'You live with your parents then?'
Walford nodded. 'I've been trying to find a place of my own but I can't afford it.'
The Inspector studied his companion's profile for a moment. The lad wasn't much younger than him. He guessed there were three or four years between them.
'I sometimes wonder why I joined the force,' said Walford suddenly, swallowing hard and looking at Lambert as if he had said something he shouldn't. The Inspector was staring straight ahead out of the windscreen. He was silent for a time and the constable wondered if he had heard, then Lambert said:
'It makes me wonder why anyone joins.'
'What about you, sir? Why did you join?' asked Walford, adding quickly, as an afterthought, 'If you don't mind me asking.'
Lambert shook his head. 'Sometimes I wonder. At one time I would have said principles.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'But now, I don't know. I thought at one time that, well, I thought I could better myself. Sounds like bullshit doesn't it?' He glanced across at Walford but the P.C. had his eyes on the road. 'I didn't want to end up like my old man. A nothing for the whole of my fucking life.' His voice had taken on an angry edge. 'This job gave me something I never had before. Self respect. A sense of importance, that what I was doing was making some difference to a tiny part of the world.' He grunted indignantly.
Walford brought the car to a halt.
'That's it, sir,' he said, pointing across the road. Lambert flipped open his notebook and checked the address. He nodded.
The house was the end one of a block of three. Two storey dwellings, the standard, council built red brick structures. Identical to all the other houses in the street. In fact, the same as every one on the remainder of the estate. Lambert noted that the curtains, upstairs and down, were drawn. He inhaled deeply, held the breath then let it drain out slowly.
'You stay here,' he said, opening the door and getting out. Walford watched him as he walked across the street and down the path to the front door of the Reece house.
He knocked twice and waited for an answer.
When none came, he walked around the side of the house. There was a purple painted gate barring his way into the back yard but he found, to his relief, that it was unlocked. Perhaps Mr Reece was in the garden.
As he walked around the back, Lambert could see that the garden was deserted. At the bottom was the shattered remnants of a greenhouse, the wooden frame now bleached and bare like the bones of some prehistoric creature. The garden was badly overgrown. He knocked on the back door loudly and called Reece's name.
There was no answer.
Lambert tried the door and found, to his -joy, that it was open. He stepped into the kitchen, recoiling immediately from the smell. It reminded him of bad eggs. And, Jesus, it was cold. He pulled the back door closed behind him and looked around. Nothing unusual. A dog basket in one corner near the larder. A calendar which was a month behind where someone had forgotten to turn the page. Lambert looked down at the floor. There were scuff marks on the lino. He bent to get a closer look, nothing unusual about them. Traces of dirt around too. He stood up and walked into the living room, which was still in darkness because of the drawn curtains. Lambert noticed the shattered bottle of scotch, the broken glass beside the chair and fragments of it still stained with blood. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and, using his handkerchief, picked up one of the fragments and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, particles of dust swirling around in its beams. But, despite the warmth of the sun, the room still felt like a fridge.
Lambert went out into the hall and called up the stairs.
'Mr Reece?'
Silence greeted him. He
Walford nodded. 'I've been trying to find a place of my own but I can't afford it.'
The Inspector studied his companion's profile for a moment. The lad wasn't much younger than him. He guessed there were three or four years between them.
'I sometimes wonder why I joined the force,' said Walford suddenly, swallowing hard and looking at Lambert as if he had said something he shouldn't. The Inspector was staring straight ahead out of the windscreen. He was silent for a time and the constable wondered if he had heard, then Lambert said:
'It makes me wonder why anyone joins.'
'What about you, sir? Why did you join?' asked Walford, adding quickly, as an afterthought, 'If you don't mind me asking.'
Lambert shook his head. 'Sometimes I wonder. At one time I would have said principles.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'But now, I don't know. I thought at one time that, well, I thought I could better myself. Sounds like bullshit doesn't it?' He glanced across at Walford but the P.C. had his eyes on the road. 'I didn't want to end up like my old man. A nothing for the whole of my fucking life.' His voice had taken on an angry edge. 'This job gave me something I never had before. Self respect. A sense of importance, that what I was doing was making some difference to a tiny part of the world.' He grunted indignantly.
Walford brought the car to a halt.
'That's it, sir,' he said, pointing across the road. Lambert flipped open his notebook and checked the address. He nodded.
The house was the end one of a block of three. Two storey dwellings, the standard, council built red brick structures. Identical to all the other houses in the street. In fact, the same as every one on the remainder of the estate. Lambert noted that the curtains, upstairs and down, were drawn. He inhaled deeply, held the breath then let it drain out slowly.
'You stay here,' he said, opening the door and getting out. Walford watched him as he walked across the street and down the path to the front door of the Reece house.
He knocked twice and waited for an answer.
When none came, he walked around the side of the house. There was a purple painted gate barring his way into the back yard but he found, to his relief, that it was unlocked. Perhaps Mr Reece was in the garden.
As he walked around the back, Lambert could see that the garden was deserted. At the bottom was the shattered remnants of a greenhouse, the wooden frame now bleached and bare like the bones of some prehistoric creature. The garden was badly overgrown. He knocked on the back door loudly and called Reece's name.
There was no answer.
Lambert tried the door and found, to his -joy, that it was open. He stepped into the kitchen, recoiling immediately from the smell. It reminded him of bad eggs. And, Jesus, it was cold. He pulled the back door closed behind him and looked around. Nothing unusual. A dog basket in one corner near the larder. A calendar which was a month behind where someone had forgotten to turn the page. Lambert looked down at the floor. There were scuff marks on the lino. He bent to get a closer look, nothing unusual about them. Traces of dirt around too. He stood up and walked into the living room, which was still in darkness because of the drawn curtains. Lambert noticed the shattered bottle of scotch, the broken glass beside the chair and fragments of it still stained with blood. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and, using his handkerchief, picked up one of the fragments and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, particles of dust swirling around in its beams. But, despite the warmth of the sun, the room still felt like a fridge.
Lambert went out into the hall and called up the stairs.
'Mr Reece?'
Silence greeted him. He
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