'What people?' Lambert wanted to know.
'Come on, Tom, it's a big talking point in the town. After all, it's the most exciting thing that's happened here for years.'
'I'd hardly call five murders and twelve disappearances excitement, would you?' He sighed. 'Christ, if they knew the truth they'd shut up.'
He flicked on the television and watched the news. The same old stuff. Strikes, Government upsets, the usual batch of robberies and murders. He picked up the local newspaper and read the column again, wondering if Detective Chief Inspector James Baron had seen it. If he had, it would be odds on he'd be on Lambert's back the following day wanting to know what was happening. The Inspector dropped the paper again. How the hell was he supposed to explain if Baron did call?
Debbie's shout to tell him that dinner was on the table interrupted his chain of thought and he trudged out into the kitchen and sat down. He ate in silence for a time with Debbie watching him.
'I had a lovely day, thank you dear,' she said, sarcastically. 'Oh did you, dear, fine.'
Lambert looked up and smiled. 'Sorry.'
'Welcome back to planet Earth,' said Debbie, softly.
'I was thinking,' he said.
'You always are.'
'I mean, what do you call this? This state that Mackenzie and Brooks are in? How do you rationalize what Kirby and I saw the other night?'
'You can't rationalize it, Tom. It happened, that's all there is to it.'
'But, Mackenzie. I mean to say, it's not life after death in the sense we know it. It's living death. He's dead but he's walking around.' Lambert began to laugh, quietly at first and then more heartily. Debbie swallowed hard as she watched him. He smiled and shook his head, the spasm subsiding.
'I think I'm going insane,' he said, looking at her. 'None of this can be happening. Things like this only happen in bad horror films.' His tone darkened once more. 'And yet I saw Emma Reece get up out of that coffin. I saw her attack Kirby, I felt her strength. I saw that, Debbie. My eyes saw something which my mind can't accept. I saw a dead man walk.' He pushed his plate away from him and rested his head on his hands which he had clasped before him.
'Do you think I'm insane?' he asked.
She shook her head.
'What's happening now, it goes against everything I've ever believed in. Right from the start of your training, they teach you to keep an open mind about things. Never make hasty decisions. Always weigh up all the evidence before making your judgement.' He smiled humourlessly. 'The trouble is, I've made up my mind. All the evidence points to something which, by all the laws of nature, is impossible. The dead are coming back to life.' He paused. 'All those who are victims, in turn, become living dead themselves. Even Brooks, Mackenzie killed him in the fall.'
'But what about the first two victims,' asked Debbie, 'and Father Ridley?'
'June and Michelle Mackenzie were cremated. Ridley died of a heart attack. He wasn't actually killed by the living dead. It's only those who are murdered by them that return.'
'Like vampires,' said Debbie, flatly. 'Their victims always become like them.'
Lambert shook his head. 'This is different. There's a pattern, a reason for it. It's almost as if there's a force behind it. Something more powerful than the creatures themselves. Something… something that's guiding them.' He rubbed his chin. 'There's a key somewhere, Debbie, a key that will give us the answer. It's just a matter of finding it. I hope to God I can find it in time.'
The phone rang. Debbie got up but Lambert waved her back.
'I'll get it,' he said.
He walked wearily into the living room and picked up the receiver.
'Hello.'
The line was crackly, thick with static and he repeated himself.
'Inspector?' he heard through the hissing. 'It's Trefoile.'
Lambert perked up. 'What have you got?'
'It might be easier if you come to the shop,' said the antique dealer, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of static. 'I was right about…'
The phone went dead.
'Trefoile!' Lambert flicked at the cradle. There was no sound. Nothing. The Inspector repeated the antique dealer's name.
He held the silent receiver in his hand for a second then gently replaced it on the cradle. His forehead was heavily creased.
'Who was it?' asked Debbie.
'Trefoile,' he told her, then he added, more urgently, 'Come on, let's go.'
She looked bewildered. He explained that they were to visit the antique shop immediately and, from the force with which he gripped her hand, she knew it must be important. Grabbing their coats, they hurried out to the car, and in minutes were speeding towards the shop. Lambert could feel his heart thumping faster as he drove and he pressed down just that little bit harder on the accelerator.
'A key.' His own words echoed in his mind.
Was the medallion the key?
He thought of the phone going dead and shuddered. Perhaps his imagination was running away with him, but, as he swung the car into the main street of Medworth, he prayed that Trefoile would be the only one waiting for them in the antique shop.
Lambert stopped the car and the two of them sat for a moment, watching the sign above the door which was swinging back and forth in the wind. The shop was in darkness, not a light to be seen anywhere. Lambert scanned the other shops along the street. Many had residential flats above and, in most of these, lights were burning. Trefoile's shop, though, was a stark contrast and the Inspector felt an involuntary shudder run through him as he opened the car door. Debbie moved too, but he put a hand on her arm and shook his head.
'Stay here,' he said, softly, reaching for the flashlight on the parcel shelf. He flicked it on, testing the beam, and then stepped out onto the pavement. Debbie leant across and locked the door behind him, watching as he walked briskly to the front door of the shop. Lambert's anxiety was beginning to reach her and she anxiously scanned the street from end to end. Not a living soul to be seen. The light from the dull yellow of the streetlamps reflected back from the wet pavement like pools of liquid gold. The rain bounced hard against the car roof, beating out a tattoo.
Lambert knocked twice on the front door and, when he received no answer, tried the handle.
It opened.
He held up a hand to Debbie to signal that he was going in. She watched as he closed the door behind him.
He flicked on the flashlight and swung it back and forth across the room, aware of the musty smell of the place.
Two gleaming eyes shone at him from a corner and he gasped, suddenly angry with himself as he saw that they belonged to the head of a stuffed fox. He walked behind the counter towards the back room which served as a dining room, workshop, and kitchen.
'Trefoile,' he called.
No answer.
Lambert reached for the light switch to his right and flicked it down. Nothing happened. He tried again. The darkness remained. His beam picked out a plate of unfinished mince lying on the table. Beside it was a large book which, upon closer inspection, was revealed as a ledger of some sort. He walked to the back door and tugged at the handle. It was firm, the door securely locked and bolted. The Inspector swung the light around once more and found that there was a door which led out of the room. It was ajar. He crossed to it and cautiously peered round, shining the beam inside. It illuminated a narrow flight of steps which led up into even more impenetrable darkness.