunted. The radiator was red hot. Yet still he could feel that penetrating cold, an almost palpable chill which encircled him with icy fingers.
Debbie found the dictionaries and hurried out again, turning off lights as she went. Once outside, she locked the door and the two of them hurried back to the car.
Lambert put his foot down and they were home in under twenty minutes. He put the car in the garage while Debbie carried the heavy volumes indoors where she laid them on the coffee table. Once inside, Lambert locked and bolted every door and window in the house then retreated to the comforting warmth of the living room. Debbie already had the books spread open, a notepad by her side.
It was going to be a long job and, as he looked at the first page, Lambert wondered what they were going to find.
The entire book would have to be translated, word for word. They would find one word and, immediately, be forced to look it up in the dictionary. The meaning clear, it would then be transcribed onto a fresh piece of paper.
Lambert looked at his watch as they began. It was eight fourteen P.M.
It took them three hours to do the first page.
Outside, the rain lashed down, the darkness covering the town and countryside like an impenetrable blanket.
* * *
Charles Burton stubbed out his third cigarette and checked his watch against the wall clock above Lambert's desk. He exhaled through clenched teeth and pulled open the office door.
'When the hell is he getting here?' said Burton.
Sergeant Hayes, who was making out a duty roster, looked up and smiled.
'He shouldn't be long, Mr. Burton,' he said.
Burton slammed the door and Hayes raised two fingers at it. Miserable bastard, he thought, and carried on with the roster.
Burton had never been a patient man, but, at this precise moment in time, seated in Lambert's office, he was on the point of blowing his top. He'd been waiting for the young policeman for more than thirty minutes and he wasn't going to wait much longer. As editor of Medworth's newspaper, he deserved prompt attention. He never had liked Lambert. Cocky young sod, he thought. Burton, approaching his fortieth year, wondered how someone as young as Lambert had ever been put in charge of the Medworth force in the first place. He was never very cooperative, but, regarding recent events, he'd been downright secretive. Burton was determined to get to the bottom of things. It was his right as a newsman, and the people of Medworth had a right to know too. He resolved not to leave until Lambert had told him what was really happening in the town. Burton checked his watch again. That was if the young bastard ever arrived.
Burton felt quite exhilarated. He'd never had anything quite this big to write about since becoming editor of The Medworth Herald, but what with a number of deaths and disappearances over a matter of weeks, this was something new. Usually it was all jumble sales and tedious local events and he allowed his own meagre staff to deal with those trivialities. But this one he wanted for himself. He didn't trust one of his three reporters to cover it adequately. They'd probably miss some important detail here or there. Besides, Lambert would be able to brush them aside easily. Burton was determined not to be pushed away with excuses and half-baked explanations.
He checked his watch again and lit another cigarette. The room was already heavy with the smell of stale smoke and Burton added to it, blowing out a long stream as he dropped the lighter back into his pocket.
His wife had bought it for him for their tenth wedding anniversary. He half smiled, thinking about her. She'd be at home now, up to her elbows in washing up or vacuuming. She was always doing something. Cleaning up, rearranging the furniture. He wondered if there was a medical term for it. Compulsive house cleaning or something like that. She went mad if he even so much as dropped a speck of ash on the carpet. Out came the Hoover straight away. Burton had put up with it for the first couple of years, but, gradually, her mania for neatness had begun to annoy him. He stayed at the office later each night. She never complained about that, though. As long as their house was neat and tidy, she was happy. He often thought that she wouldn't mind if World War Three broke out tomorrow, as long as the house was in good shape. He stayed out until all hours, boozing, sometimes just driving around, even screwing other women, but when he finally got home, she would never question him. Just peck him lightly on the cheek and ask him if he had a good day.
There was a girl at the moment. She worked as a barmaid in 'The Bell,' a pub on the outskirts of the town. Her name was Stephanie (he called her Stevie) Lawson and, although she had never told him, he guessed her age to be around twenty. Only once did it occur to Burton that he was old enough to be her father and that once was after their first bout of lovemaking. Even the recollection exhausted him. Christ, she was a bloody animal he thought, smiling. She was cooking him dinner tonight at her place. It was her night off and Burton was looking forward to it.
His train of thought was broken as he heard footsteps outside the door.
* * *
Lambert walked into the station and smiled at Hayes. He held up two, grimy, oil-covered hands.
'Would you believe it,' he said, 'I had a bloody puncture about ten minutes from home. Changed that, and then found out my oil was low so I had to top up with that too.'
Hayes pointed to the closed door of the office. Lambert looked around.
'You've got a visitor, guv,' said the sergeant.
'Who is it?' asked Lambert, lowering his voice.
'Charlie Burton.'
Lambert sighed. 'Christ, I'd forgotten. How long's he been here?'
'Half an hour.'
Lambert nodded and pushed open his office door. Hayes heard the initial greeting then the conversation was cut off as the door closed once more.
'I've been waiting nearly forty minutes for you,' said Burton, irritably.
'Sorry,' said Lambert, smiling, 'I had a blow out.'
He crossed to the sink in one corner of the room and began scrubbing his hands.
'You said nine o'clock,' persisted the newsman.
Lambert gritted his teeth. 'I can't help it if my bloody car gets a flat, can I?' he said, drying his hands. He turned to face Burton, wondering why he ever agreed to meet the man in the first place. If Burton disliked the Inspector then the feeling was more than mutual. Lambert tried to be pleasant. Smiling, he sat down.
'What can I do for you?' he asked.
'You know what I want,' said Burton, impatiently. 'Some information about what's been going on around here during the last few weeks.'
'I told you over the phone that no information would be given until the investigation was over.'
'That's bullshit,' snapped Burton. 'You said there would be press releases.' He emphasized the last two words with scorn. 'Some sort of statement and yet every time me or one of my reporters rings up, you're either not here or you won't tell us anything.'
Lambert picked up a pen which was lying on his desk and began toying with it.
'Like I said,' Lambert said softly, 'I don't want any of this in the papers until the investigation is over.'
'Any of what, for Christ's sake?' said Burton, angrily. 'Just what is going on, Lambert? People have a right to know.'
'It's classified.'
'Don't give me that shit. Come on, divulge.' Lambert sat forward in his chair, the pen pointing at Burton.
'Look, Burton, none of this has anything to do with you or your blasted paper. If I say there'll be no information given about this case, then that's how it'll be.'
Burton smiled cryptically. 'You're a jumped-up little bastard, Lambert, you know that? Just who the hell do you think you are?'
'I'm the law. Who are you? Some glorified bloody paper boy who wants to find out some details so he can stick them in the local rag. I told you, there'll be no info given on this case until it's all wrap
ped up.'
'So what's all this crap about "Police statements"?' the newsman demanded.
'You'll get them in time,' Lambert told him.
Burton laughed. 'I know why you won't tell me anything. It's because you can't. You don't know what the hell is going on either. Lambert, you couldn't figure out a fucking crossword puzzle, let alone what's happening here.'
'It's police business. It's none of your concern.'
'People are dying, disappearing in this bloody town. We all have a right to know what's being done about it.'
Lambert reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a copy of the previous night's paper. He hurled it down.
'You don't have a right to print that,' he snarled, pointing to the column headed, 'Police baffled over disappearances.'
'And, another thing, if you print anything else about this case without my say so, I'll close your fucking paper down.'
'You bastard.'
'Welcome to the club,' said Lambert, angrily. The two men regarded each other for a moment, the tension between them almost visible. Then Lambert said: 'I mean it, Burton. I want all details, all speculation, kept out of the paper.'
The newsman was unimpressed but, his tone softened slightly.
'Off the record, what is going on?'
Lambert smiled at him. 'Off the record?'
Burton sat forward eagerly.
The Inspector pressed his fingertips together and sat back in his chair. 'I don't know.'
'Come on, Lambert, I said off the record.'
'I'm telling you,' the policeman continued, 'I don't know.'
'But it is true that twelve people have disappeared during the last couple of weeks?' asked Burton eagerly.
'Where did you get that information?' the Inspector wanted to know.
Burton was losing his temper. 'People talk. That's the only thing they are talking about at the moment. Nothing's happened in this place for fifty years. The biggest event of the year is the bloody Church social. What the hell do you expect them to talk about? It's common knowledge.' He paused, waiting for the Inspector to speak but he remained impassive.
'So, is it true?' he asked again.
'Off the record?'
Burton nodded.
'It's true,' Lambert said, 'but if you print that, I'll have you for disclosure of evidence.'
'What's happened to them?' asked Burton.
'Maybe they just left town.'
'Come on, Lambert, I said this was off the record,' said the newsman, becoming irritable again.
'You want a comment, right?' Lambert said. 'Something to print. An official police statement?'
Burton looked eager, nodding frenziedly.
'All right,' said Lambert, 'got a pen?'
Burton pulled out a notebook, flipped it open and waited expectantly.
'My official statement regarding this case,' began Lambert, 'is simple enough.' He paused. 'No comment.'
'You bastard,' snarled Burton.
Lambert had to fight to suppress a grin as he watched the editor turn scarlet with rage. He stood up, slipping the notebook back into his pocket. The newsman headed for the door, turning as he reached it.
'This case will beat you, Lambert, and I'll be the first one to wave goodbye when they wheel you out.'
Burton had the door half open.
'Hey, Charlie,' called Lambert, half smiling, 'for the record.'
'What?' snapped Burton.
'Fuck you.'
The editor slammed the door as he left. A moment later Sergeant Hayes popped his head round the door.
'Everything all right, guv?' he asked.
Lambert smiled, 'Yes thanks, Vic. Just Mr Burton blowing his top. Nothing to worry about.'
Hayes nodded. 'Anything else, guv?'
Lambert smiled, 'Yes. I could murder a cup of tea.'
Hayes scuttled off to make it, closing the door behind him. Lambert exhaled deeply, his forehead creased heavily. He thought of Debbie, at home at this very moment, trying to decipher the two huge volumes which Trefoile had given them. She had taken a few days off so that she could work on them and perhaps find an answer quickly. Time suddenly seemed very important. Lambert just hoped that it wouldn't run out for him. Or for the whole town, come to that. He looked out of the window, pleased to sunlight.
He was beginning to dread the night.
* * *
The wind had grown steadily as the evening wore on. As the sun sank, it had been little more than a gentle breeze, but now, just after midnight, it had grown in ferocity to almost gale proportions.
Charles Burton lay in bed listening to the gate slamming repeatedly in the passageway below. The narrow entrance and stone corridor separated the house from the one next door and it was the wooden door at the head of the passage that was being buffetted by the wind. It smashed sporadically into the lintel, each fresh impact jarring Burton and making him more irritable. If it went on much longer he would have to get up and close the bloody thing. It had a latch but the people next door usually forgot to put it on. That was why the door was slamming now.
Burton exhaled deeply, closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the insistent banging of the gate disturbed him. Finally he swung himself out, pulled on his trousers and slid his sockless feet into his shoes.
'What's up?' croaked Stevie Lawson, sleepily. She looked up and saw, through blurred eyes, Burton trying to zip up his trousers. He caught a pubic hair in the zipper and yelped in pain.
'Shit,' he snarled.
Stevie smiled. 'What are you doing?'
'It's that bloody gate,' said Burton, inclining his head. As if to add weight to his statement, there was an almighty crash as it cracked into the jamb once more.
'They must have forgotten to lock it, next door,' said Stevie, yawning. 'Can't you leave it?'
'It's getting on my nerves,' he snapped, heading for the bedroom door. He pulled it open and fumbled for the landing light which he slapped on.
'Come back to bed,' purred Stevie, allowing the sheet to drop, revealing her breasts. 'Forget about the gate.'
Burton felt a stirring in his groin at the sight of those firm mounds and he almost hesitated, but the gate slammed again and he was off down the stairs.
Stevie heard him open the hall door and blunder through the living room. She rolled onto her back and stretched beneath the sheets. Burton might be getting on a bit, she thought to herself, but he certainly knew how to treat a woman.
Their lovemaking had been even more abandoned that night, animalistic almost, and the thought of it made her tingle. She'd hang onto him for a couple more weeks. He bought her flowers and perfume, anything she wanted really. She only had to ask and he'd get it for her. Silly old bastard, she thought. Couldn't he see she was using him? She'd cooked him dinner that night, listened disinterestedly as he'd prattled on about his day's work. She fussed him, teased him, and finally they had climbed into bed. To her it seemed like a fair deal, he got what he wanted from her, she got what she wanted from him. Sometimes it was difficult to tell who was using who. Still, she thought, next time she'd pick up a younger bloke. Burton had the money and he was good in bed, but she wanted someone nearer her own age. He could only manage it twice in a night and sometimes that wasn't enough for her.
Her husband had been the same. She almost laughed aloud as she thought of him. Poor old Ron. He'd joined the army a year before they got married. He was a sergeant in the Signals. Out in Ulster at the moment. She'd had no letter from him for over a week. For all she knew, or cared, he could be lying in some Belfast gutter with an I.R.A. bullet in him. He usually wrote to her once a week to ask how she was, how the family was, and his little joke at the end, to make sure that she was behaving herself. Ha bloody ha, she thought. Dutifully she wrote back, always telling him that she missed him and couldn't wait for him to get home. She smiled to herself. Fucking idiot he was, probably believed her too. She was toying with the idea of moving away from Medworth. It was boring. She wanted to see some li
fe. Ron was happy there, but, of course, he never did have any ambition. London was the place for her. The nightlife. The men. Beneath the sheets she ran both hands over her body, satisfied that she would have no trouble finding someone dumb enough to keep her if she ever should make the trek down there. Any bloke, anywhere, would give his right arm to have her. She was one of that rare breed of women who were not only aware of their good looks but also knew how to use them to get what they wanted. She heard Burton open the back door and wished he would stop farting about and hurry back to bed. She was beginning to feel horny again.
* * *
The wind hit him like a cold hammer when he opened the door and the newsman shivered, wishing he'd put on a coat. He stepped out into the darkness and hurried around the corner to the passage. Peering up it, he could see the gate slightly ajar. As he started towards it, a gust of wind blew it shut * plunging the passage and back yard into total darkness. Burton placed his hands on one wall and groped his way towards the door.
He cracked his leg on something which was standing in the darkened passage.
'Jesus,' he groaned, rubbing his injured shin.
The object which he'd collided with was a motorcycle. The lad who owned it lived in the next house and he always put it in the passage on bad nights. Burton cursed under his breath and edged past the bike. He reached the gate just as a gust of wind sent it hurtling back. It slammed into the rear wall with a loud thud and momentarily gave the newsman a view of the street outside. All the lamps were out. It was like a bloody coal mine out there. Burton thought he saw something move at the end of the pathway which led out from the gate, but he dismissed it and fumbled with the latch on the gate, finally dropping it into place and tugging on the metal handle to ensure that the wind wouldn't blow it loose again. Satisfied, he turned and groped his way back down the passage, careful to avoid the motorcycle this time. He edged around the corner into the back yard of Stevie's house and smiled at the sight of light flooding from the open back door. He paused for a moment. He didn't remember leaving the door open when he came out. Burton shrugged. The bloody wind had probably blown that open too.
