Death Day (25 page)

    

    

    The Inspector rubbed his eyes as he switched off the engine. The clock on the dashboard glowed one-thirty A.M. and Lambert yawned as he stepped out of the Capri and walked hurriedly towards the group of vehicles. There were lights in the windows of houses next door and across the road and he could see people peering out to see just what the hell was going on at this ungodly hour of the morning.

    The wind had dropped but there was a biting chill in the air and the Inspector pulled up the collar of his coat, digging his hands deep into the pockets. He recognized Constable Bell, and the policeman smiled grimly as he saw Lambert approach.

    'What happened?' asked the Inspector, yawning.

    Bell reached for his notebook but Lambert waved it away. 'Just the shortened version,' he said.

    'Well, the house belongs to a Mrs Stephanie Lawson, her husband is in the army, he's away at the moment…'

    Lambert cut him short. 'I said the short version.'

    'Sorry, sir,' said Bell and continued, 'a neighbour rang up about an hour ago to complain about some noises she heard coming from the house. The sarge radioed me and P.C. Jenkins and we came straight over. I knocked on the door but I couldn't get any answer. When I went around the back I found…' he hesitated.

    'What?' demanded Lambert.

    'A body.'

    He was about to walk away when Bell called him back. 'He was still alive when I reached him.'

    Lambert nodded.

    'Dr Kirby is in the ambulance with him now.'

    Lambert turned and hurried across to the parked emergency vehicle, its two back doors still open. The Inspector assumed that Kirby must have been summoned at roughly the same time as himself. Hayes had called him ten minutes earlier and told him that there was trouble in Victoria Lane. Now he peered into the ambulance and saw a worried looking Kirby bending over the covered form of a man. There was a red blanket pulled up to his neck but its colour did little to mask the dark stains which had seeped through the thick material in several places.

    'John,' said Lambert, climbing up into the ambulance.

    'He's dying,' said Kirby flatly.

    It was then that Lambert looked down at the prostrate form and saw that it was Charles Burton.

    'Jesus Christ,' gasped the Inspector.

    At the sound, Burton opened his eyes slightly. When he saw Lambert, they widened to huge orbs, filled with pain and something more. Fear perhaps. The newsman lifted one bloodstained hand towards Lambert and croaked, 'Lambert.' Blood dribbled over his lips and he winced, as if the effort of talking were too much, but he drew in a painful breath and continued. The policeman leant closer.

    'What are they?' gasped Burton, his wide eyes fixing the Inspector momentarily in a piercing stare. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes. Lambert looked down at the torn face, the blood-matted hair, a portion of skull shining white amidst the clumps of congealing gore. Kirby pushed him aside and laid his stethoscope on Burton's chest. He felt for a pulse, digging his fingers almost savagely into the wrist. He shook his head angrily.

    An ambulanceman appeared in the doorway and looked at Kirby.

    'Will you be travelling to the hospital, doctor?' he asked.

    'No need,' said Kirby and stepped down, followed by Lambert.

    They heard the doors being slammed and, a second later the ambulance pulled away. Its blue light was extinguished. There was no longer an emergency. No hurry to reach the hospital. Not any longer.

    Constable Bell appeared again.

    'There's blood all over the house, sir,' he said, swallowing.

    Lambert nodded. 'What about Mrs Lawson?'

    'No sign of her anywhere.'

    Bell wandered off again, leaving the two men alone outside the house. Lambert looked up into the dark sky, flecked with hundreds of silver pinpricks of stars. He sighed then looked at Kirby.

    'This has gone far enough, John,' he said, flatly. 'We need help.'

    

    

    Lambert and Kirby spoke little on the journey to Divisional Headquarters in Nottingham. Almost against his better judgment, the Inspector had finally decided that he needed reinforcements to deal with the growing threat which hung over Medworth like some supernatural cloud. He was perspiring slightly although the early morning sun had not yet reached its full power and the last vestiges of dawn mist still hung, wraithlike, in the hollows and woods which dotted the route. There wasn't much traffic on the road and for that Lambert was thankful. He cruised, doing an even fifty for most of the journey, causing Kirby to glance down at the speedometer every now and then. But he said nothing. He too realized the importance of their journey, and as far as both of them were concerned, the sooner it was over, the better.

    On the back seat of the Capri was a leather attache case, filled to bursting point with every detail they could lay their hands on concerning the horrors which had taken place in Medworth over the past month or so. Coroner's reports, backgrounds of victims, what scant details they had of the disappearances (there had been twenty-four up to date) and full reports by Lambert on what was happening.

    As they sat in silence, watching the countryside speeding by, both men had the same thought. How the hell were they going to convince Lambert's superiors of the truth of what was going on in the little town?

    The journey took less than forty minutes and, at around nine-thirty, Lambert was guiding the Capri through the busy streets of Nottingham, blasting his horn angrily at a cyclist who hesitated too long at traffic lights. The poor woman was so unnerved by the sudden sound that she nearly toppled off into the path of a passing jeep. Lambert swung the car past her and asked Kirby to check just exactly where they were.

    'Take a left at the next crossroads,' said the doctor, running his index finger over the inner city map.

    The Inspector obeyed, and within minutes they found themselves in a huge car park which fronted the main building, a massive edifice of glass and concrete which seemed to tower up into the very clouds themselves. Sunlight glinted off the many windows which winked like myriad glass eyes, peering down on the tiny car as the Inspector parked it and they both got out. They walked swiftly across the paved area, Lambert looking in awe at the seemingly endless lines of parked Pandas.

    They reached the main entrance and climbed the flight of broad stone steps until a row of wire meshed glass doors confronted him. Lambert pushed the first of these, holding it open for

    Kirby to pass through. They found themselves in a huge reception area with what looked like a gigantic duty desk at one end. Lambert crossed to it and asked the sergeant on duty where he could find Detective Chief Inspector Baron. The sergeant asked who the Inspector was and Lambert produced his own I.D. card to prove his validity. The sergeant nodded and directed the two men to a lift across the entrance way and told them to take it to the fifth floor.

    There was a loud ring as the lift arrived and three uniformed men stepped out, pushing past Lambert and Kirby as if they were in a hurry. The two men stepped into the lift and Lambert jabbed the button marked '5'. There was a humming sound as the lift ascended. It reached five and, with a loud ring, the doors opened. The two men stepped out, feeling the thickness of lush carpet beneath their feet. The corridor was silent, all sounds muffled by the thick cloth on which they walked. At the far end was a desk behind which sat a woman in her thirties. She was reading and, as Lambert drew closer, he could see that the book was called 'Hot Lips.' He suppressed a grin as the woman put the book down and smiled politely up at him.

    'Good morning, sir,' she said.

    'Good morning,' replied Lambert, 'I'd like to see DCI Baron please. My name is Lambert.' He reached for the plastic card again and showed it to her, 'Inspector Lambert.'

    'Just a moment, sir,' she said and flicked a switch on the panel before her. There was a loud buzzing noise and then a metallic voice came through the speaker;

    'Yes.'

    'Carol. There's a…' she hesitated, looking at the name on the card, '… Inspector Tom Lambert out here. He wants to see Mr Baron.'

    'Send him in,' instructed the voice. 'But Mr Baron is busy at the moment, he might have to wait.'

    '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.