Her dark bob sank back into the headrest. She just needed a minute or two of peace before going inside. Ryan was her son and she loved him. She was sure she must love him on some level, but it was all just so damned hard when there was nothing but anxiety given in return. She was his mother; she'd grown him inside her and kept him safe, and he couldn't stand her touch. How could that be, she wondered for the millionth time since Ryan's diagnosis, even though she knew the question was pointless.
Not just her touch, she reminded herself. Any touch. But she was his mother. It should be different with her. The clock in the dashboard clicked on to ten o'clock, and she reluctantly got out of the car and headed inside, feeling so much older than her thirty-five years.
Signing in, she flashed a tight smile at Sylvia the receptionist, hoping to avoid conversation. No matter what the woman said it always made Adrienne feel guilty. She could hear the innocuous words coming out – 'How's work? Any exciting cases? Isn't it a lovely day? Have you got any plans for the summer? What a smart suit...' – but it was as if underneath each sentence was the whisper of 'Bad mother. You should have your child at home. Bad mother.'
Sylvia was still speaking when Adrienne turned her back on her. Adrienne didn't care. Most of the staff at the centre didn't like her, she was pretty sure of that. They thought she was cold; you didn't have to be a mind reader to see that. And maybe she was. Maybe the past six years had made her that way. Some people just weren't cut out to deal with children that were different. They had no right to judge her. After all, it was bad mothers like her that kept them in their jobs.
A dull ache of tension already creeping into her shoulders, she made her way along the familiar route to Ryan's room, trying not to look through any of the open doors as she went, but invariably unable to stop herself. This was her penance: one hour, three times a week. She may as well punish herself properly.
She passed 11-year-old Eleanor, whose long hair was always matted no matter how often it was brushed and who would for ever be known as the dribbling girl inside Adrienne's head. Turning the corner, she glanced into Michael's room, and sure enough he was still intent on trying to fit a square plastic shape into a round hole simply because the shape and the hole were the same bright red colour. Ryan's nurse, Ceri, had told her that Michael could sit for hours with that block in his hand, trying to squeeze it into the hole. Adrienne wondered if the child would ever see the irony. All these children were square pegs in round holes. How the nurses that worked here didn't end up shaking them out of sheer frustration she would never understand. But then, she was a bad mother. She hadn't been able to cope with Ryan for more than eighteen months.
Three doors down from her son's room, a little girl she didn't recognise stared at the wall and screamed as a nurse tried to wipe the snot that streamed down her face. Adrienne turned away in disgust, and the first edge of a headache throbbed loudly at the back of her skull. At least Ryan wasn't a screamer. Staring at the door she had to go through, she ran her manicured fingers through her sleek hair and wished she could raise more enthusiasm for seeing her beautiful son. No, Ryan didn't scream. Ryan was too busy singing. Constantly. All day. From waking to sleeping, barely pausing for breath between songs. Maybe if he'd just been quiet she could have coped. Maybe.
Through the doorway drifted a perfect imitation of Aled Jones's 'Walking In The Air'. Disc 1, track 4. Even she knew their order by heart now. Damn that ex-husband and his Classical Tracks CD that he'd played over and over in the car when Ryan was a baby. She hadn't even liked the music then. The too-familiar song slid past her eardrums and wormed its way towards the hammer of pain beating at the back of her skull, adding melody to its rhythm. And damn her baby's autistic memory storing every note and word in its banks until his body was developed enough to endlessly reproduce them.
As Adrienne stepped inside and grimaced a smile at Ceri, Ryan's tune didn't even waver.
SIX
The Bay View Beverley Bed and Breakfast wasn't quite close enough to the bright lights of the Cardiff Bay area to charge premium rates, but being within walking distance it could be guaranteed a steady trade throughout any busy months. Still, Gwen wasn't entirely sure that the owners would be able to fight a false advertising claim if it ever went to court. She reckoned that to consider yourself Bay side, you'd have to at least be able to see the Bay from some part of the building, even if it was only the attic.
The owners in question, Mr and Mrs Beverley, both in their early fifties, were sat sipping tea in their small, overly dressed dining room along with the five or six other guests who had been unfortunate enough to be in the building during that morning's incident. Passing them to head up the stairs, it was clear they were all badly shaken. Even from a distance, Gwen could see an old-fashioned teacup trembling in one man's hand as a policewoman took a seat opposite him. She could understand that tremble. She still felt a little unsettled after her encounter at the hospital.
'Make sure we get copies of all their notes.' Jack headed up the narrow, steep stairs. 'I doubt they'll have anything solid to give us, but it'll all help.'
Nodding, Gwen looked down at the royal blue carpet. It was threadbare in patches, and, although the skirting boards were clean, they were chipped and tatty and could do with replacing. Maybe the Bay View Beverley Bed and Breakfast wasn't doing so well after all. How was a murder going to affect their business? No wonder the middle-aged couple looked so worried.
The police photographer gave her a brief nod as he squeezed past, heading downstairs, and Gwen thought he looked as pale as his plastic suit. Whatever had happened up there wasn't going to be pretty. But then she wasn't expecting it to be after what they'd seen in the church. At least she, Jack and the police had some idea of what they would find. Whichever of the Beverleys had discovered the body hadn't had that privilege. How long would it be before the B & B would be on the market?
More uniformed officers trotted past them on the narrow stairwell, disgruntled expressions clouding their faces, clearly not happy to be relinquishing another crime scene to the mysterious Torchwood team.
Reaching the top of the building, Gwen followed Jack round the tight corner and through a door with a tacky ceramic sign with roses and lilac growing around a black number 7. She idly wondered whether someone should point out to the Beverleys that maybe a trip to Ikea wouldn't do their style any harm. Perhaps today wasn't the day for that. Her internal flippancy in the situation surprised her, and she wasn't sure whether she liked it or was appalled by it. Shaking her hair a little, she tried to get a grip on herself and concentrate.
'Well, well.' Detective Inspector Cutler was standing in the middle of the double bedroom, his hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets, his suit jacket undone. 'It's Mulder and Scully.'
He smiled and, although his eyes were brighter, Gwen thought he looked as scruffy first thing in the morning as he had done late at night. Even though his suit was smart and his shirt tucked in, there was something about him that seemed to her as if he'd just tumbled out of bed. And he still hadn't shaved. Looking at his broad chest and crumpled face, she had to admit there was something attractive about him. In fact, a part of her would have quite liked to see him tumbling out of her bed. Or into it.
As if confirming he was having the same thoughts, Jack gave the policeman a broad grin. 'We must stop meeting like this.'
Cutler raised an eyebrow. 'Trust me, I'd be happy to.' He nodded towards the small en suite bathroom. 'He's in there.' Stepping aside, he made room for Jack and Gwen. 'It's not pretty. His name's Barry Llewelyn, 49, checked in late last night with his wife. He's here for the singing competition. Just like the other one. And, as you can see, he's gone out the same way.'
Gwen moved into the doorway and froze for a moment. Her stomach lurched slightly, acid burning its way up into her chest before, swallowing hard, she controlled it. In many ways, this crime scene was far worse than the one they'd dealt with in the Church of St Emmanuel the previous night, if it was at all
possible for the sight of one man cut open from the throat to the pelvis to be preferable to another one.
'How come Ianto gets to stay back at the Hub?' she said softly.
Jack clenched his jaw. 'We have stronger stomachs.'
'I'm glad you're sure about that.'
Unlike the church, the en suite was tiny. As the man had died, his blood had splattered all over the walls, the crimson splashes demanding attention against the purity of the tiles. Handprints blurred down the inside of the cubicle where the victim had obviously tried to stay upright in the face of his terrible attacker. The shower head had come loose from its holder and hung down on its hose, peering over the body with useless concern.
Barry Llewelyn was naked. He might have been a strong man when he was alive, but lying on the lino of the tiny shower room and toilet, his body slightly arched and positioned somewhere half-in, half-out of the shower, his legs looked skinny and insubstantial, too pale from blood loss, their whiteness blending in with the ceramic of the toilet bowl that his foot touched. The muscles of his upper arms had slackened, appearing flabby as they reached outwards to the walls. As with the victim in the church, Barry Llewelyn's torso had been peeled open, his skin an unwrapped towel around his delicate organs.
Gwen fought the urge to grab a sheet from the bedroom and cover him over. There was something vaguely pathetic about the sight of any naked middle-aged man and the fact that this one was terribly mutilated didn't detract from that. She was only glad that his face was turned the other way and she didn't have to look into his dead eyes. It was a sight she'd never really got used to. She wondered for a moment what he'd find to say if they could use a resurrection glove on him. Looking at the way his insides were exposed and throat damaged, she guessed he'd probably be saying bugger all. Despite her own black humour, she shivered. Aside from the fact that it had nearly killed her, there were a million other reasons to be glad that the resurrection glove was one piece of alien technology they wouldn't be using again.
Jack peered into the man's exposed throat.
'Are they missing?' Gwen asked.
Jack stood up. 'Yep.'
'The vocal cords and larynx?' Cutler spoke from behind them. 'I noticed that too.'
Turning away from the body, both Gwen and Jack stared at him. He shrugged.
'It may be your jurisdiction, and to be honest your problem and amen to that, but I'm still curious.' The Detective Inspector sat on the edge of the unmade bed. 'I took a good look at the police photographs last night.' He smiled, and Gwen wondered if it was the wistful quality in that damaged expression that made him so attractive.
'Did they help you sleep?' Jack asked.
'Ha. No.' Cutler frowned. 'But I figured that the killer wouldn't have opened up the poor bastard that precisely for nothing.'
'And you were right,' Jack interrupted. 'I guess you know more about anatomy than Scully here, but we'd be grateful if you could keep your findings to yourself.'
Cutler held up his hands. 'Trust me, I'm not looking to steal Torchwood's glory.' He sighed. 'But if all this gets out...' He ruffled the mess of his hair. 'We all know it will get out. And as soon as it does, I'm going to be in the firing line from the press. So the quicker you have some answers, the happier I'll be.'
Jack nodded. 'You and me both. So give me what your guys got before we got here.'
'Not too much to report.' Cutler smiled grimly. 'At 9.15 this morning the vic was in the shower. Singing, according to the couple in the room next door. After about five minutes, they heard glass smashing, which must have been the bathroom window.' He glanced up at Jack. 'And then Llewelyn stopped singing. After a few seconds he started screaming, but that didn't last long. The neighbours heard the wife banging on the bathroom door, and then they went and got the owners.' He paused. 'They called us. I called you.'
Jack looked at the open suitcase on the floor, and the tub of face cream on the small dresser. 'So where's the wife now?'
'The hospital. There's no point trying to speak to her. She's had a massive stroke. Apparently she had a mild one last year. I guess seeing her husband's insides on the outside was enough to bring on the big one.'
Gwen glared at him, in part for his insensitivity, and in part to reprimand herself for finding him quite so sexy when she was so recently married. Still, she thought, looking at the craggy lines that ran down his cheek where dimples might lie if he ever really laughed out loud, there was no harm in looking, was there?
Cutler noticed the look. 'Sorry. Tactlessness is part of my charm.'
Gwen turned back to the crime scene. She frowned. 'The bathroom cabinet mirror's broken. It looks like it's been punched.'
'I thought maybe it was done by Llewelyn fighting back,' Cutler said.
Jack's expression was grim. 'Or maybe whatever did this is getting angrier.'
There was a long pause which Cutler finally broke.
'Oh, that's great. Whatever, not whoever. I thought I'd left all this weird crap behind after everything that happened last time.' He stood up and stared at Jack for a long moment before releasing a sardonic smile. 'Good luck with it.'
He was at the bedroom door when his mobile rang out: no trendy song or humorous sound effect, just the shrill clear tone cutting through the air.
'Cutler.' The handset pressed to his ear he looked up at Jack and Gwen, his hooded eyes sharp. 'Where? OK, keep the scene tight and the public out. I'm on my way.'
Watching him flip the lid shut, Gwen knew what he was going to say before the words were out.
'We've got another one.'
Outside, the heavens opened.
SEVEN
Adrienne Scott stared out at the rain that smeared itself against the other side of the reinforced window, distorting her reflection. Her left eye slid lazily downwards towards her nose, turning its elegantly made-up oval into a sagging circle, whilst her right stared into itself and at the drooping bag underneath that expensive face creams could no longer hold back. She looked hard and ugly. The stylish bob that had cost her a fortune was too sharp, removing any softness from her angular face. Great in the courtroom, perhaps not so great for getting along in the real world. Perhaps this was her true reflection.
Bad mother.
The drops outside grew heavier, smashing silently into the reinforced glass, and her alter ego's mouth trembled for a moment before blending with her chin. Maybe this was the way Ryan saw her: an ugly monster to be avoided. In some ways she wished that were true. At least if he saw her as a beast, it would indicate that she had some presence in his life, other than just as an irritant like all the other people he was forced to have some kind of interaction with. Adrienne knew better than that, though. In a small, dead part of her heart, she knew that she was nothing to Ryan. Not even a concept. She was as intangible as the transparent reflection that tried in vain to stay solid in the window.
Behind her, Ryan had slipped directly from 'Walking In The Air' into 'Where Is Love?' from the musical Oliver! Even with Ceri trying to cajole a drink of water into his mouth, each note held its purity, fluidly shifting from one to the next. As always when her boy sang, the haunting emotional quality he created with his voice made it almost impossible for anyone seeing him for the first time to really believe he could be so disconnected from people. No one could sing like that without some huge reservoir of emotion bursting through their skin, surely?
In the early days, which were only a few years ago, but seemed and felt like a lifetime to Adrienne, some of his singing would make her cry all night. Even after he'd moved in permanently to the Havannah Court centre, she would go home to the wreck of her marriage and curl up on her side of the bed and wait for the snoring to start so she could let the less beautiful sound of her own pain out to be poured wetly into her pillow. His voice would haunt her more than the deadness of his intelligent expression and for a long while she was convinced that it was an indication of his trapped feelings. He did love and need her; he just didn't know how to express it. S
he didn't care what the doctors said. She was his mother. She knew. She wanted more tests. More evaluations. They'd all got it wrong.
It was only when Michael had dragged her into Ryan's room, the little boy oblivious to the rage of his parents as they screamed at each other, and forced her to listen to him – to really listen to him – and then to listen again to that damned CD, that the truth hit home. She finally saw it. Or heard it. Whichever. Her heart broke for the final time that day, all her hopes and dreams of one day reaching her blond angel, shattered in the music. Michael and the doctors had been right all along. All the beautiful power in Ryan's voice was just the original singer's emotion made better. It was as if her tiny, talented, lost child was a mechanical computer. He absorbed the sound and reproduced it, but as it should be. The perfect version. He had enhanced the song, but not with his own emotions, whatever they were.
Michael had been right, but she couldn't forgive him for it. That day was the last time she had spoken to him. Perhaps it wasn't only Ryan that could be so remote. And the advantage of being one of Cardiff's best barristers meant that the divorce was swift and clean-cut. Their marriage was executed as painlessly as possible.
'Bloody awful weather, isn't it?' Ceri's soft voice broke Adrienne's reverie and she turned round. The nurse was trying to slip a baby's drinking bottle of fruit juice into Ryan's mouth. 'I was hoping we'd get one of those Indian summers.' Ceri looked up, her round face cheerful, despite having to catch the mouthfuls of juice that dribbled down the little boy's chin. 'You know, the kind that the people on the weather are always telling us to expect but never arrive.'
Into The Silence Page 4
