'They probably just overslept.'
He tried to roll over again but she pulled him back, 'Jack, for Christ sake, the front door is open.'
'So what?' He was losing control of his temper.
'There might be something wrong,' she persisted.
He snorted, 'Like what?'
'You never know, you read of all sorts of things happening these days, they might all be dead. Burglars or something.'
He waved her away, 'You're going to
'Then I'm going to phone the police,' she told him, heading for the landing.
He swung himself out of bed and caught her at the bedroom door. She could see that he was angry. 'All right, I'll go and look.' He pulled on his dressing gown and stormed off down the stairs.
'You're not going like that?' she asked.
He turned as he reached the front door, 'Why not? They're going to think I'm off my bloody head when I walk in there and they're all tucked up in bed anyway. I might as well look the part.' Muttering to himself, he headed out into the street.
Ronnie and Carol saw him coming and started to laugh.
'You can shut up too,' he said and headed down the path towards the Mackenzie house.
Maureen ran after him and he paused at the door, still open. 'You'd better wait here,' he said, sarcastically. 'I mean, if they have all been butchered, the killer might still be around.' He shook his head and banged on the open door.
'Ray,' he shouted.
The house greeted him with silence.
Mrs Baldwin from across the road passed by, giving Jack Bayliss a funny look. She turned her nose up and walked on. He bowed mockingly and the old lady hurried past. Ronnie and Carol laughed again.
Jack took a step inside and shouted once more. There was no answer, no sound of movement. Nothing. The hall door to his left was closed, the staircase straight ahead of him. The curtains at the top of the landing were drawn, plunging the house into a kind of murky twilight. He walked into the hall and pushed open the door. Christ, it was dark in there. He swallowed hard, squinting into the gloom, and called again.
Silence.
He took a step into the room, casting a furtive glance around. Jack could feel the tension building within him as he padded towards the closed kitchen door and, he almost hit the roof when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Scarcely stifling a yell he turned to find Maureen standing there.
'Did you have to do that?' he panted, his heart thudding against his ribs.
'I told you there was something wrong,' she persisted.
He peered into the kitchen and found nothing, discovering his scepticism rapidly draining away. His tone, when he spoke again, had lost its flippancy.
'I'm going to look upstairs,' he told her. 'You wait in the hall.'
As he ascended the stairs he looked around. Nothing had been disturbed; whatever had happened it hadn't been a visitation by burglars.
He reached the landing and looked around. There were four doors facing him, set in a kind of L shape. He leant over the banister and saw Maureen looking up at him. Angry with himself for allowing the atmosphere to affect him, he opened the door nearest to him and looked in.
A child's room, he realized from the scattering of toys on the floor and the flowered bedspread. No sign of anyone. He closed that door and moved to the second. It was an airing cupboard. He tutted and was about to open the third door when something caught his eye.
It was lying outside the door of the fourth room, which was, itself, slightly ajar. He crossed cautiously to the discarded object and picked it up. It was a toy, a stuffed animal. Of course, Carol had one. It was Snoopy.
He dropped it when he noticed the blood which covered its floppy head.
His eyes suddenly darted round the darkened landing, flitting from door to door. Fear and anger vied for control of his emotions. He slowly pushed open the door to the fourth room.
From her position in the hall, Maureen Bayliss heard her husband scream. A sound which was rapidly choked away as he vomited.
She called his name and raced up the stairs taking them two at a time. As she reached the landing, he staggered drunkenly from the room, waving her back. His face was the colour of cream cheese and thick mucous was dribbling down his chin.
'Jack,' she said, terrified.
'Call the police,' he gasped, struggling for breath.
'What is it?'
'Do it,' he roared at her, dropping to his knees, his entire body shaking. He tried to control his heaving stomach but, as the door swung back gently on its hinges once more, he couldn't. For although he had his back to the horror he had discovered, the thought alone was enough to make him throw up again. He reached back and slammed the door shut, listening as his wife dialled 999 and babbled out her message. He heard her put the receiver down and then he fainted.
Sergeant Vic Hayes stood in the bathroom of the Mackenzie house and drank down another tumbler full of water. He stood against the sink for a moment, regaining his composure, then, taking one last mouthful of water, he walked back into the bedroom.
At fifty-two, and with more than thirty years experience on the force, he had seen some sights. Road accidents, industrial accidents, baby batterings. But never anything like this and in Medworth, of all places. He'd been a sergeant here for more than fifteen years and there hadn't been anything worse than a bad case of G.B.H. in all that time. The offender was doing five to ten in Strangeways; Hayes had given evidence at the trial. The man had attacked his girlfriend's father with a spanner. Made a right mess of his face too.
But never anything like this today.
He entered the bedroom and saw Doctor John Kirby leaning over the first of the bodies, just as he had been doing when Hayes had left the room. Hayes didn't care for Kirby much. He was good at his job, but a bit of an arrogant little bastard. He'd come straight from medical school to his position as Medworth G.P. and he also doubled as Police doctor. Not that his services had been needed until now.
Two ambulancemen stood by the door with a stretcher, their eyes looking at the floor. In fact, looking at anything other than at what Kirby had at his feet.
Hayes took a deep breath and leaned over him.
'Whoever did this was a very strong man,' said Kirby, matter of factly. 'It's difficult to tell of course without an autopsy, but, I'd say these cuts are nine or ten inches deep.' He pointed to the throat. 'This particular blow practically severed the head.'
'And the little girl?' asked Hayes, not daring to look behind him. Lying beside the open door was the body of Michelle Mackenzie, her tiny form disfigured by a dozen wounds.
Kirby nodded. 'The injuries are the same, so is the disfigurement.' He stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Strange.'
Hayes nodded. He knew of which 'disfigurement' Kirby spoke and it was that final touch of horror which had forced him out of the room when he had first seen the two bodies.
Both had had their eyes torn out.
'As I said before,' said Kirby, 'without an autopsy it's difficult to give precise details, but from the scratch marks on both of their faces and…'
Hayes cut him short, 'All right, doc. I'll wait for the reports.' He walked out, leaving the ambulancemen to load the bodies onto their stretchers. Kirby followed them out. Hayes watched him leave. He stood on the deserted landing for a moment then wearily made his way down to the living room. Through the open front door he saw the two bodies loaded into the ambulance which, after Kirby had climbed into the back, drove off. Hayes took off his cap and flopped into one of the arm chairs. Where was Ray Mackenzie? Could the husband be the killer?
