in his ears.
They were advancing towards him, and, as he lost consciousness, he was grateful for one thing.
He would be dead before they reached him.
Lambert stared down at the fried egg on his plate and groaned.
There was a loud crack as the pan spat fat at Debbie who jumped back, brandishing the fish slice at it defiantly. She peered across at her husband who was still considering the egg. He cut into the yolk, watching as it gently spilled its colour onto the plate.
'I don't think I can face this,' he muttered, pushing the plate away from him.
'After three bottles of Beaujolais, three scotches and a brandy, I'm not surprised,' said Debbie, trying to sound stern but fighting to suppress a grin. Her stomach too felt as if it were on a trapeze. As she looked down into the bubbling pan she shook her head and switched off the gas flame beneath it. She had drunk more than usual the night before and she smiled as she remembered how they had tried to undress one another, giggling when they accidentally tore buttons off in their clumsy attempts. They had managed it eventually and slumped into bed, both of them dropping off to sleep before they could even embrace each other.
She crossed the kitchen and sat on Lambert's knee. He put his arm around her waist, drew her to him and kissed her gently on the cheek.
'Did you have a good time last night?' he asked.
She nodded smiling. 'Fantastic.'
He groaned and put a hand to his forehead. 'I wish my brain would stop trying to climb out of my head; it's using a pickaxe to make its escape.' Debbie laughed and hugged him and they sat in silence for a moment. Then Lambert looked up at her. 'You know, last night I managed to forget what's happened over the last month or two. It was as if it never…' He struggled for the words, '… as if it were all unreal.'
She kissed him. 'That's good.'
'Even about Mike,' he elaborated. 'The memory is there, it'll always be there, but not so strong now. I don't want to forget though, Debbie. I won't torture myself with it, but maybe I need that memory.'
She looked at him for a second, puzzled, then said: 'Do you want to drive up there this morning?'
He nodded.
'Mind if I come?'
He pulled her close. 'I think the fresh air will do us more good than this bloody stuff.' He pushed the plate away and imitated the noise of vomiting.
They both laughed.
The watery sun had settled in a cloud streaked sky as Lambert guided the Capri along the roads and twisting lanes which led out of Medworth and up towards the cemetery. Sitting alongside him, Debbie clutched a bunch of roses which she sniffed occasionally, enjoying the sweet odour.
'Who'd live in a city?' said Lambert, looking out over the rolling green hills.
'Someone's got to,' Debbie said.
They drove a little way in silence, windows open, enjoying the sight of the countryside around them. The near naked trees added a contrast to the richness of the grass. Here and there a blaze of colour would erupt in the hedgerows where a clutch of wild flowers grew. Above them, where the hillside sloped up gradually into woodland, birds hovered above the trees and Debbie actually caught sight of a kestrel as it glided about looking for prey. The magnificent bird seemed to be suspended on invisible wire as it swung back and forth before finally disappearing from view.
'Are you going into the station today?' she asked, looking at him.
Lambert shook his head. 'Nothing to go in for. The Mackenzie case is closed. Gordon Reece seems to have cleared out. It's back to the normal routine from now on.' He smiled.
'What about the medallion?'
'I haven't heard anything from Trefoile yet, but I doubt if it'll be important. Mackenzie probably just found it somewhere. Maybe he dug it up in his back garden.' Lambert grinned.
'You know better than that,' she rebuked him, letting one hand stray across his thigh.
He swerved slightly and she jumped.
'See what you do to me,' he said, leering exaggeratedly.
They both laughed as he pulled up across the road from the cemetery gates. Debbie squeezed his hand as they sat for a moment, then they both climbed out.
High up on the hill top, where Two Meadows was situated, the wind seemed to blow stronger, and Debbie brushed her hair from her face as the breeze whipped silken strands across it. She shivered slightly but relaxed as Lambert put his arm around her, and locked together they walked in.
'Father Ridley's usually around at this time,' said Lambert, peering over his shoulder towards the vicarage.
'Perhaps he's in the church,' she offered.
'Maybe he's having a lie-in.'
She punched him playfully on the arm. 'Priests don't lie-in on Sundays, you heathen.'
She reached for his hand and found it, their fingers intertwining. As they walked, Debbie found herself prey to that mixed emotion which comes so frequently in a cemetery. The uneasiness mixed with the feeling of almost idyllic peacefulness.
'It makes you aware of your own mortality,' said Lambert, looking at the rows of graves: the ornate, the unkempt, the well-tended.
Mike's grave.
They stood beside it for a second before Debbie knelt and gently laid the roses on top of the marble slab. Lambert smiled as he watched her do it, drawing her close to him as she stepped back. They stood for long moments beside Mike's grave, gazing down at it, aware only of one another and of the wind rustling in the tree which hung above them. Finally, Lambert, squeezed her gently and said, softly: 'Come on.'
They turned and headed back towards the gravel drive.
As they reached the small kerb which edged the drive, Debbie stopped and pointed to something lying no more than ten feet away from them. It was glinting in the sunlight and that was what had attracted her attention.
She pulled away from Lambert and picked the object up.
It was a crucifix.
'Tom,' she called, 'look at this.'
He joined her and peered at the small silver cross which lay on her palm.
'Somebody must have dropped it,' he said, taking the object from her and holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
He dropped the crucifix into his jacket pocket and looked around, searching the ground for something else.
He found it.
A few yards up the path which ran between two rows of graves lay a pile of clods. Lambert hurried to them and kicked at them with his shoe. Then he noticed the flowers scattered around like shredded confetti and trodden into the mud.
'What the hell is this?' he said under his breath.
He took a step closer to one of the graves, noticing that a marble angel had been smashed from its position at a corner of the plot. There was a dark stain splashed across it which Lambert recognized immediately. He knelt and ran his finger through the stain, sniffing the red liquid on his finger tip.
It was blood.
He noticed more of it splashed up the headstone next to the other grave. He read the name on the headstone.
Peter Brooks.
The earth was piled up around the grave and a hollow had been formed in the centre, as if someone had begun digging and then given up half way.
