'Find anything?' he asked, wiping his forehead.
P.C. Gary Briggs nodded and lifted a plastic bag from the coffee table. It contained the jewel box which had belonged to June Mackenzie. Hayes took the box out and opened it.
'We found it upstairs,' Briggs told him, 'under a pillow on the bed.'
Hayes looked into the box and saw the medallion. He studied it a moment then looked up at Briggs. The youngster shrugged. 'It's bloody old, whatever it is.'
Hayes handed it back. 'Take it down to the station. Lock it in the safe.'
Briggs nodded and dropped the medallion back into the jewel box.
'Did anyone talk to the woman who reported this?' asked the sergeant.
'Tony did,' answered Briggs, nodding out of the window, indicating P.C. Walford standing outside the front gate talking to a group of people who were trying to see into the Mackenzie house. 'Her husband found the bodies. She reported it straight away.'
'Poor bastard,' said Hayes, quietly, 'it must have been quite a shock for him.'
Hayes struggled to his feet, feeling more aware of his ample stomach than usual, and replaced his cap on his balding head.
'What do you want us to do, Sarge?' asked Briggs.
'Just keep this quiet. I don't want word getting about, understand? This is a nice town. The people aren't ready for this sort of thing. If any reporters turn up, tell them to fuck off.' He paused as he reached the door. 'I'm going back to the station, I'm going to get in touch with Inspector Lambert. I think we need him on this one.'
He walked out into the fresh morning air and inhaled deeply, allowing the crisp wind to wash the stench of blood and death from his nostrils.
He nodded to Walford as he passed, on his way to the Panda car parked across the street. Hayes slid behind the wheel and started the engine, picking up the car's two-way radio as he guided it out into the street. He flicked on the transmitter and spoke through the crackle of static, 'Puma One to base.'
The static crackled more fiercely.
'Puma One to base, move your self, Davies.' There was a buzz as he flicked to receive and a metallic voice came through, 'Sorry, Sarge, the kettle was boiling, I had to turn it off.'
'Well, put mine out, I'll be back in two minutes and Davies, remember, one sugar, I'm trying to slim. Over.'
'About time, Sarge.' A giggle. 'Over'.
'Fuck off. Over and out.'
Lambert heard the phone ringing as he stepped out of the Capri. He hurriedly locked the door and sped towards the house, wondering who was calling and hoping they wouldn't ring off before he got to the phone. He fumbled out his front door key and dashed in, snatching up the receiver in the nick of time.
'Hello,' he said, breathlessly.
'Hello, sir.'
Lambert recognized the voice immediately as Hayes. 'Sergeant. What can I do for you?'
'I've rung twice before, I didn't think you were there.'
'I was at the…' Lambert's voice trailed off and Hayes realized that his superior had been to the cemetery. 'What's so important Sergeant?'
'Well, sir, you asked me to tell you if anything happened.'
'Yes.' Lambert suddenly felt excited.
'I'm afraid we've had a double murder.'
'Where, for Christ's sake?'
'Elm Street. Number…' Lambert heard the rustling of papers at the other end of the line, then Hayes came back on, 'number twelve. The wife and daughter. The husband is missing. We're treating the husband as prime suspect.'
'What do you make of it?' asked Lambert, scribbling something down on the pad beside his telephone.
'Knifings sir, both of them.'
'Got the weapon?'
'Not yet.'
'What're the names of the victims?'
'Mackenzie. June, that was the wife, and Michelle, the little girl, aged about five we think.'
Lambert wrote the details down on the pad,
the receiver cradled between his shoulder and his ear.
'Do you need me down there?' he asked hopefully.
'Not at the moment, sir. I've got some men out looking for the suspect and Doctor Kirby is doing autopsies on the victims this afternoon.'
'Ring me back the moment you get the results of those,' Lambert told him, 'or if anyone sees this Mackenzie, right?' He hung up, a sudden surge of adrenalin firing his body. He had forgotten about Mike for a moment, had managed to push that thought to the back of his mind. He had his work again. Now nothing would stop him from returning. He sat down, his thoughts jumbled, and read what he had written on the pad.
The phone rang again at four twenty-three that afternoon. The policeman snatched it up. 'Lambert,' he said.
'Hayes here, sir. We've got the results of the autopsy.'
'Go on,' said Lambert, suddenly realizing that he hadn't got a pad or pen. 'Hold it a minute,' he said, retrieving them from the coffee table. 'Right, fire away.'
'Dr Kirby's here, if you want to speak to him, sir,' Hayes told him.
'Put him on,' instructed Lambert, hearing the murmurings at the other end of the line. A second later, he recognized Kirby's voice. They exchanged pleasantries, then Lambert said, 'What's the verdict, John? And keep it simple, please.'
'Messy ones, Tom, both of them. I found traces of skin under the fingernails of the woman. I would think your suspect is probably walking around with some pretty hefty scratch marks on his cheek. What order do you want them in?'
Lambert was puzzled, 'What do you mean?'
'The mother or the girl first?' Kirby told him.
'It doesn't matter,' said Lambert, impatiently. There was a pause at the other end and the policeman could hear the sound of papers being rustled, then Kirby again. 'The little girl. I found six separate wounds, mostly around the upper body and neck. The deepest was eight inches, the fatal wound probably, situated just below the larynx. If it's any consolation, I think she was dead before he cut her badly.'
Lambert scribbled details, 'And the woman?'
'Twenty-three separate wounds.'
'Shit,' murmured Lambert, still writing. Kirby continued, 'Mostly in the abdomen, chest and neck as before. The weapon was double-edged, jagged and tapering, which would explain the width as well as the depth of the wounds.'
'What do you think? Butcher's knife, something like that?'
'No. I know what it was, I've got it in my office right now. It was a piece of glass, or mirror to be more precise and the reason your boys couldn't find any murder weapon was because it was still embedded in June Mackenzie's body. I took a piece of mirror nearly fifteen inches long from behind the rib cage. It had been driven in from above, just behind the right clavicle, collar bone to you, and it had punctured the heart. I'd say that was the death wound.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Lambert.
'One more thing Tom,' added Kirby, as if the catalogue of atrocity hadn't quite been enough, 'the eyes
