the drinks and returned to the table.
'Cheers,' he said, downing a large mouthful of scotch.
Kirby returned the compliment and sipped delicately at his half of lager.
'You realize this is unethical,' said the doctor, smiling.
'What?'
'A doctor and a police Inspector drinking on duty.'
Both men laughed.
'Sod the ethics, John,' said Lambert. 'Right now, I need this.' He took another swig and cradled the glass between his hands.
'I wonder what the local paper would make of this?' pondered Kirby.
Lambert grunted. 'They've got enough to keep them going at the moment without wondering whether you and I are drinking.' He paused for a moment. 'Three murders. Jesus. In a town this size.'
'Just be thankful you've got the killer.'
'I am, don't get me wrong. But there're things about this case that don't add up. And more than that, I've got a missing person on my hands too. Gordon Reece has…' struggled for the word, '… disappeared. I went to talk to him about his wife's death this morning and there was no sign of him. The neighbours haven't seen or heard him about since yesterday morning and I found this in the living room of the house.' He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. Unwrapping it carefully he revealed the bloodstained lump of glass.
'Three murders, the victims mutilated, and the husband of the third victim has disappeared without trace. Can you tell me what the hell is going on in this town?' He drained his glass and slammed it down on the table.
'I don't see your problem, Tom,' said Kirby, 'you've got the killer. The missing man probably just left town, couldn't face the questioning or whatever. It's probably quite simple.'
Lambert exhaled deeply, his eyes riveted to the lump of blood-stained glass lying on the table in front of him.
Four fifty P.M. and the purple hues of approaching night were beginning to colour the skies above Medworth. Dusk hovered expectantly, a portent of the dark hours to come. It was the time when working people began to count the minutes to signal the end of the day's labours. A cold breeze had sprung up during late afternoon and there was a promise of frost for the coming night.
Tom Lambert shivered a little in his office and stared down at the solid gold medallion lying on his blotter. He prodded it with the end of a pencil, reading over and over again the strange inscription on it and around its edges. He had scribbled the words down on the edge of his blotter and he determined to look up their meanings when he got home. Debbie might even know. She knew a little Latin. He looked at the pencilled words:
MORTIS DIEI
Below it, the symbols which ran around the edging of the medallion:
UTCON (scratch mark)
XER (scratch)
ERATICXE (two scratches)
SIUTROM (scratch) A.
Lambert shook his head. The second set of words didn't even look like Latin.
He'd found the medallion quite by accident that afternoon. Returning from the pub about one, he had gone to deposit the chunk of blood stained glass from Reece's house in the safe where items of evidence were kept. He'd noticed the jewel box which had belonged to June Mackenzie and asked Hayes what it was. The sergeant had explained how they had found the box in the bedroom of the first victim and, upon opening it, Lambert had discovered the medallion.
Now he sat with it before him, wondering how on earth a man like Mackenzie had come to possess an object so obviously valuable. The policeman couldn't begin to guess at the age of the thing but, from the weighty of it and the thickness of the chain which supported it, he could at least ponder over its value. It was as he looked closely at it that he noticed the gossamerlike strands clinging to the links of the chain. He bent closer and pulled one free. It felt coarse as he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. There was more attached to the other links and something else.
It looked like dried mud.
Lambert exhaled deeply. Perhaps a forensic test would establish exactly where the gold circlet had originated. He pulled a few of the coarse strands free and scraped some mud away with the tip of his pen knife. Then he reached into his desk drawer and took out a tiny plastic bag. Into this, he carefully pushed the fibres and mud. He sealed it with a piece of cellotape and left it on his desk, reminding himself to ring Kirby before he went home, perhaps even run the stuff around to the doctor himself.
Once more he looked down at the medallion, the inscriptions causing his forehead to crease as he tried to make sense of them.
MORTIS DIEI
The words had been engraved across the centre of the circlet but the other inscription…
Running around the outside of the medallion, he wasn't sure where the words began and where they ended. He determined to take it home that night, let Debbie take a look at it. The thought of her made him look up at the clock. He smiled when he saw the time and realized that he would set off soon. He was looking forward to getting home. It had been a long day. Every day seemed to be a long one just lately and he told himself it was just a matter of getting back into the swing of things. There was nodiing more he could do at the station that night. Mackenzie was still flat out in his cell, tied securely by the ropes. Davies was outside the cell just in case there was any sign of movement from him. The constable had orders to contact Dr Kirby immediately if there was any change.
Lambert pulled another plastic bag from his drawer and slid the medallion into it, then he popped the little package into the pocket of his jacket.
He got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office. Night had descended now, casting its black shadow over the land. Lambert could see the lights of houses in the town twinkling like a thousand stars. The police station was about a mile out of town, built on a hillside which looked over Medworth like a guardian. Far below him, the town lay spread.
Lambert yawned.
The door of his office flew open, slammed against the wall and rocked on its hinges, the impact nearly breaking the frosted glass in it.
Davies stood there panting. 'It's Mackenzie, sir, he's going crazy.'
Lambert dashed past the constable, heading for the cell, aware now of the noise coming from the end of the corridor. Hayes emerged from the duty room and joined the other two men as they reached the cell door. Lambert eased back the sliding flap of the peephole and drew in a quick breath.
Mackenzie had broken his bonds and was throwing himself against the walls frenziedly, every now and then turning towards the open peephole and fixing Lambert in a stare from those blazing red eyes. The Inspector felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. Then Mackenzie spun around and hurled himself at the small window at the far end of the celi. It was about half way up the wall. No more than a foot square, it was set at a height which would have made a man of average size stretch to reach it. Wire mesh covered the bars which firmly blocked the narrow opening.
As Lambert watched, Mackenzie leapt at the window, tearing away the wire mesh as if it had been fish netting. Then he fastened his powerful hands around the bars and pulled, roaring in frustration when they wouldn't budge. The darkness outside called him and he would stop at nothing to reach it. Realizing that he could not move the bars, he turned his attention to the cell door. He slammed into it, pressing his face to the peephole and for a split second Lambert found himself staring into those empty crimson eyes. There was nothing there. No emotion registered in them. Nothing. Just the glazed red of two enormous blood blisters. The rage and hatred was registered on Mackenzie's face, the lips drawn back to reveal the yellowed teeth, saliva spattering the room as he spun about in a frenzy.
'How long has he been like this?' Lambert asked Davies, who was white with fear and thankful that a twelve inch thick steel door separated him from the maniac inside.
