If he had been sober, perhaps his reaction would have been different. Perhaps he would have noticed the dog, cowering in one corner, perhaps he would have noticed the deep cold which had filled the room. Perhaps he would even have called the police.
As it was, he reached for the handle, his other hand turning the key in the lock.
The rattling stopped and, through clouded eyes, Gordon Reece saw the handle slowly turn as the door was pushed open. He took a step back, rubbing his eyes, his heart thudding against his ribs.
The door swung back gently on its hinges and the room suddenly became colder.
Reece gasped, not sure whether he was asleep or not. Was he dreaming? Perhaps he was already dead and in hell. His dulled brain had no answer to give him this time.
Standing before him, the dirt of the grave still clogging her empty eye sockets, was his wife.
There was a blur of gold as the labrador bolted through the open door into the night and Gordon opened his mouth, not knowing whether to be sick or scream.
The thing which had once been Emma Reece took a step towards him. Her lips slid back to reveal teeth dripping saliva and Gordon saw the savage wounds on her throat which had killed. her, the deep scratches around her eyes. Eyes? There was nothing there. Just the torn sockets, black and empty as night. But there was something more and now Gordon prayed that his mind was playing tricks on him. For in those twin black voids were two pin pricks of red light. Light that glowed like the fires of hell and, in his last moments, Gordon saw that red light fill her empty eyes.
He had no time to scream before she was upon him.
Lambert looked at his watch and then up at the clock on the police station wall. It was nine fifteen, Sunday morning.
'Shit,' he said, 'might as well get it over with.'
Hayes nodded.
'What's Reece's address?' asked the Inspector.
Hayes flicked through the files and found it. Lambert wrote it down. He looked around the duty room. There were only three constables on duty this morning. Three at the station at any rate. The other seven were out looking for Mackenzie.
'P.C. Walford, you drive me,' Lambert smiled. 'Why the hell should I use my own petrol?'
Walford followed him out into the car park and unlocked one of the four Panda cars which the force possessed. Both men got in and Walford started the engine.
'It's a beautiful day,' Lambert observed as the Panda moved slowly through the streets of Medworth. 'Too nice to be doing this sort of thing.'
Walford smiled. 'Where do you reckon Mackenzie is, guv?'
Lambert shrugged. 'He's probably left the area by now. I mean, looking at it logically, if he was still around here we'd have found him by now.' Walford wasn't convinced. 'There's plenty of places to hide in the hills around town. There's caves that run for miles.'
'Maybe. We'll see what turns up.'
'My Mum's scared about all this, guv.'
'You haven't been talking have you, Walford? I don't want too much of this getting out. In a small town like this panic could spread quickly.' He paused, looking out of the car windows. 'I just wish we could find the bastard before he has the chance to do it again. I'd rather people read about this sort of thing in the paper after we caught him. If there's too much talk before hand, it won't make our job any easier.'
They drove for a little way in silence then Lambert asked, 'You live with your parents then?'
Walford nodded. 'I've been trying to find a place of my own but I can't afford it.'
The Inspector studied his companion's profile for a moment. The lad wasn't much younger than him. He guessed there were three or four years between them.
'I sometimes wonder why I joined the force,' said Walford suddenly, swallowing hard and looking at Lambert as if he had said something he shouldn't. The Inspector was staring straight ahead out of the windscreen. He was silent for a time and the constable wondered if he had heard, then Lambert said:
'It makes me wonder why anyone joins.'
'What about you, sir? Why did you join?' asked Walford, adding quickly, as an afterthought, 'If you don't mind me asking.'
Lambert shook his head. 'Sometimes I wonder. At one time I would have said principles.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'But now, I don't know. I thought at one time that, well, I thought I could better myself. Sounds like bullshit doesn't it?' He glanced across at Walford but the P.C. had his eyes on the road. 'I didn't want to end up like my old man. A nothing for the whole of my fucking life.' His voice had taken on an angry edge. 'This job gave me something I never had before. Self respect. A sense of importance, that what I was doing was making some difference to a tiny part of the world.' He grunted indignantly.
Walford brought the car to a halt.
'That's it, sir,' he said, pointing across the road. Lambert flipped open his notebook and checked the address. He nodded.
The house was the end one of a block of three. Two storey dwellings, the standard, council built red brick structures. Identical to all the other houses in the street. In fact, the same as every one on the remainder of the estate. Lambert noted that the curtains, upstairs and down, were drawn. He inhaled deeply, held the breath then let it drain out slowly.
'You stay here,' he said, opening the door and getting out. Walford watched him as he walked across the street and down the path to the front door of the Reece house.
He knocked twice and waited for an answer.
When none came, he walked around the side of the house. There was a purple painted gate barring his way into the back yard but he found, to his relief, that it was unlocked. Perhaps Mr Reece was in the garden.
As he walked around the back, Lambert could see that the garden was deserted. At the bottom was the shattered remnants of a greenhouse, the wooden frame now bleached and bare like the bones of some prehistoric creature. The garden was badly overgrown. He knocked on the back door loudly and called Reece's name.
There was no answer.
Lambert tried the door and found, to his -joy, that it was open. He stepped into the kitchen, recoiling immediately from the smell. It reminded him of bad eggs. And, Jesus, it was cold. He pulled the back door closed behind him and looked around. Nothing unusual. A dog basket in one corner near the larder. A calendar which was a month behind where someone had forgotten to turn the page. Lambert looked down at the floor. There were scuff marks on the lino. He bent to get a closer look, nothing unusual about them. Traces of dirt around too. He stood up and walked into the living room, which was still in darkness because of the drawn curtains. Lambert noticed the shattered bottle of scotch, the broken glass beside the chair and fragments of it still stained with blood. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and, using his handkerchief, picked up one of the fragments and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, particles of dust swirling around in its beams. But, despite the warmth of the sun, the room still felt like a fridge.
Lambert went out into the hall and called up the stairs.
'Mr Reece?'
Silence greeted him. He hurried up the stairs and checked the two bedrooms and bathroom. All were empty.
From the Panda car, Walford saw him emerge from the house and stride down the path of the house next door. He knocked three times, receiving no answer.
'Where the hell is everybody in this bloody street?' said Lambert under his breath.
The front door of the house beside opened and a woman popped her head out. She was in her forties, her hair in curlers and she reminded Lambert of a hedgehog in a dressing gown.
'Do you know Mr and Mrs Reece?' asked Lambert.
'Why?' asked the woman, suspiciously, retreating further behind the half open door until only her head was sticking out.
'I'm a policeman,' Lambert told her. 'I wanted to talk to Mr Reece but there's no one in. Have you seen or
