were taken.'
'Taken? What do you mean taken?' It sank home. 'Oh God, he didn't cut those out too did he?'
'Well now, that's the whole point. My examination revealed that they were removed without the use of any external implements.'
Lambert's nauseated anger broke forth, 'What the hell are you trying to say? Did he cut out their eyes or didn't he?'
Kirby's voice was low, controlled, 'From the scratches on the cheeks and bridge of the nose, I'd say he tore them out with his bare hands. The fingerprints matched those of Ray Mackenzie.' Lambert tried to write down that last piece of information but, as he pressed down on the paper, the point of his pencil splintered.
'Tom?' Kirby's voice called, 'you still there?'
Lambert exhaled deeply, 'Yes, sorry'.
'Did you get all that?'
'I got it. Put Hayes back on, will you?'
The sergeant's voice replaced that of Kirby, 'Yes sir.'
'Get every available man out looking for Mackenzie. I want that fucking maniac caught before this happens again.' He hesitated a moment then said, 'I'll be in touch. If anything happens in the meantime, let me know.'
He put the phone down. For long moments he stood staring at the pad, the scrawled details of the twin deaths.
Lambert threw the pad down and crossed to the cabinet beside the bay window. He pulled it open and took out a bottle of scotch. He poured indiscriminately, filling the tumbler practically to the brim, then he swallowed half its contents, wincing as the amber liquid burned its way to his stomach. He held the glass, considering it in his hand, then he drained it. Rapidly refilling the crystal tumbler, he wondered how many more of them he'd need before Debbie got home.
She found him sitting in the darkness, only the light from the streetlamp outside illuminating his dark outline. He sat still, the glass still clamped in his hand, staring out of the window, scarcely turning when she entered the room and flicked on the table lamp. The room was suddenly alive with subdued light, changing from the drab place of darkness it had been a second ago into a warm grotto.
He smiled at her.
'Tom, what's the matter?' she asked, crossing to him. Immediately she smelt the drink on his breath.
He lifted the glass in salute and swallowed its contents before setting it down gently on the carpet beside his chair.
'Would you like a drink?' he asked. 'There's plenty more where that came from.'
She took hold of his hand. 'What's wrong?' she repeated.
He looked at her, his smile fading. 'Last night, two people were murdered. A woman and a little girl. Do you know how old that little girl was? Five. Only five years old. They were stabbed and then their eyes were torn out. Bodily.'
Debbie shuddered, 'Oh my God.'
'The crazy bastard who did it is still on the loose.'
They looked at each other, their eyes probing, searching the other's for some sign.
'I'm going back, Debbie,' said Lambert, flatly. He reached out and stroked her cheek, noticing the moisture building within her eyes. She gripped his hand and pressed it to her face, kissing it.
'Tom,' she said, a tear running down her cheek, 'I just want you to be all right. This business with Mike, it's torn you apart and now this on top of it. Please, give it a couple more days, they can manage for a couple more days.' Tears were flowing quickly now and he reached out and brushed them aside.
'I'll be all right,' he said. 'They need me. If this bastard did it once, he might do it again. I can't let that happen. I have responsibilities. I'm supposed to be the law here.'
She stood up, suddenly angry, 'Oh, for Christ sake, you-make it sound like a bloody Western. The law. Your responsibilities. You don't have to carry the can for everything, Tom. Not for every bloody cause going. You don't have to feel guilty about all the things you do. You'll be telling me next it was your fault those two people were murdered.' She wiped away the tears, rubbing her eyes when they clouded her vision. 'You know I think you actually enjoy it at times. Being the bloody martyr, shouldering the troubles of the world.'
He watched her, standing before him like some sort of nubile prosecution counsel.
'It's called caring,' he said, softly.
She didn't move, just stood still in the centre of the room shaking gently, tears staining her cheeks. He got up and crossed to her, his arms enfolding her. She tried to push him away at first but, finally, her arms snaked up around his neck and she pulled him closer, tasting the whisky on his breath but not caring. Wanting him near to her, to feel his body next to hers.
They stood there for a long time, locked in passionate embrace, clinging to each other in that twilight room, while outside the dark clouds of night began to invade the sky.
The photo on top of the television smiled back its monochrome smile at Emma Reece. It showed a young couple on their wedding day, the bride resplendent in her white dress (though now looking somewhat sepia tinted because of the age of the photo). The young man was kissing her on the cheek. She looked across at her husband, slumped in the chair, and smiled.
'It's hard to believe that was twenty-five years ago,' she said.
'What's that, love?' he said, his eyes not lifting from the topless girl in the newspaper he held.
'The photo.'
Gordon Reece put down the paper and looked up, also seeing the picture. He smiled. 'God, I was a handsome bugger in those days.'
Emma snorted, 'And still as modest.'
He winked at her, 'If you've got it, flaunt it, that's what I always used to say.'
'You used to say a lot of things,' said Emma, running a hand through her hair. 'Do you think I should have it dyed before Saturday?' she asked.
'What?'
'My hair. Do you think I should have it dyed before the party on Saturday?'
He shook his head. 'Women. Why the hell can't you just grow old gracefully? If you're grey, you're grey. Who cares? You never hear me complaining about the colour of my hair.'
'It's different for men,' she told him. 'Besides, I want to look my best for our Vera. If she's flying all the way from Australia just for our twenty-fifth anniversary, the least I can do is look presentable.'
'She's coming to see you, not your bloody hair.' Emma pulled at the greying strands, watched by her husband who smiled benignly and shook his head. He returned to his paper.
'It'll be marvellous to see her again after all these years,' said Emma, wistfully.
'Yes dear,' answered Gordon, his head still buried in the paper.
'I wonder what the little boys will think of England.'
Gordon looked up and grunted. 'They'll probably wonder why it's so bloody cold all the time.' There was a rustling from behind Emma's chair and their three-year old Labrador bitch, Sherry, emerged wagging her tail frantically. Emma patted the dog and it stretched out in front of the fire. Gordon moved his feet to give the animal more room.
'I think she wants her walk,' said Emma, retrieving the leash from the sideboard. There was a photo of their daughter on it and she paused to study the photo for a moment before handing the leash to Gordon.
'She's all right where she is,' he protested, nudging the dog with his toe. The animal looked round. 'You don't want to go out, do you girl?'
He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to convince the Labrador that he was right.
'She needs it,' persisted Emma.
Gordon grunted and began fitting the leash, glancing up at the clock on the mantlepiece as he did so.
'It's nearly half past ten,' he said.
Emma half smiled, almost knowing what was coming next.
'So?' she said.
