out after the death of his wife, unable to face the house which held so many memories. The forensic test on the piece of glass he had found showed that the blood was indeed Reece's. The Inspector was considering closing the case.
The only question which still remained unanswered was the origin of the medallion.
He had heard nothing from Trefoile for three days. Once he had considered calling into the shop to see how things were progressing but, what the hell, it couldn't be that important and, with Mackenzie dead, the thing didn't seem to have such importance about it anymore.
Medworth was well and back to normal.
Lambert had given five of his men leave, secure in the knowledge that his remaining constables could cope with the usual catalogue of shopliftings, bike stealings and complaints about dogs pissing on neighbours' lawns.
As he drove home that Saturday night Lambert felt at ease for the first time in months. He and Debbie were driving into Nottingham that night. Dinner at the Savoy (he'd booked the table a week earlier) and then on to a club or a film. He smiled happily as he swung the car into the drive.
Father Clive Ridley put down his pen and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He shook himself and glanced down at the two pages of notes which lay before him. Tomorrow's sermon. He read quickly through the notes and nodded in satisfaction. It was a job he disliked but, obviously, it had to done. Finding a subject to hold the congregation's interest seemed so much harder now. When he had first become a priest at the age of forty-one, twelve years ago, it had all been so simple. Brimming over with enthusiazm, he had relished his sermons, delivering them with an almost theatrical zest. But lately it was becoming a chore. He seemed to be going over the same ground again and again, and it aggravated him as much as it must have bored the listeners. He looked at his notes again. He had chosen the theme of caring for others, something which he himself knew more than enough about. He had nursed his mother through three years of illness. An illness which had eventually taken her two years ago. She had died peacefully during her sleep and for that, Ridley was thankful. She had suffered a great deal until then, and at one time he had found himself questioning the mercy of a God to whom he devoted his life. For a short time he had begun to question not only his own faith but the wisdom of God. The very memory was painful and he felt almost ashamed to think of it. He looked across his study at the large wooden crucifix hanging on the wall and the silver figure of Christ seemed to stare back reproachfully.
Ridley got to his feet and crossed to the study window, looking out into the gathering dusk. The sky was streaked with brilliant brush strokes of crimson and orange. Colours which signalled the death of daylight and the onset of night. From his window he could see across the road to the cemetery and he decided to take a stroll before he cooked dinner. He often walked through the cemetery during the early evening, in summer particularly he enjoyed his little excursions. The singing of the birds in the many trees which dotted the area, the smell of the flowers in the air. But, as he pulled on his heavy coat and stepped out into the chill evening air, he expected no such sensory feast tonight.
He buttoned the coat, having difficulty with the middle two and promising himself that he would do without potatoes when he cooked his meal later on. He was a big man, tall and thick set. Fat perhaps, at first glance, but on closer inspection it was possible to see that it was only his large stomach which pushed him into the category of obesity. His face, dotted with small warts, was round and red-cheeked, giving him a look of perpetual good health. He blew on his hands, becoming aware of just how cold it was getting, and crossed the road from the vicarage to the cemetery gates.
Despite the chill of the air, the night looked hke it would be a still one. The dying sun was sliding from its position in the sky, flooding the heavens with crimson and giving up supremacy to the swiftly gathering blackness. Dusk hung like a blanket over the land, catching it in transition.
A pigeon flew to its nest in the bell tower of the church and Father Ridley watched as it settled on the high sill before disappearing through a gap in the ancient masonry. The weather vane atop the spire twisted gently in the breeze.
He left the gravel drive almost immediately and walked slowly along the muddy footpaths which ran between the rows of graves. Here and there, freshly placed bouquets shone like beacons, their many colours contrasting with the dark earth. Ridley smiled to himself when he saw these, feeling a twinge of sadness when he found plots which bore no flowers or only the dried remains of those left long ago. Perhaps the occupants of the graves had been forgotten. The Reverend sighed. So sad to be forgotten. Death itself was the ultimate horror, but to be forgotten by those who had laid you to rest, that was a tragedy indeed.
He paused at a particularly well kept grave, guarded at all four corners by marble angels whose heads were bent in silent prayer. Engraved on the dark marble slab which covered it were the words:
Ridley smiled weakly and, almost absently, reached for the cross which hung around his neck. He considered it for a second, the tiny figure of Christ seeming to gaze up at him, then he let it slip back into the folds of his clothes.
The breeze had grown stronger now, tugging flowers from their pots and spinning the weather vane atop the spire. The Reverend pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and decided to return to the vicarage. The sun had almost disappeared now, and besides, he was beginning to feel hungry. He walked quickly, heading for the gravel drive which would take him out through the gates of Two Meadows.
He reached the graves of Ray Mackenzie and Peter Brooks and paused. Such a terrible thing, he thought. He himself had conducted the burial services for all five of the people who had died in Medworth recently, including the entire Mackenzie family, Emma Reece, and Peter Brooks. Ridley shook his head. He noticed that the flowers which covered Ray Mackenzie's grave had been disturbed, scattered across the footpath which ran alongside the plot.
The wind had blown them aside probably, he thought as he stooped to gather the blooms. One by one he retrieved the roses and knelt down to replace them in their position just below the small metal marker which was the only sign that the grave was even there. Its freshly dug earth was already covered here and there with tufts of grass. In a week or so it would be covered completely.
Ridley gently laid the blooms on top of the plot.
A hand shot from beneath the dark earth and fastened iron fingers around his wrist.
The Reverend screamed in disbelieving terror.
His eyes bulged and he felt red hot knives of pain stab at his heart. Shaking his head from side to side, he fastened his horrified stare on the earth-covered hand which protruded from the grave, gripping tightly his wrist.
He could not move.
He tried to rise but his legs wouldn't support him, and all the time the grip on his wrist tightened until he was sure it would snap the bone.
The hand thrust forward, followed by more arm.
The grip loosened and Ridley pulled free, his breath coming in gasps, his head spinning, the pain still stabbing through his heart. He backed off, his eyes threatening to pop from the sockets as he watched the movement from beneath the earth of the grave.
The arm seemed to sway in the air for a second, then, the earth slowly rose and, from below, Ridley saw a face.
The face of Ray Mackenzie.
He was grinning, the blazing red eyes fixing the priest in their unholy stare.
Ridley slipped in a patch of mud and staggered back against a stone cross, hanging onto it for support as he watched Mackenzie drag himself from the grave to his full height. He stood there, the dirt and mud caking his clothing, his eyes (if those two virulent blood blisters could be called that) turned on the cowering cleric.
Ridley was panting, the pain in his chest spreading inexorably to his left arm and up into his jaw. White stars danced before his eyes but he held on to consciousness just a little bit longer.
He might have wished he hadn't, for in his last agonized minutes, he saw the ground which covered the grave of Peter Brooks erupt and, a moment later, the intern stood next to Mackenzie.
Through eyes blurred with pain, Ridley saw that Brooks too had no eyes, just the hellish red orbs.
A final wrenching spasm of agony racked his body and he crumpled, the sound of his own breathing rattling
