'I'm going back, Debbie,' said Lambert, flatly. He reached out and stroked her cheek, noticing the moisture building within her eyes. She gripped his hand and pressed it to her face, kissing it.
'Tom,' she said, a tear running down her cheek, 'I just want you to be all right. This business with Mike, it's torn you apart and now this on top of it. Please, give it a couple more days, they can manage for a couple more days.' Tears were flowing quickly now and he reached out and brushed them aside.
'I'll be all right,' he said. 'They need me. If this bastard did it once, he might do it again. I can't let that happen. I have responsibilities. I'm supposed to be the law here.'
She stood up, suddenly angry, 'Oh, for Christ sake, you-make it sound like a bloody Western. The law. Your responsibilities. You don't have to carry the can for everything, Tom. Not for every bloody cause going. You don't have to feel guilty about all the things you do. You'll be telling me next it was your fault those two people were murdered.' She wiped away the tears, rubbing her eyes when they clouded her vision. 'You know I think you actually enjoy it at times. Being the bloody martyr, shouldering the troubles of the world.'
He watched her, standing before him like some sort of nubile prosecution counsel.
'It's called caring,' he said, softly.
She didn't move, just stood still in the centre of the room shaking gently, tears staining her cheeks. He got up and crossed to her, his arms enfolding her. She tried to push him away at first but, finally, her arms snaked up around his neck and she pulled him closer, tasting the whisky on his breath but not caring. Wanting him near to her, to feel his body next to hers.
They stood there for a long time, locked in passionate embrace, clinging to each other in that twilight room, while outside the dark clouds of night began to invade the sky.
The photo on top of the television smiled back its monochrome smile at Emma Reece. It showed a young couple on their wedding day, the bride resplendent in her white dress (though now looking somewhat sepia tinted because of the age of the photo). The young man was kissing her on the cheek. She looked across at her husband, slumped in the chair, and smiled.
'It's hard to believe that was twenty-five years ago,' she said.
'What's that, love?' he said, his eyes not lifting from the topless girl in the newspaper he held.
'The photo.'
Gordon Reece put down the paper and looked up, also seeing the picture. He smiled. 'God, I was a handsome bugger in those days.'
Emma snorted, 'And still as modest.'
He winked at her, 'If you've got it, flaunt it, that's what I always used to say.'
'You used to say a lot of things,' said Emma, running a hand through her hair. 'Do you think I should have it dyed before Saturday?' she asked.
'What?'
'My hair. Do you think I should have it dyed before the party on Saturday?'
He shook his head. 'Women. Why the hell can't you just grow old gracefully? If you're grey, you're grey. Who cares? You never hear me complaining about the colour of my hair.'
'It's different for men,' she told him. 'Besides, I want to look my best for our Vera. If she's flying all the way from Australia just for our twenty-fifth anniversary, the least I can do is look presentable.'
'She's coming to see you, not your bloody hair.' Emma pulled at the greying strands, watched by her husband who smiled benignly and shook his head. He returned to his paper.
'It'll be marvellous to see her again after all these years,' said Emma, wistfully.
'Yes dear,' answered Gordon, his head still buried in the paper.
'I wonder what the little boys will think of England.'
Gordon looked up and grunted. 'They'll probably wonder why it's so bloody cold all the time.' There was a rustling from behind Emma's chair and their three-year old Labrador bitch, Sherry, emerged wagging her tail frantically. Emma patted the dog and it stretched out in front of the fire. Gordon moved his feet to give the animal more room.
'I think she wants her walk,' said Emma, retrieving the leash from the sideboard. There was a photo of their daughter on it and she paused to study the photo for a moment before handing the leash to Gordon.
'She's all right where she is,' he protested, nudging the dog with his toe. The animal looked round. 'You don't want to go out, do you girl?'
He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to convince the Labrador that he was right.
'She needs it,' persisted Emma.
Gordon grunted and began fitting the leash, glancing up at the clock on the mantlepiece as he did so.
'It's nearly half past ten,' he said.
Emma half smiled, almost knowing what was coming next.
'So?' she said.
'There's a match on after the news. A big game. Arsenal and Liverpool, it's…'
She cut him short. 'Oh all right, I can take a hint.'
Emma went into the hall and pulled down her old navy blue duffle coat and fastened the buttons. She held out her hand for the leash, the dog now excitedly waiting. Gordon winked at her.
'I don't know how I've put up with you for twenty-five years,' she said, trying not to smile. She could hold it back now longer when he blew her a kiss. Laughing, she led the dog out into the hall. Gordon heard her say, 'Back in a bit,' and then the front door slammed shut.
He settled down to watch the game.
As Emma stood on the doorstep, fastening the last toggle of her coat, she shivered. She had not realized just how cold the wind was. Now it lashed her face with icy barbs and felt like a portent of frost or even snow. The sky was clear, the full moon suspended on invisible wires like some huge fluorescent ball. It cast its cold glow over the town, guiding Emma as she walked. The dog tripped along nimbly beside her, its breath forming white clouds in the chill atmosphere.
Lights burned in most front rooms as she walked down the street, and their muffled glow made the night seem a little less forbidding. The estate on which they lived was clean, populated by families well known to one another, and there was a feeling of belonging which Emma had never encountered before. She and Gordon had lived in Medworth for over twenty years, London before that. Both of them found the solitude and peacefulness of country life a positive lift after the hustle and bustle of the capital. Her parents had both come from around this area, so she herself was no stranger to their ways.
She had finished work for good when Vera was born. Gordon had had a good job and his wage was more than enough to keep them comfortably. With their own anniversary due on Saturday, just two days away, things looked rosy. They were only having a small get together, family mainly, and a couple of close friends. But what really made the occasion for Emma was the fact that she would be seeing her daughter again after so long. Suddenly she forgot the cold of the night, instead overcome by that familiar warm glow which comes with expectations.
At the bottom of the street, the road curved sharply away to the right and more houses. Straight ahead lay a large expanse of rough ground and thickly planted trees which locals called The Wasteland. Emma laughed to herself. If old Henry Myers, who owned the land, could hear them, he'd go mad. Myers had a small farm right on the edge of the estate. No livestock, just arable crops like the other small holdings dotted around the outskirts of Medworth. Still, he made a living from it. However, with this particular field, he seemed to have given up. Nothing but stumps of grass and a positive jungle of weeds grew there, the whole thing flanked by a string of cedars. A muddied footpath led to a stile over which one had to climb to get into the field; and it was up this path that Emma led the dog.