At least the encounter had proved that the guns were of use. That much he was thankful for. He didn't dare think what would have happened if they had not been…
One thing did trouble him though.
Where had Briggs got to?
Run off in fright perhaps? Lambert wouldn't have blamed him if he had. He'd probably stagger in the next morning, ashamed of his own cowardice. Lambert half-smiled; he could quite easily have run off with him.
Even if anyone had noticed, no one would have wondered why there were blood spots on the trunk of the Panda. The whole car was splashed with the crimson fluid after all. What might have interested them was the contents of the trunk.
Gary Briggs had died painfully, his eyes torn from living sockets but now he lay in the boot of the car, fresh blood from the sockets still spilling down his cheeks.
He had had no chance against the woman who had attacked him. She had been too strong.
He had crawled into the trunk to escape the blinding lights of the Panda's headlamps. It was dark in there. It stank of petrol and rubber. But didn't care.
He lay silently.
Waiting.
Lambert breathed a sigh of relief as dawn clawed its way across the sky.
Now, as he stood by the window of John Kirby's spare bedroom, he had never been so pleased to see the light of day. He looked down at the cup of coffee in his hand and drained it, replacing the empty vessel on a small sideboard. He watched the sun appear, preceded by golden shafts of light and finally, a tiny portion of it peering over the horizon and filling the heavens with the first glow of morning.
He turned and looked at Debbie who was lying on a bed in one corner of the room. She was sleeping and the slow rhythmic heaving of her chest reassured him. He crossed to the bedside and knelt beside her, reaching beneath the sheets to grasp one of her hands. He stayed there for several moments, gripping her soft hand and gazing at her face. Eventually he got to his feet, kissed her lightly on the forehead and whispered, 'I love you.' Then he carefully replaced her hand under the sheets and left the room. He closed the door behind him and leant against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. The memory of the previous night was still vivid in his mind, burned deep into his consciousness like a red hot brand.
They had arrived at Kirby's at around three that morning. Bleary-eyed, the doctor had let them in and led Lambert, with Debbie's inert form in his arms, upstairs to this bedroom. He had sedated her with Thorazine. Then he and Kirby had gone downstairs to where Jenkins waited. Lambert had told the doctor what had happened and Kirby had listened, his apprehension growing by the second. Finally the doctor had treated their minor cuts and bruises and the three of them had then sat down over a cup of coffee to wait for morning. Jenkins had managed to catch a few hours sleep on the couch in Kirby's surgery. When Lambert walked into the kitchen he found the doctor sitting alone at the table.
'Is she all right?' asked Kirby.
Lambert nodded. 'Still sleeping.'
'She will be for quite a while; it's the best thing for her after what she's been through.' The Inspector poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down opposite Kirby.
'Where's Jenkins?' he asked.
Kirby hooked a thumb in the direction of the surgery, 'He's still asleep too.' The doctor studied the young policeman's face, the beginnings of stubble on his chin, the dark rings beneath his eyes. 'You look like you could do with some rest yourself.'
Lambert smiled humourlessly and ran his index finger around the lip of his cup. Finally he looked up.
'They could have killed her, John,' he said, his voice softening.
'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?'