'But they didn't,' said Kirby, trying to inject a note of reassurance into his voice.
'They were like animals. They would have killed her.' His voice broke and he lowered his head, his tone flat, dropping almost to a whisper, 'If I hadn't have gone back to the house, if…'
Kirby saw a single tear plop onto the table and, when Lambert looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed, big salt tears pouring down his cheeks. The Inspector clasped his fingers, propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.
'I'm sorry,' he said, softly, wiping his face.
'Drink your coffee,' said Kirby, smiling.
Lambert managed to smile back. He coughed, shook himself, blew out a harsh lungful of air. He raised a hand to signal that he was O.K., nodding to himself as if to reinforce the idea.
'What's your next move?' asked Kirby.
'Find them. Find out where they hole up during the day. Find them and kill them.' He finished his coffee. He got to his feet, a new purpose about him, the old strength returning.
'If my theory is right,' he said, 'then they're all in the same place. They seem to function in groups, so it's only logical to assume they sleep in groups too. It's just a matter of finding the right place.'
He went through into the surgery and woke Jenkins. In minutes he was on his feet and the two of them were ready to leave. They paused in the doorway.
'How long before she wakes up?' asked Lambert.
Kirby shrugged, 'It's hard to say, four, five hours perhaps longer.'
'Let me know as soon as she does; it's important.'
Jenkins walked out to the waiting Panda, the blood on it now dried to a dull rust colour, and slid behind the wheel. Lambert paused and extended a hand which Kirby shook warmly.
'Thanks, John,' said the Inspector and he was gone, walking across to the car. Jenkins started the engine and Kirby watched as they disappeared from view down a sharp dip in the road. He went back indoors and poured himself another cup of coffee.
P.C. Bell was distributing cups of tea when Lambert and Jenkins entered the duty room. Mumbled greetings were exchanged and Lambert slumped down into a chair, dropping the shotgun down beside him. The other men looked pale but none looked as downright shagged out as he did. He later learned that they had taken it in turns to sleep as they cruised around. Two men in the front keeping watch while the third snatched a few hours in the back seat.
'We lost Briggs,' said Lambert flatly, taking the cup of steaming tea which Bell offered him.
'How?' Hayes wanted to know.
Lambert shrugged, 'I don't know.' He paused.
'My house was attacked last night; they nearly killed my wife.'
'Jesus,' murmured Walford.
'There were about a half a dozen of them. Ray Mackenzie was one.'
A chorus of sighs ran around the room. Lambert continued. 'That medallion that we found at his place in the very beginning, my wife was trying to make out the inscription on it. I think she succeeded. Mackenzie stole it, he got away before we realized what was happening.' He finished his tea and stood up, crossing to the end of the room. The men's eyes followed his progress. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat, no inflection at all.
'We've got to find them,' he began, 'and we've got to do it before nightfall. Now that means searching every empty house, every cellar, every shop, every attic; anywhere where they could hide. Now, if you do find one of them I don't want any heroics. Get help, as much as you need and let's wipe the bastards out.' His face was set in deep lines as he spoke. 'Let's just pray that I'm right and that they're all in one place because that'll make our job much easier. Now, to date, there's upwards of ninety people missing. I want them all.' There were a vehemence in his last words which made one or two of the men sit up. 'Every last one of the fucking things has got to be found and destroyed. Understand?'
Nods and murmurs.
'Any questions?'
There were none.
'Right. Work in twos. I'll take my own car, and like before, keep in contact at all times.' Lambert made a mental note to pick up a walkie-talkie on the way out. He looked at his watch…
'It's five-twenty now. That gives us eleven hours of daylight.'
He mentioned something briefly about checking their weapons to make sure they had enough ammo. Hayes told him that it had already been taken care of. Lambert nodded. He picked up the shotgun and worked the pump action then, checking that this time the magazine was full, he slid the Browning from its holster and pulled the slide back and cocked it. The metallic click was amplified by the silence in the room. He stood before the men, grim determination etched on his face.
'Let's go.'
In the boot of Puma Three the thing that had once been Gary Briggs lay in torpor, hidden from the painful rays of the sun. It lay still.
Waiting for the night.
Jenkins brought the Panda to a halt on the dirt track which ran alongside the hedge flanking the garden. The house, invisible behind the tall hedge, belonged to Nigel Moore, Medworth's most prosperous farmer. As Hayes stepped from the car he could see the gleaming metal towers of the pasteurization plant further back.
The farm was large. The house itself formed the apex of a triangle which was made up by a configuration of sheds and outbuildings at one corner and the actual pasteurization plant at the other. The area between the three buildings was part concrete (near to the house) and mud which was thick and clung defiantly to the sergeant's boots as he walked.
He could see cattle and the occasional horse moving lethargically about in the fields beyond. Hayes took a deep breath, enjoying the purity of the early morning air even though it was tinged with the pungent smell of manure. He didn't seem to care.
Jenkins flicked off the engine of Puma One and climbed out, carrying his shotgun at his side.
'You wait here,' said Hayes when they reached the rusty iron gate which opened into the farm yard. 'That way, you'll be able to cover me and hear the radio if anyone calls.'
Jenkins nodded, watching as the sergeant strode towards the house, avoiding the worst patches of mud. The constable glanced around him. There were plenty of places out here for the things to hide. He shuddered and looked up at the sun, finding reassurance in its growing heat. The sky was cloudless, a deep blue which promised a beautiful day.
Hayes reached the concrete path which ran up to the front door of the farmhouse and he scraped his boots clean of mud before proceeding. The house itself was traditional in appearance, whitewashed, low roofed and covered with climbing ivy. There was a low wooden porch over the doorstep and the sergeant had to duck to avoid banging his head on it. He rapped three times and waited.
There was no answer.
He turned and shrugged at Jenkins who felt his own heart quicken. He gripped his shotgun tighter, his eyes scanning the empty yard furtively.
Hayes sighed wearily and knocked again. Receiving no answer this time, he took the narrow path to the back of the house. The sergeant took time to admire Moore's sizeable vegetable patch before knocking on the back door. After a few seconds he heard bolts being slid back and then the door swung open.
He found himself looking down the twin barrels of a shotgun.
'Morning, Nigel,' said Hayes, grinning and pushing the gun to one side.
Moore shrugged. 'Hello Vic.' He looked down at the shotgun. 'Well, you can't be too careful these days, can you?'
Hayes didn't answer, just looked around the kitchen and asked, 'Have you seen anything suspicious around here lately?'
'Any of those things you mean?' said Moore, his round red face lighting up excitedly.
