Torchwood_Long Time Dead

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘That would make sense,’ he said.

  ‘You will still be doing all the behind-the-scenes work on whatever happened here and to those people in the city; I’ll just be the go-between.’ She smiled again. ‘And I certainly don’t intend to be drawing any attention to myself. I’ll do what I can by phone. The rest of my job description is to be your Personal Assistant, which I should imagine will take up most of my time.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘Perhaps I should start by getting you some lunch. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten?’

  ‘No…’ He was about to say he wasn’t hungry – looking at the pictures had killed his appetite for a while – but he found that perhaps he was. ‘Actually yes, that would be lovely. The canteen on site isn’t great.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ She was on her feet, her handbag casually over one shoulder. ‘Cardiff Bay isn’t short of places for food.’

  ‘I’ll get on to someone to get you a desk and a computer set up.’

  ‘Thank you. Once again, sorry to have been a surprise.’

  ‘A pleasant one, however,’ Commander Jackson said.

  After calling someone to get equipment moved in to the far end of his Portakabin, he checked his emails. She was right – there was one there, sent the previous day from some Department email address but not a name he recognised, stating that she would be arriving to assist him in a supporting role. He scanned it and then closed it down. Now that he was adjusting to the idea, having an attractive woman around wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. He glanced over at the machine in the corner. At least there would always be fresh coffee.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Andy Davidson had been right. The suicides were certainly taking Cutler’s mind off the Department taking over the murder case that he was pretty sure they were involved in. At least Commander Jackson seemed OK – or as OK as the military could be. He would never entirely trust anyone in a profession that required you to simply follow orders and never question anything. To an outsider looking in, there might not be that much difference between them, but policing was all about digging and questioning. What he trusted least was that the Department and Army were now in charge of a case that was probably caused by one of their own. How long would it be before the whole thing got brushed under the carpet and he was left as the scapegoat who couldn’t solve the case?

  Still, those were thoughts for later. For now, he had a different riddle on his hands. He tapped his pen on the desk as he frowned.

  ‘You’re right. This is odd,’ he said.

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘So, we’ve got Andrew Murray and Rebecca Devlin. Any more come in?’

  ‘No.’ Andy was standing alongside him and they both stared at the pictures of the dead taken when they were alive and vibrant.

  ‘Rebecca Devlin was married with children and Andrew Murray lived alone. Different parts of town. He worked nights and she was a stay- at-home mum. No signs of depression? Any clues that they were about to top themselves?’

  ‘None. Andrew Murray was a bit of a loner, but according to his parents and work colleagues he was happy that way. He night-managed a supermarket. Had worked his way up from shelf- stacking.’

  ‘Thrilling way to spend your life,’ Cutler said. ‘I think I’d throw myself off a balcony too. But the woman… Mother of three? And killed herself while making the children’s breakfast? That’s the disturbing part. Why not wait until the house was her own? Why did she do it then?’

  ‘God knows. The youngest child came downstairs first and screamed. That’s when the husband got out of the shower and found her. He’s in shock. She’d been talking about what to cook for dinner only fifteen minutes earlier. And then, wham, she’s killed herself.’

  ‘And they both remembered something. That’s the key. They remembered something very suddenly. Did either of them have the radio on? TV? Anything that might have triggered a memory?’

  Andy Davidson scanned the various sheets of notes he and several constables had taken. ‘No. Definitely not in Rebecca Devlin’s case, and probably not in Andrew Murray’s. He can only have been in his flat for a few minutes before killing himself. His shift only finished half an hour earlier.’

  ‘And Murray doesn’t have children, so it can’t be connected to all that recent madness.’ He looked over at his sergeant. ‘The kids are all normal, I presume?’

  ‘Yep, all three bright and healthy.’

  ‘So it’s not that.’ Cutler’s brain itched. There had to be a connection. ‘I want you to check their schools – see if they went to the same ones – it’s a long shot but who knows, maybe there’s a link there. Also, I want to know if either of them have been caught in any kind of natural disaster, here or abroad – something that could cause post-traumatic stress. Oh, and check the family histories too. Maybe their parents knew each other. Maybe the thing they’re remembering is something from their infancy. They’re only a year apart. It’s possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Andy Davidson was dutifully scribbling it all down, and Cutler was once again grateful to have been given such a competent sergeant to work with. They might be clutching at straws, but Davidson knew that didn’t need pointing out. And sometimes it was the straws that saved you.

  ‘The message. What do you make of it?’ Cutler asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s strange for final words. No apology. No love for those left behind. It’s almost a message.’

  ‘Or some kind of warning. Or threat.’

  ‘Threat?’ Cutler asked.

  ‘Yeah, but I can’t put my finger on why. They’re like some kind of accusing finger. Whatever it is they remembered, it wasn’t good.’ A shadow passed across the sergeant’s face and Cutler was surprised by it. What dark memories did he have?

  ‘Well, there’s a link somewhere between them that we’re not seeing. There’s no way this could be a random coincidence. I don’t care how many monkeys are typing in a room somewhere.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just a saying.’ He stared at the smiling face of Rebecca Devlin. She had been a pretty woman with an open smile. Something triggered her that morning, just as it had for Andrew Murray. He sighed and his mind ran over their morning. Murray finishing work and heading home. Rebecca Devlin getting up and getting her family ready for the day.

  ‘Who died first?’ he asked.

  ‘Rebecca Devlin. Andrew Murray was approximately an hour and a half after.’

  ‘And how did he get home from work?’

  ‘He walked.’

  Something was bugging him. Even if they couldn’t figure out what the two had remembered, the trigger had to be somewhere. ‘What had Rebecca Devlin done since getting up?’

  ‘Not a lot according to the husband. They talked in bed for a few minutes when the alarm went off – usual stuff, when he was getting home, what the kids had on. What to have for dinner. He got in the shower and she went downstairs to start getting breakfast ready.’

  ‘And downstairs? What did she do?’

  ‘Well, there was cereal on the table, and bowls. And she’d put eggs on to boil. They were boiling over when her husband got to the kitchen.’

  ‘That’s it?’ There had to be something more.

  ‘Oh – and she put the rubbish out. The husband was upset by that because it was his job to do it and he knew she’d be mad at him because she hated doing it.’

  Cutler stared at his sergeant. ‘So, she went outside?’

  ‘Just for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Where are the bins? Front or back?’

  ‘Front. By the pavement.’

  Cutler stopped tapping his pen. ‘That’s it then. She must have seen something out there that triggered whatever was so terrible that it made her kill herself.’ He paused. ‘And then, on his way home from work, Andrew Murray saw the same thing. Or person.’

  ‘Bit coincidental, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe. But not necessarily.’

  ‘I
don’t get it,’ Andy said.

  ‘Think about it. These two killed themselves, but for all we know whatever they remembered could have happened to a hundred people – or a thousand. If that was the case, then two people seeing the same trigger would be less of a coincidence. Get someone chasing CCTV cameras of Andrew Murray’s route home, and anything near where Rebecca Devlin lives. Let’s see if we can find something or someone to connect them. Maybe the same car, hopefully the same person.’

  ‘I’ll get some people on it. But it’s going to take a while. And the DCI won’t be happy – a lot of manpower for suicides.’

  ‘He owes me for rolling over so nicely for the Department.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ Andy said. ‘The press conference is in an hour. I’ll get on to Commander Jackson’s people and see what they want you to say.’

  ‘What they want me not to say is more likely.’ The phone on the desk rang out, and Andy grabbed it and listened before holding it out for Cutler. ‘It’s Spanton. They’ve got some results in.’

  At least the pathologist had called him instead of going direct to the Department. That was something. Cutler pressed the loudspeaker button. ‘What have you got, Doc?’

  ‘Nothing simple, I’m afraid. Although all the victims suffered a stab wound that was direct into an organ – mostly the liver – that’s not what killed them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cutler and his sergeant exchanged a glance. ‘Have you figured out what happened with their eyes?’

  ‘Figured out would be stretching it. I haven’t seen anything like this before, and the bodies are heading off to some Department lab for further testing, but it looks as if their eyes burst due to sudden pressure from a massive brain haemorrhage. And I mean massive. To put it in layman’s terms – in fact, I’m not sure there even is a medical term for something like this – their brains were pulped. All of them.’

  Cutler ended the call and looked at Andy, who’d paled slightly.

  ‘Did he say “pulped”?’

  ‘Yep,’ Cutler nodded. ‘But I’m guessing that’s one piece of information that won’t be going into the press conference.’ He looked back up at the board with the suicides’ pictures on it. What the hell was going on in Cardiff?

  Chapter Fifteen

  At night she could breathe. She could be herself. All day she’d smiled and flirted with the old Commander and made him feel at ease with her. She’d discovered nothing useful as yet, but she would. Today wasn’t the day for that. She’d shed her red dress and changed into fitted black trousers, high-heeled boots and a strappy top before heading back to the bars of the Bay. Her eyes glittered with sparkly shadow and her lips were filled in red.

  She felt powerful. Gone were the insecurities she’d felt before – the suspicion that she had never been good enough. That she’d been so easily replaced by someone better. Well, as it turned out, that was all a matter of perspective. She’d almost killed that replacement, the sickly sweet Miss Cooper last time round, and where were all of the glory boys of Torchwood now? Nowhere to be seen and probably dead in the rubble. That darkness was theirs now. Let them enjoy it. She traced her fingers along the wall outside one bar and behind her a small piece of her shadow detached itself and lingered there.

  Her stride was long and easy, the roll of her hips sensual as she made her way to the bar. She smiled brightly at the young man in a red T-shirt who was behind the bar, Jason according to his name badge, and ordered herself a bottle of beer. She took a long swallow, straight from the bottle, and let her eyes wander around the room. She’d killed someone for the thing inside her down a side street between the last bar and this one, now she wanted someone for herself. The beer buzz was good, and she rolled her head around her neck slightly as she leaned back and rested her elbows on the bar, forcing her torso forward. It was a sexy, predatory pose, echoing the strength she felt inside. She glanced down to check her vest top hadn’t risen up to reveal the pulsing light beneath her skin. She was sure it had faded somewhat, anyway; it had looked like it in the shower.

  What did that mean, she mused, as she met the gazes of several men, evaluated them, and then moved on. Was the viewing device stopping working? She didn’t think so, not given the way she’d felt that vast dimension sucking her last victim in. She’d felt the horror without and the horror within. I’ve got something to show you… She’d heard herself saying the phrase every time but wasn’t sure where it came from. It was more likely that the device had moved further inside her. Maybe the explosion hadn’t just activated it, but had dislodged it too. That should probably frighten her, but she found that it didn’t. So far, the device had proved very accommodating to her. Rescued her from the darkness of death and turned her into its instrument instead. They were a team, and long may it last. She smiled slightly and swallowed more beer.

  She remembered the gasping terror of the man she’d just killed – the way his eyes had looked before she’d slid the knife in him. When they’d started to swell and she could see her own reflection clearly in their terrified expressions. It wasn’t her they were seeing, though. It was something beyond. Something on the other side of her eyes and a dimension away. What was it they saw, she wondered? And for how long? She smiled. It didn’t matter to her. She was Death, the deliverer – what the awful, unnatural eternal blackness did with the essence of those people afterwards wasn’t her business. She had suspicions though. When she felt it opening up inside her, she was sure she could hear distant sobbing and cries for help. Her smile faltered slightly. Was it possible that there was a place worse than the empty darkness that came with being dead? The nothingness? It didn’t matter, she decided, fighting the sudden shiver; she had no intention of going there. Her eyes rested on a man in the corner of the room, sitting on his own, and sipping from a bottle of beer like her own. After a moment, he sensed he was being watched and looked up and smiled. Suzie felt her mood lift. He’d do. He’d do very nicely.

  He got to his feet and headed towards her. His dark hair was gelled, but not too much, and his grin was wide and handsome. He was about the same height at Captain Jack Harkness, too. The eyes were darker, nearer grey than Jack’s blue, but she could get past that. This murder would be for herself, not the growling thing that looked through her, and the man’s resemblance to her Torchwood boss would just add to her pleasure.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ the stranger asked. His accent was Welsh, but in Suzie’s head it was smooth American.

  ‘Sure.’ She drained the bottle, letting her lips linger at the edges of the glass as her eyes flirted with his, no orbs of dark sucking him in, only her own seductive brown. ‘Or, we could go back to mine,’ she said. ‘I’ve got beer there. And it’s less crowded.’

  The man’s grin stretched wide as if he couldn’t believe his luck. As they headed towards the door, Suzie wondered if later on he’d see the irony. She slipped her hand in his and led the way.

  Jason kicked the side door of the bar open and put the box of empty bottles down on top of the stack that was forming there, ready for collection the next day. He looked down at his red shirt and sighed. Great. One of the bottles couldn’t have been entirely empty and had leaked part of its sticky contents over him. It was getting quieter inside, so he lit a cigarette and enjoyed the cool breeze on his face. As jobs went, it wasn’t a bad one. There were worse ways of earning some extra money through Uni, even if it didn’t pay loads. There were always plenty of girls, and most of his shifts were with Sean, and they had a laugh.

  He leaned against the wall and blew out a long stream of smoke, watching it get caught on the light breeze and sucked into the night. His mind drifted to the essay that was due in tomorrow that he hadn’t even started yet, and the party he was going to at the weekend after work, and what clothes he should bring to change into, and was there anywhere he could grab a quick shower without having to go all the way home.

  He frowned slightly as his gaze drifted to his left, to a point further along the wall, an
d the party and the essay were momentarily forgotten as it snagged his attention. What was that? He stood up and walked over to where the black patch was spread unevenly over the bricks. He couldn’t even see the bricks underneath it. It was night, but the side street was well lit from a security light above the staff door, and the rest of the wall was clearly red, the mortar between the bricks visible. Not in the patch though. That was simply black with no sense of texture to its surface.

  He took another long drag on his cigarette, and leaned in closer, his eyes searching up towards the second floor of the building, and then down to the pavement. Whatever it was, it was coming from neither end. The patch had simply formed in the middle. What was on the other side? Could it be some sort of oil or mould coming through from an internal problem? Rational as that sounded, he knew it wasn’t true. This was something completely different.

  ‘Jason?’ Sean called from the door. ‘I’ve done last orders. You having a fag?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jason muttered. ‘I’m over here. Look at this.’

  More light had spilled out from the open doorway and it served to make the complete blackness of the patch stranger.

  ‘What?’ Sean sounded impatient. ‘Let’s get cleaned up first. I want to get home. I’ve still got a hangover from last night. I need sleep.’

  ‘This patch,’ Jason said. ‘It’s odd.’ Something growled and cracked in the darkness, a soft almost-heard sound, but it still made Jason jump slightly.

  ‘Jason, come on! Stop dicking around.’ Sean snapped, his figure blocking the light as he stepped outside.

  ‘OK, OK.’ Jason had had enough of looking at the patch anyway. Something about it disturbed him. It reminded him somehow of that clown from that Stephen King book, the one with the sharp teeth and angry eyes that dragged kids down into the drains. Just looking at the patch of black made all his childhood fears seem real. He swallowed, and his mouth was dry. ‘Sod it,’ he muttered, and went to stub his cigarette out on the hidden bricks.