by Shaun Hutson
'That's O.K.,' said the Inspector.
The receptionist showed them a door off to the right and the two men nodded as they walked in.
'It's more like a bloody hotel,' said Lambert under his breath, walking into another office. It was decorated in a lemon yellow, the walls hung with a number of paintings. The area to their left was one huge plate glass window through which the early morning sun was streaming, dust particles swirling in its powerful rays. There were five leather chairs along the opposite wall and an ashtray beside each one. At the far end of the room was a desk and, on either side of the desk, a door. As Lambert approached the desk he could see the two names, which were fastened to the dark wood of the doors, in gold letters. The name on the right hand door was Chief Inspector Mark Dayton. The one on the left read Detective Chief Inspector James Baron.
'Inspector Lambert?' said the receptionist, a woman with a round face and large glasses.
Lambert nodded.
'You'll have to wait, I'm afraid. Mr Baron is busy at the moment.'
'How long will he be?'
The woman smiled, an efficient smile practised over the years. 'I can't say for sure, but if you'd like to take a seat I'll send you in as soon as I can.' She motioned to the leather chairs and the two men sat down. The wall clock said nine forty-five. Lambert lit up his first cigarette of the day.
* * *
The hands of the clock had crawled on to ten thirty and there were seven butts in the ashtray before Lambert when the buzzer finally sounded and a little red light flared on the panel before the receptionist. She leant forward and spoke into the intercom.
'Yes, sir,' she said.
Lambert heard something babbled but couldn't understand what it was. He gritted his teeth and exhaled deeply. If there was one thing he hated, it was being kept waiting. He ground out his cigarette angrily and looked across at the receptionist who still wore that perpetual grin.
'There are two gentlemen to see you, sir. An Inspector Lambert and…' she looked up, realizing that she didn't know the other man's name.
'Dr Kirby,' he said.
'Dr Kirby,' she repeated.
There were more metallic babblings from the other end and then she nodded and flicked the switch back to 'Off.'
'You can go in,' she said.
'Three bloody cheers,' muttered Lambert. He knocked once and a voice from inside told him to come in. The two men entered the office. It was small, not the grandiose abode which the Inspector had imagined. There were several banks of filing cabinets, a rubber plant on one window sill, and of all things, a tropical fish tank set on a table beside one wall. Baron himself was bending over the tank when the two men entered. He looked up and smiled, extending a friendly hand which they both shook.
'Fascinating things, fish,' said Baron, cheerfully and sat down behind his desk. He pointed to two plastic chairs upon which his visitors seated themselves. So, thought Lambert, this is the great James Baron? The man who had solved more murder cases in this area than he'd had hot dinners? Baron's reputation was a formidable one and well known to all those under him. He'd been a colonel in the Chindits during the war and still bore a scar, running from the corner of his left eye to his left ear, as a legacy of those days. Two broken marriages and countless affairs had charted his rise to the very top of his profession, a position which he intended holding until he retired. Another eight years. There was, Lambert had been told by men who had worked directly under Baron, a feeling of ambivalence towards the man. On the one hand he was respected for his abilities as a policeman, but on the other hand he was hated for his hardhearted cynicism, the latter being something that Lambert was all too aware of as he tried to figure out what he was going to say to his superior. Baron was not a favourite with the media either. His policy of releasing only tiny pieces of information had led to him being regarded as uncooperative and rude. That at least, was something Lambert could respect about him. Baron had been in the force for nearly thirty years and had held the rank of D.C.I. for fifteen of those. During his term in command, the force in that area had undergone a radical change, dealing with troublemakers in a tougher way which had many crying police brutality. But Baron cared nothing for the reactions of the press and television. As far as he was concerned he was there to do a job and he would do it as he thought best and the way he could best achieve results.
Now, as he sat back in his seat, Lambert studied this powerful man. Well preserved for his age and, considering the responsibilities which he carried, remarkably untouched by the rigours of worry. No wrinkles or grey hairs here. Just the slightest hint of a paunch, visible as it strained against the tightly buttoned waistcoat which he wore. His jacket was hung up behind the door along with his overcoat. Neat.
Baron looked at Lambert and smiled.
'Inspector Lambert, eh?' he said, his voice gravelly.
'Yes sir.'
'You're a young man to hold such a responsible position. You must be good at your job.' He smiled warmly. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'
'Yes, please,' said Kirby and Lambert too, agreed.
Baron flicked a switch on his intercom and spoke rapidly into it, telling his secretary to fetch three coffees. He sat back in his chair once more, hands clasped across his broad chest.
'Which area are you from?' Baron asked.
'Well, we're based in Medworth, but we cover most of the area round about,' Lambert explained.
'How many men are under you?'
'Ten.'
Baron nodded.
'Married?' he asked.
Christ, thought Lambert, it's like a bloody interview.
'Yes, sir.'
'And you doctor?' Baron wanted to know.
Kirby shook his head. 'No, I'm still a free agent.'
'And quite right too,' said Baron laughing. 'They're more trouble than they're worth, women.'
The other two men laughed nervously. There was a knock on the door and the coffee arrived. Carol set it down on the edge of the desk and left. The three men helped themselves to milk and sugar and Baron sat back in his chair, stirring slowly.
'Well, Inspector, what exactly can I do for you?' said the older man. 'It must be important for you to come all this way.'
Lambert and Kirby exchanged brief glances and the Inspector coughed nervously. He put his coffee cup on the corner of the desk.
'I need your help, sir,' he said. 'I need some of your men.'
Baron took a sip of his coffee and regarded Lambert over the rim of the cup.
'Why?' he wanted to know.
Lambert opened the attache case and fumbled inside until he found what he was looking for. It was a photograph of the body of Father Ridley, hanging from the bell rope. Baron took it and studied the monochrome print, his eyes coming to rest on the damage done to Ridley's face. He nodded gently, looking at the second photo which Lambert handed him. It was of Emma Reece.
'Both the work of the same person?' mused Baron, his gaze settling on the torn eye sockets of both victims.
Kirby reached for two of the manila files in the case with Lambert watching him anxiously. 'The marks on the bodies of the first victims match those on the bodies of the latest ones,' said the doctor, pushing the files towards Baron.
The D.C.I. peered briefly at the files, shaking his head.
'Twenty-four people have disappeared inside a month,' Lambert told him. 'We can't find a trace of them. All we ever find at the scene of the assault is lots of blood.'
'That proves nothing,' said Baron flinging the files back onto the desk.
'People don't just disappear,' said Lambert, his voice rising in volume, 'there's a pattern to it.'
Kirby pointed to the marks on his neck. 'These wounds were inflicted by a woman who had been buried for over a week.' There was a long silence as Baron regarded the two men suspiciously.
'You're both bloody crazy,' said Baron, smiling.
'Sir, for God's sake, can't you at least offer an explanation? We've tried every possible ave
nue to find a plausible answer. There is not a plausible answer,' said Lambert, barely able to control himself.
Kirby returned to the wounds on his neck. 'This woman attacked me. She rose from the grave and attacked me. I was as skeptical as you until that happened but I'm telling you, I was attacked by a living corpse.'
There was a moment's silence, during which time Baron's smile faded. He leant forward, his voice now hard-edged and emotionless.
'Now you listen to me, both of you. I'm a busy man, I've got lots of responsibilities and I haven't got the time to sit around listening to two raving lunatics trying to tell me that they've got a town full of living corpses.' He pointed a stern finger at Lambert. 'If you were a man off the street I might find this whole thing amusing. But you're not, you're an Inspector in Her Majesty's Police force and, listening to what you've just told me, you make me wonder how you ever got past the cadet stage, let alone become an Inspector.' The older man's face was going scarlet with rage. 'How old are you, Lambert?'
'Twenty-two,' he replied, the fury likewise building within himself. He felt like dragging Baron across the desk, strapping him in the car and driving him back to Medworth to leave him at the mercy of the things which roamed the town at night. Perhaps then the old sod would begin to understand.
'Well, when you've been in this bloody game as long as I have perhaps you'll have the sense to keep your idiot fantasies to yourself instead of wasting my time with them.'
Lambert clenched his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily. He gripped the sides of his chair until he threatened to tear them loose.
'All I want is half a dozen men to back up my boys,' he said quietly, the anger seething behind his words.
'Forget it,' snapped Baron, returning to his coffee and looking out of the window as if the two men didn't even exist.
'We can't manage on our own,' snarled Lambert, his voice rising in volume.
Baron swung round. 'Get out of here before I have you both thrown out,' he-shouted.
Kirby gathered the photos and files and dropped them into the case.
The D.C.I. hadn't finished: 'Another thing, Lambert. If I hear anything more about this… ridiculous affair, if I see anything in the paper about it, I'll tell you this now, sunshine, within a week, you'll be back walking a damned beat.' He paused a second: 'Now get out before I have you both locked up.'
Lambert hesitated. 'All right, if you won't give us men at least give us guns.' That was it. The words hung in the air. Make or break.
Silence reigned supreme in the sunlit office. There was a high pitched squeaking sound as Baron leant forward in his chair. The Inspector wasn't sure whether or not a smile was hovering on his lips, and when he finally spoke, his tone was soft, gende even.
'You know something, Lambert, you really have got nerve, haven't you?'
Lambert swallowed hard. 'The guns sir. Please.'
Another long silence followed then Baron reached forward and flicked a switch on his intercom.
'Carol,' he said, 'have Dayton come in, will you?'
He sat back again, gazing at the two men who stood before him like naughty children in front of an angry headmaster. A second later the door to Barton's office opened and Chief Inspector Mark Dayton walked in.
'You wanted something, guv?' he said, without looking at either Lambert or Kirby.
'Take Inspector Lambert here down to the basement. Issue him with all he wants.'
Dayton looked puzzled, he raised one eyebrow and looked quizzically at the two men then he said, 'Come on, follow me.' The trio turned but, as they reached the door Baron called: 'Lambert.'
The young Inspector turned. 'Sir?'
Baron's voice was low, soft with menace. 'If this turns out to be bullshit, I'll have your fucking head.'
Lambert closed the door gently behind him. 'Cunt,' he muttered under his breath and hurried off to catch up with Kirby and Dayton who were already half way down the corridor.
* * *
Dayton leant up against one corner of the lift as it dropped the six floors to the basement. He regarded the men opposite him with indifference. Lambert guessed that the policeman must be ten, perhaps fifteen years older than himself. Dayton was tall but in an ungainly way and his feet seemed to have been designed for someone much smaller than him. That would probably account for his shuffling walk. He had thick eyebrows which snaked upwards giving him a look of perpetual surprise.
The lift came to a halt and the doors slid open. Both Lambert and Kirby were immediately taken aback by the overpowering smell of oil and cordite, an odour which the Inspector rapidly recognized as gun oil.
They walked across the stone floor of the basement, their footsteps echoing on the hard surface and the sounds reminded Lambert of an underground car park. They came to a heavy iron gate which Dayton unlocked. He ushered them in.
The room was small but all four walls held racks which sported row upon row of rifles, shotguns and pistols. There was what looked like a counter over by the far wall and a man in a white smock was cleaning a revolver behind it. He looked up when he saw the trio enter, then looked down again, returning to his task.
'Pete,' called Dayton, 'we want some stuff.'
Peter Baker put down the pistol and nodded. He wiped a hand across his forehead, forgetting it was still smeared with grease, and left a black mark from temple to temple. Lambert looked up at the rows of guns.
'How many in your force?' asked Dayton.
'Ten,' Lambert told him.
'What are they like with weapons?'
Lambert shrugged, 'God knows. I doubt if any of them have even touched a gun let alone fired one. I haven't myself.'
Baker grinned and reached to the rack behind him. He pulled the gun down and handed it to Lambert who was surprised by its weight.
'What is it?' he asked, hefting it back and forth.
'An automatic shotgun,' Baker told him. 'The Yanks call them pump guns.' He looked at Dayton and both men laughed. Lambert couldn't see the joke. He held the gun up to his shoulder and squinted down the sight.
'No need for that,' said Baker, smiling, 'it isn't a hunting rifle. Just make sure you're on target when you pull the trigger and hang onto it tight. Whatever you hit with that won't get up again.'
'Let's hope not,' said Kirby, cryptically.
'With just a bit of practice you'll be able to handle it,' Baker assured him. 'But like I said, hang on tight when you pull the trigger, it's got quite a recoil. You could blow a hole in a house with one of those.'
'Give him ten,' said Dayton.
'What about pistols?' Lambert asked.
Dayton looked aghast. 'Are you planning a commando raid or something? This is England. Not bloody New York.' He shook his head. 'Pete, give him a couple of Brownings too.'
Baker nodded and laid down two automatic pistols beside the stack of shotguns and ammunition.
'Bring your car round to the back of the building,' said Dayton. 'We'll have this lot sent up and you can load it straight in.'
* * *
By one that afternoon, Lambert and Kirby were on their way back to Medworth, the guns safely stored in the boot of the Capri. Neither of them spoke.
The Inspector put his foot down, anxious to get back. He had to tell his men what had happened, tell them that from now on they were on their own. He realized too that he and the rest of the small force would have to practise with the weapons if they were to be any use.
He sighed. They didn't even know if guns would stop the creatures. Baker's words passed fleetingly through his mind: 'Whatever you hit with that won't get up again.'
Lambert prayed to God he was right.
PART THREE
'Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?'
-1 Kings; 21:20.
Dawn rose grey and dirty over Medworth and Tom Lambert shivered as he tugged back the bedroom curtains. He stood in the window for a moment, gazing out into the street below. There were one or two people on the street, on t
heir way to work probably. He wondered if they realized what was going on nightly around them. Shaking the thought from his mind he washed and dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, the smell of cooking bacon meeting him as he reached the living room.
Debbie stood over the pan, stirring with a wooden spatula. He kissed her gently on the lips and ran a hand through her uncombed hair before sitting down. There was a mail, a couple of letters, but he didn't bother to read them. He glanced briefly at the paper, setting it aside as Debbie laid his breakfast before him.
'How long have you been up?' he asked, taking a mouthful.
'Since about five.'
He looked surprised.
'I couldn't sleep, and besides, I thought I'd try and get a bit further through those bloody books that Trefoile gave us.'
Lambert nodded. He had read through her transcriptions the night before and, although she was almost half way through the huge volumes, nothing of any importance had turned up yet. Anything of note she had ringed in red marker but, as yet, there were precious little pieces of information to be had. However, on one sheet, one of the most recent ones, the name had appeared for the first time. That name which had caused Trefoile so much distress.
Mathias.
Lambert had studied the name over and over again, finally discarding the piece of paper.
Debbie sat opposite him and sipped her coffee. He looked up at her, concern in his eyes.
'Do you think Trefoile was throwing us a line about the medallion?' he said.
'What do you mean?'
'The secret,' he emphasized the words with scorn. 'I wonder if the answer really is in those bloody books.'
'What reason would he have to lie?' asked Debbie, stifling a yawn.
Lambert shrugged.
Now it was Debbie's turn to look at him. She warmed her hands around her mug and watched him as he ate. He had come home late the previous night, looking pale and drawn, as if he were in need of a good night's sleep. They had lain together on the sofa while he told her of what Baron had said. How there was to be no help for them, and she had shuddered involuntarily when he had said' that. Lambert had received much the same reaction when he told the men at the police station of Baron's words. A feeling of isolation, but something more, foreboding, had greeted the declaration that they were to fight the menace alone. The guns had given little reassurance to most of them; but the older members of the force, Hayes and Davies in particular, had listened to Lambert's words with grim resolution etched on their faces. Both, fortunately for the Inspector, knew how to use guns. Davies had done National Service and Hayes informed them all, to a great peal of laughter, that his father had been a poacher, and consequently he himself had grown up with guns. Upon hearing this, the tension amongst the men slackened off a little. Briggs and Walford, youngsters that they were, seemed anxious to use the weapons and were positively delighted when Lambert announced that they would all have to practise. They must all become proficient with the weapons. It could, he had told them, save their lives. They were probably all out now in the field at the back of the station blasting away at the targets, under the watchful eyes of Hayes and Davies. Lambert had given the other Browning to Hayes, keeping the first for himself.
