A blood splattered leash.
Lambert could hear the persistent ringing and, at first, thought that the noise was in his head. He sighed when it didn't fade and opened his eyes.
The ringing continued.
It was the phone in the hall. He glanced across at the alarm clock on his bedside table and then down at his own watch. No discrepancy between them. It was four-thirty a.m.
He rolled onto his back as the ringing continued, persistent and unceasing. Debbie had one hand across his chest, her fingers nestling softly in the hairs. He smiled and traced a pattern on the back of her hand. She moaned in her sleep and rolled over.
The phone kept ringing.
'Shit,' muttered Lambert and swung himself out of bed, shivering slightly. It was still dark outside and he didn't want to put the bedroom light on for fear of waking Debbie. So he tiptoed across the carpet to the door and, closing it behind him, hurried downstairs to silence the phone.
'Lambert', he said, sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.
'Sir.'
He recognized the voice at the other end as Hayes, equally weary but with an edge to it. 'There's been another one.'
Lambert shook his head, trying to dislodge the last vestiges of sleep which still clouded his brain. 'Another murder?'
'Yes, sir.'
He exhaled deeply, 'Oh God.' A moment's pause. 'Who?'
'We got the name as Emma Reece. Fifty-two years old, lived up the estate near old man Myers' farm.'
'Who found her?'
'Her husband. Apparently she took the dog out for a walk, across some field at the bottom of the road. The dog ran back to the house carrying its own leash. The husband went looking for her and found her lying in the field.'
Lambert yawned and cleared his throat, 'Where's the body now?'
'Doctor Kirby's got it at the morgue,' Hayes told him.
'I'll be right there.' He hung up.
Lambert sat staring down at the dead phone for a second, lost in his own thoughts, then he padded quickly upstairs. Moving as quietly as he could, he pulled his clothes from the wardrobe and crept out again. He dressed in the living room, drinking a cup of black coffee while he did so. Then he found a piece of paper and scribbled a note:
Duty calls, darling.
Love you.
Tom
He propped the note up on the kitchen table and left by the back door.
The drive to the police station took him less than fifteen minutes and, as he parked the car in its usual position, dawn was beginning to claw its way into the sky. The air felt heavy with dew and the smell of cut grass, and Lambert inhaled deeply as he mounted the set of steps which led to the main door.
The small annexe inside the main door was hung with various crime prevention leaflets, some of which were so old they looked like parchment. Lambert smiled to himself. He had almost forgotten what the place looked like. He walked through the double doors which led into the station proper and found Sergeant Hayes propped up behind the desk with a mug of tea in front of him.
'Hello, guy,' he said, smiling.
Lambert smiled back. Just like old times, he thought. He passed his office, a door to his left marked with his name and thought about going in. But he had no reason to, so he lifted the flap of the desk and walked through into the duty room beyond.
It was a large room, its floor covered by a carpet the colour of rotten grapes. There were three or four worn leather armchairs and a couple of hard backed wooden chairs dotted about. The notice board, which covered the entire far wall, was littered with pieces of paper. Duty rosters, areas to be patrolled, who was due for night beat etc. The paraphernalia of normal police work. He recognized P.C. Chris Davies, slumped in one of the chairs and nodded at him. Davies, a big man with ginger hair, raised a hand in acknowledgement and stood up. Lambert waved him back to his seat.
'You were first there?' asked the Inspector.
Davies nodded. 'Whoever it was made a bloody mess of her. I've never seen anything like it.'
The constable looked younger than his forty-three years, but this particular experience had given him the appearance of a man who had been deprived of sleep for a week. He took a sip of his tea, hands still shaking.
Lambert walked out of the room and back to Hayes.
'Where's Kirby?' he asked.
'Downstairs. I don't think he's finished yet.'
Lambert made his way down the corridor which passed his own office, and headed towards a green door marked private. To his left and right were the cells. The green door was the entrance to the police pathology lab and Lambert hesitated before turning the knob.
The smell hit him immediately. The pungent odour of blood and chemicals which always made him heave. He blew out a long breath and descended the five stone steps which led down to the lab itself.
It was, as seemed common to these establishments, green and white in colour, the floor of shiny white ceramic tiles contrasting with the sea green of the walls and ceiling. A bank of fluorescents threw a cold white light across the grisly proceedings below. In the centre of the room was an aluminum table. The work bench, as Kirby liked to call it. There was a body on it, covered at the moment by a thick white piece of rubber sheeting.
The door to the little bathroom at the side opened and Kirby emerged, wiping his hands with a towel. He was chewing something which Lambert took to be a peppermint. The doctor smiled and offered one to Lambert, who declined.
'Finished?' asked the policeman, indicating the corpse.
'I was just about to start,' said Kirby rolling up his sleeves. He crossed to a closet and pulled out a plastic apron which he quickly put on. 'I can tell you without a post mortem that this woman was killed by the same person who killed that little girl and her mother.'
Lambert looked puzzled. 'How, for Christ's sake?'
Kirby pulled back the sheet and Lambert felt his guts turn a somersault.
Emma Reece's eyes had been torn out.
'Jesus,' gasped Lambert, stepping back, unable to look any longer at the mutilated sockets. 'You're sure it's the same killer?'
'The scratches around the cheeks and nose are identical to those on the first two victims. There's no doubt about it. Mackenzie's marks are all over the body.'
The doctor stood beside the corpse, looking at Lambert, whose own gaze was riveted to the deep, savage gashes in the woman's neck.
'How was it done?' he asked.
'He strangled her with barbed wire,' said Kirby flatly.
Lambert pushed past the doctor and pulled the sheet back over the body. 'Forget the autopsy,' he said.
'Are you sure? I mean it's standard procedure…'
'Fuck standard procedure,' snarled Lambert, loudly. He bowed his head and leant back against the table. When he spoke again his tone was more subdued, weary even. 'What's the motive, John?'
'You're the policeman,' said Kirby smiling.
Lambert grinned weakly and nodded. 'No motive. The bastard hasn't even left us a motive.' The inspector walked past Kirby. 'I'll be in the office if you want me,' he said and left.
Kirby took off his apron and hung it up again. He looked at the corpse beneath the sheeting for a second then he crossed to his bench and began writing his own report.