'Don't you have any bloody heating in here?' he said. He passed a radiator and pressed his hand to it, withdrawing it quickly as it singed him.
'Shit,' he grunted. The radiator was red hot. Yet still he could feel that penetrating cold, an almost palpable chill which encircled him with icy fingers.
Debbie found the dictionaries and hurried out again, turning off lights as she went. Once outside, she locked the door and the two of them hurried back to the car.
Lambert put his foot down and they were home in under twenty minutes. He put the car in the garage while Debbie carried the heavy volumes indoors where she laid them on the coffee table. Once inside, Lambert locked and bolted every door and window in the house then retreated to the comforting warmth of the living room. Debbie already had the books spread open, a notepad by her side.
It was going to be a long job and, as he looked at the first page, Lambert wondered what they were going to find.
The entire book would have to be translated, word for word. They would find one word and, immediately, be forced to look it up in the dictionary. The meaning clear, it would then be transcribed onto a fresh piece of paper.
Lambert looked at his watch as they began. It was eight fourteen P.M.
It took them three hours to do the first page.
Outside, the rain lashed down, the darkness covering the town and countryside like an impenetrable blanket.
Charles Burton stubbed out his third cigarette and checked his watch against the wall clock above Lambert's desk. He exhaled through clenched teeth and pulled open the office door.
'When the hell is he getting here?' said Burton.
Sergeant Hayes, who was making out a duty roster, looked up and smiled.
'He shouldn't be long, Mr. Burton,' he said.
Burton slammed the door and Hayes raised two fingers at it. Miserable bastard, he thought, and carried on with the roster.
Burton had never been a patient man, but, at this precise moment in time, seated in Lambert's office, he was on the point of blowing his top. He'd been waiting for the young policeman for more than thirty minutes and he wasn't going to wait much longer. As editor of Medworth's newspaper, he deserved prompt attention. He never had liked Lambert. Cocky young sod, he thought. Burton, approaching his fortieth year, wondered how someone as young as Lambert had ever been put in charge of the Medworth force in the first place. He was never very cooperative, but, regarding recent events, he'd been downright secretive. Burton was determined to get to the bottom of things. It was his right as a newsman, and the people of Medworth had a right to know too. He resolved not to leave until Lambert had told him what was really happening in the town. Burton checked his watch again. That was if the young bastard ever arrived.
Burton felt quite exhilarated. He'd never had anything quite this big to write about since becoming editor of The Medworth Herald, but what with a number of deaths and disappearances over a matter of weeks, this was something new. Usually it was all jumble sales and tedious local events and he allowed his own meagre staff to deal with those trivialities. But this one he wanted for himself. He didn't trust one of his three reporters to cover it adequately. They'd probably miss some important detail here or there. Besides, Lambert would be able to brush them aside easily. Burton was determined not to be pushed away with excuses and half-baked explanations.
He checked his watch again and lit another cigarette. The room was already heavy with the smell of stale smoke and Burton added to it, blowing out a long stream as he dropped the lighter back into his pocket.
His wife had bought it for him for their tenth wedding anniversary. He half smiled, thinking about her. She'd be at home now, up to her elbows in washing up or vacuuming. She was always doing something. Cleaning up, rearranging the furniture. He wondered if there was a medical term for it. Compulsive house cleaning or something like that. She went mad if he even so much as dropped a speck of ash on the carpet. Out came the Hoover straight away. Burton had put up with it for the first couple of years, but, gradually, her mania for neatness had begun to annoy him. He stayed at the office later each night. She never complained about that, though. As long as their house was neat and tidy, she was happy. He often thought that she wouldn't mind if World War Three broke out tomorrow, as long as the house was in good shape. He stayed out until all hours, boozing, sometimes just driving around, even screwing other women, but when he finally got home, she would never question him. Just peck him lightly on the cheek and ask him if he had a good day.
There was a girl at the moment. She worked as a barmaid in 'The Bell,' a pub on the outskirts of the town. Her name was Stephanie (he called her Stevie) Lawson and, although she had never told him, he guessed her age to be around twenty. Only once did it occur to Burton that he was old enough to be her father and that once was after their first bout of lovemaking. Even the recollection exhausted him. Christ, she was a bloody animal he thought, smiling. She was cooking him dinner tonight at her place. It was her night off and Burton was looking forward to it.
His train of thought was broken as he heard footsteps outside the door.
Lambert walked into the station and smiled at Hayes. He held up two, grimy, oil-covered hands.
'Would you believe it,' he said, 'I had a bloody puncture about ten minutes from home. Changed that, and then found out my oil was low so I had to top up with that too.'
Hayes pointed to the closed door of the office. Lambert looked around.
'You've got a visitor, guv,' said the sergeant.
'Who is it?' asked Lambert, lowering his voice.
'Charlie Burton.'
Lambert sighed. 'Christ, I'd forgotten. How long's he been here?'
'Half an hour.'
Lambert nodded and pushed open his office door. Hayes heard the initial greeting then the conversation was cut off as the door closed once more.
'I've been waiting nearly forty minutes for you,' said Burton, irritably.
'Sorry,' said Lambert, smiling, 'I had a blow out.'
He crossed to the sink in one corner of the room and began scrubbing his hands.
'You said nine o'clock,' persisted the newsman.
Lambert gritted his teeth. 'I can't help it if my bloody car gets a flat, can I?' he said, drying his hands. He turned to face Burton, wondering why he ever agreed to meet the man in the first place. If Burton disliked the Inspector then the feeling was more than mutual. Lambert tried to be pleasant. Smiling, he sat down.
'What can I do for you?' he asked.
'You know what I want,' said Burton, impatiently. 'Some information about what's been going on around here during the last few weeks.'
'I told you over the phone that no information would be given until the investigation was over.'
'That's bullshit,' snapped Burton. 'You said there would be press releases.' He emphasized the last two words with scorn. 'Some sort of statement and yet every time me or one of my reporters rings up, you're either not here or you won't tell us anything.'
Lambert picked up a pen which was lying on his desk and began toying with it.
'Like I said,' Lambert said softly, 'I don't want any of this in the papers until the investigation is over.'