Death Day

wants to see Mr Baron.'

    'Send him in,' instructed the voice. 'But Mr Baron is busy at the moment, he might have to wait.'

    'That's O.K.,' said the Inspector.

    The receptionist showed them a door off to the right and the two men nodded as they walked in.

    'It's more like a bloody hotel,' said Lambert under his breath, walking into another office. It was decorated in a lemon yellow, the walls hung with a number of paintings. The area to their left was one huge plate glass window through which the early morning sun was streaming, dust particles swirling in its powerful rays. There were five leather chairs along the opposite wall and an ashtray beside each one. At the far end of the room was a desk and, on either side of the desk, a door. As Lambert approached the desk he could see the two names, which were fastened to the dark wood of the doors, in gold letters. The name on the right hand door was Chief Inspector Mark Dayton. The one on the left read Detective Chief Inspector James Baron.

    'Inspector Lambert?' said the receptionist, a woman with a round face and large glasses.

    Lambert nodded.

    'You'll have to wait, I'm afraid. Mr Baron is busy at the moment.'

    'How long will he be?'

    The woman smiled, an efficient smile practised over the years. 'I can't say for sure, but if you'd like to take a seat I'll send you in as soon as I can.' She motioned to the leather chairs and the two men sat down. The wall clock said nine forty-five. Lambert lit up his first cigarette of the day.

* * *

    The hands of the clock had crawled on to ten thirty and there were seven butts in the ashtray before Lambert when the buzzer finally sounded and a little red light flared on the panel before the receptionist. She leant forward and spoke into the intercom.

    'Yes, sir,' she said.

    Lambert heard something babbled but couldn't understand what it was. He gritted his teeth and exhaled deeply. If there was one thing he hated, it was being kept waiting. He ground out his cigarette angrily and looked across at the receptionist who still wore that perpetual grin.

    'There are two gentlemen to see you, sir. An Inspector Lambert and…' she looked up, realizing that she didn't know the other man's name.

    'Dr Kirby,' he said.

    'Dr Kirby,' she repeated.

    There were more metallic babblings from the other end and then she nodded and flicked the switch back to 'Off.'

    'You can go in,' she said.

    'Three bloody cheers,' muttered Lambert. He knocked once and a voice from inside told him to come in. The two men entered the office. It was small, not the grandiose abode which the Inspector had imagined. There were several banks of filing cabinets, a rubber plant on one window sill, and of all things, a tropical fish tank set on a table beside one wall. Baron himself was bending over the tank when the two men entered. He looked up and smiled, extending a friendly hand which they both shook.

    'Fascinating things, fish,' said Baron, cheerfully and sat down behind his desk. He pointed to two plastic chairs upon which his visitors seated themselves. So, thought Lambert, this is the great James Baron? The man who had solved more murder cases in this area than he'd had hot dinners? Baron's reputation was a formidable one and well known to all those under him. He'd been a colonel in the Chindits during the war and still bore a scar, running from the corner of his left eye to his left ear, as a legacy of those days. Two broken marriages and countless affairs had charted his rise to the very top of his profession, a position which he intended holding until he retired. Another eight years. There was, Lambert had been told by men who had worked directly under Baron, a feeling of ambivalence towards the man. On the one hand he was respected for his abilities as a policeman, but on the other hand he was hated for his hardhearted cynicism, the latter being something that Lambert was all too aware of as he tried to figure out what he was going to say to his superior. Baron was not a favourite with the media either. His policy of releasing only tiny pieces of information had led to him being regarded as uncooperative and rude. That at least, was something Lambert could respect about him. Baron had been in the force for nearly thirty years and had held the rank of D.C.I. for fifteen of those. During his term in command, the force in that area had undergone a radical change, dealing with troublemakers in a tougher way which had many crying police brutality. But Baron cared nothing for the reactions of the press and television. As far as he was concerned he was there to do a job and he would do it as he thought best and the way he could best achieve results.

    Now, as he sat back in his seat, Lambert studied this powerful man. Well preserved for his age and, considering the responsibilities which he carried, remarkably untouched by the rigours of worry. No wrinkles or grey hairs here. Just the slightest hint of a paunch, visible as it strained against the tightly buttoned waistcoat which he wore. His jacket was hung up behind the door along with his overcoat. Neat.

    Baron looked at Lambert and smiled.

    'Inspector Lambert, eh?' he said, his voice gravelly.

    'Yes sir.'

    'You're a young man to hold such a responsible position. You must be good at your job.' He smiled warmly. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

    'Yes, please,' said Kirby and Lambert too, agreed.

    Baron flicked a switch on his intercom and spoke rapidly into it, telling his secretary to fetch three coffees. He sat back in his chair once more, hands clasped across his broad chest.

    'Which area are you from?' Baron asked.

    'Well, we're based in Medworth, but we cover most of the area round about,' Lambert explained.

    'How many men are under you?'

    'Ten.'

    Baron nodded.

    'Married?' he asked.

    Christ, thought Lambert, it's like a bloody interview.

    'Yes, sir.'

    'And you doctor?' Baron wanted to know.

    Kirby shook his head. 'No, I'm still a free agent.'

    'And quite right too,' said Baron laughing. 'They're more trouble than they're worth, women.'

    The other two men laughed nervously. There was a knock on the door and the coffee arrived. Carol set it down on the edge of the desk and left. The three men helped themselves to milk and sugar and Baron sat back in his chair, stirring slowly.

    'Well, Inspector, what exactly can I do for you?' said the older man. 'It must be important for you to come all this way.'

    Lambert and Kirby exchanged brief glances and the Inspector coughed nervously. He put his coffee cup on the corner of the desk.

    'I need your help, sir,' he said. 'I need some of your men.'

    Baron took a sip of his coffee and regarded Lambert over the rim of the cup.

    'Why?' he wanted to know.

    Lambert opened the attache case and fumbled inside until he found what he was looking for. It was a photograph of the body of Father Ridley, hanging from the bell rope. Baron took it and studied the monochrome print, his eyes coming to rest on the damage done to Ridley's face. He nodded gently, looking at the second photo which Lambert handed him. It was of Emma Reece.

    'Both the work of the same person?' mused Baron, his gaze settling on the torn eye sockets of both victims.

    Kirby reached for two of the manila files in the case with Lambert watching him anxiously. 'The marks on the bodies of the first victims match those on the bodies of the latest ones,' said the doctor, pushing the files towards Baron.

    The D.C.I. peered briefly at the files, shaking his head.