Adrienne gave her a tired smile. 'I know the kind.'
Ryan sat unmoving on the bed, his blue eyes staring into some void that only he understood, his mouth still producing the music in spite of the bottle being gently pushed into the corner of his mouth. Adrienne didn't know how his voice hadn't totally given out or been damaged by now. But then Ryan was the only child in the unit who would sleep for twelve-hour stretches every night, regular as clockwork. Maybe twelve hours on and twelve hours off was what his body needed. Adrienne often thought that those twelve hours where Ryan was completely lost in the darkness of his own mind must be his favourite times. If he was capable of such things as favourites. The workings of little Ryan Scott's mind and heart were truly an enigma.
'Didn't you have a holiday this year?' Adrienne asked, pretending to ignore the juice that slipped down her son's tiny Welsh rugby shirt. She never came at meal times. She just didn't have the stomach for it – one more indication of her uselessness to a boy like Ryan.
'No.' Ceri caught the liquid stream before it made its way to the carpet. 'My mum's waiting for a hip operation so I've been looking after her when I can. Didn't want to leave her.' She gave Adrienne a warm, open, beaming smile. 'I can always dream of booking myself some winter sun, but I expect I'll just wait for next year to roll around and grab myself two weeks in Magaluf, the same as everyone else.'
Leaning against the window sill, Adrienne allowed her own expression to soften for a minute. They were chatting as if it were perfectly normal for a little boy to be singing over their conversation while ignoring the toys that remained in the same place every day because he really had no use for them.
'You're looking after your mother as well?' Adrienne let out a sigh. 'I don't know how you do it, Ceri.'
'It's not so much. I just do her shopping and that kind of thing.' The nurse looked up and Adrienne hated seeing the care and concern there. Her natural defences growled and sprang into position, forcing her to straighten her back a little and set her face in a frown as if she were in the middle of a particularly tricky cross-examination.
Ceri watched her for a moment, and Adrienne had an idea that she was used to breaking through barriers far tougher than Adrienne could provide.
'What you do is harder.' Ceri paused and looked sadly at Ryan. 'He's so far locked inside himself nothing will ever touch him I don't think, no matter what we try.'
'I just wish he'd bloody shut up.' The thought escaping before she had time to tame it, Adrienne was shocked by the harsh bitterness of her own voice.
Ceri nodded a little. 'I can understand that. It's so beautiful.' She wiped away more juice and sat her solid body back on her heels. 'But it's only automatic. I doubt he even hears it, that's what Doctor Chipra says. He says he sings to protect his silence. To keep the sounds of the world away from him.' Ceri ran a hand over the boy's blond hair with a gentle affection that made Adrienne envious.
'Poor little mite.'
Adrienne watched them for a moment longer and wished she could find something other than hollow sadness in her heart.
EIGHT
Having spent the whole day so far inside the Hub trying to make some sense of the Rift data, Ianto wouldn't have known if it was raining, snowing or the middle of a heatwave up on Cardiff's pavements if it hadn't been for the dampness of Gwen's hair. He was beginning to feel like a Weevil stuck underground all the time. Carrying the coffees, he went to join Jack and Gwen in the Boardroom. Maybe not a Weevil. At least they got to go out and wreak some havoc at night time. He was more like a mole. Yes, analysing all the data was important, but it seemed that the only time he had been allowed out on the surface recently was to pick up the pizza.
'OK, let's see what we've got.' Standing at the end of the table, Jack spread the images of the bodies across its surface.
Ianto took his usual seat and, seeing that Gwen had done the same, immediately wished he'd broken the habit. The empty chairs between them throbbed, and Ianto was sure that however much the three of them talked, the lost voices that should fill them would still be heard the loudest in their absence. Sipping his coffee, and letting it burn his throat, he focused on Jack.
'Three people dead in the space of just over twelve hours.' As Jack spoke, a map of the Cardiff area came up on the screen behind him. Three red dots stood out. 'As you can see, none of them were that close to each other, but there were spikes of Rift activity just before each death, so we know we're most likely dealing with something alien.'
Ianto looked at the photographs on the table for a moment. 'Who was the third victim?'
'Karen Peters.' Gwen pulled her wet hair back into an untidy ponytail. 'She died at eleven o'clock this morning at the Cooper Drake Insurance office where she worked.'
'At work? So we've got some reliable witnesses then?'
Gwen shook her head, and Jack cut in. 'Like the other two, Miss Peters was an amateur singer. She was in the bathroom practising alone when she died.'
'Tiled rooms are good for acoustics,' Ianto muttered, peering at a photo of the woman, thankfully taken when she'd been very much alive and all her insides were still where they should be. He put Karen Peters at maybe mid-thirties and decided she would probably have been attractive if it wasn't for the slightly surly look in her eyes and the thinness of her smile. He doubted, if this picture was anything to go by, that she had been particularly popular amongst the workers at Cooper Drake's. Sometimes faces said more than words ever could.
'The acoustics certainly kicked in when she started screaming. Apparently the sound carried straight into the air vents. The man who found her thinks it was only maybe three minutes from when he first heard her to his getting into the bathroom.' Jack raised an eyebrow. 'Given the sounds that were coming out of there, he didn't knock and wait.'
'So, whatever it is, it works fast.' Gwen leaned back in her chair. 'Three minutes to open someone up and take their vocal cords. That's got to be more fiddly than just ripping out someone's liver or another obvious organ.'
Jack smiled. 'It sounds like someone's been taking a sneaky look at that anatomy chart.'
'Ha bloody ha.'
'So how did it get in?' Ianto felt as if he were playing catch up. Getting the information second hand was never quite the same as actually being there. 'Past security? Surely that would mean it would have to be able to pass for human.' He looked from Jack to Gwen and back to Jack again. If that was the case then they were really in trouble.
'No.' Jack shook his head. 'A small skylight against the outside wall was smashed. It got in that way.'
'The bathroom window at the bed and breakfast was broken too,' Gwen added. 'And that was the only way the alien could have got to Barry Llewelyn without going past his wife.' She looked at Jack.
Ianto frowned. Why did he get the feeling he was missing something? 'It came through the stained-glass window of the church too. So it comes through glass windows instead of using the door.' He shrugged. 'Aliens have done stranger things.' His memory raced back through all the events of the past few years. 'A lot stranger.'
Jack shook his head, but it was Gwen who spoke. 'The church window was huge, but the bathroom windows at both the B & B and Cooper Drake's were tiny. Only something the size of a small child could get through the space.'
'So we're looking for a small alien that's good at getting to high spaces?'
Jack nodded. 'Or something that can change its shape or molecular structure at will. Which would make more sense given how the victims' skin and clothes – the two that were wearing any, that is – were somehow fused to become one.'
'That must narrow it down.'
Hands on his hips, Jack laughed a little. 'You have no idea how many species there are that can do amazing things with their forms. The human body is pretty damned inflexible compared to what can be found out there, and that's only in our galaxy.'
'I don't know.' Ianto kept his expression deadpan. 'The human body has its moments.'
'Yes, and we do have th
e glory of both male and female to enjoy.' Jack's grin was infectious, the mood lightening for a moment.
'For some of you maybe, Captain Harkness,' Gwen joined in. 'Most of us pick one or the other and stick with it.'
'Really, PC Cooper? Speaking of aliens, I remember the time when you first joined us and that particularly frisky female in the cells...'
'Let's focus on the alien at hand, shall we?' Gwen cut in, glaring playfully at Jack. 'What else have we got to go on?'
Still smiling a little, Jack looked from Ianto to Gwen. 'You two tell me.'
'OK,' Gwen started. 'They're all singers.'
'They're all good singers,' Ianto added. 'Probably among the best in the competition. I haven't checked the third victim yet, but the others have all finished in the top three of their category at some point over the past four years.'
'Karen Peters did too,' Jack said. 'Came third two years ago. Didn't compete last year because of a strained throat and didn't want to finish badly.'
'And the alien takes the instruments they use to sing with.'
'But why?' Gwen asked. 'Because it likes the sound or because it hates it?'
Jack rested his hands on the desk and leaned on it. 'Right at the moment that doesn't matter. What's important is that the singing somehow draws it.'
'But why now? This competition has been running for a few years now. Why hasn't the alien attacked earlier?'
'The competition's much bigger this year than before.' Ianto looked up. 'Don't you read the local papers? Just about every spare space in Cardiff has been rented out to choirs and singers from all over Wales. After Britain's Got Talent, they all seem to think they're going to be the next Paul Potts. That or the last choir standing.' He sipped his coffee, shaking his head slightly. 'Everyone seems to suddenly think they can sing their way to fifteen minutes of fame, but at least in this competition you have to get past the regional heats. And even though a lot more have got through from those this year, most of the worst ones will get knocked out in the final rounds.'
It was only when he paused that Ianto noticed both Gwen and Jack staring at him.
'What?'
Gwen felt the corners of her mouth tugging into an amused smile. 'Just sounds like you know a lot about it, that's all.'
Ianto frowned. Why did he suddenly feel like he'd admitted to something weird? 'I used to do a bit of singing myself.' He paused, trying but failing miserably to keep the defensive edge out of his voice. 'In fact, I've picked up tickets for the final. It'll be nice to be in the Millennium Centre for once, rather than under it.'
Jack smiled. 'Two tickets?'
'Of course.'
Gwen was still staring at him as if he had something strange smeared across his face and she didn't know quite how to address it. But then she could be like that. Just because she had the most obvious 'real' life out of the Torchwood team, both past and present, Ianto thought she sometimes forgot that they'd all had lives of some sort before joining up, and sometimes ghosts from them lingered. And not all of the ghosts were bad.
'A singer,' Gwen said finally. 'I wish I'd known that earlier. You could have sung at mine and Rhys's wedding. It would have been lovely.'
Ianto smiled. 'Don't you think your wedding day was special enough?'
'You're right.' Gwen sighed. 'I was bloody lucky to make it down that aisle at all. Wouldn't have wanted you distracted by trying to remember a load of lyrics. And anyway, after all that running around you'd have probably sounded crap anyway.'
All three of them back in the memory for a moment, Ianto watched as Jack's eyes dropped to the empty chairs. For a moment they sat in silence, but Ianto didn't feel the need to break it. No one needed to speak, and he was pretty sure that none of them had the words anyway.
Eventually, Jack coughed a little. 'So, we've got an alien that is drawn to good singing for whatever reason, and can change shape and move freely over high spaces. At least it's a start. Gwen, I want you to do a database search on the last two criteria. When you're done, give me what you've found and I'll take over. That sound thing is bugging me.'
Gwen nodded. 'What about the press? Are you going to give Cutler a cover story he can use for now? I don't see three mutilated singers staying off the front pages, no matter how many strings you pull.'
'Cutler's a big boy. He can manage for now. And anyway, I'm not sure I want this kept quiet at the moment. If it frightens a few singers away, there's not so many left for us to worry about. Speaking of which...' He glanced down at that large dial of his watch. 'I think it's time for the news.'
Out of the Boardroom and back in the heart of the Hub, Jack, Gwen and Ianto gathered around the small TV that looked so out of place amongst the high-tech computer equipment that filled the desk spaces. Jack turned the volume up as the opening titles for the news came to an end, then folded his arms across his chest.
The murders were the first headline, and Ianto thought that if Jack was happy for the press to be involved in this one then he should be looking pretty ecstatic. The newsreader stared intently into the camera.
'Three competitors in the Welsh Amateur Operatic Contest have been found dead in three separate locations across the city over the past twenty-four hours. The victims, two male and one female, whose names have not been released, were all qualifiers for this year's final to be held in ten days' time at Cardiff's Millennium Centre. Although the police are not releasing any details of the causes of death, it is believed that they are treating each as a murder enquiry and have not ruled out that the deaths are linked.'
The camera cut away from the studio and out to Cardiff's central police station. A tired-looking blond man in his thirties came out of the building and stopped at the top of the stone steps. He didn't carry an umbrella, instead ignoring the rain as he stared grimly into the flashing bulbs and microphones of the journalists.
'Is that Cutler?' Ianto asked.
Jack nodded. 'Does his face ring any bells?'
Ianto shook his head. 'Should it?'
'He says he had a case that was taken over by Torchwood One back in 2003. You used to work there. Dig through the records we've got and see if you can find out what it was. I'm curious. He seems pretty sharp.'
Ianto nodded. 'Will do.'
On screen, Cutler glared at the camera, his chin tucked down a little, like a boxer preparing for a fight, as journalists shouted questions over each other. After a moment, he raised his hand, his brow furrowing slightly with impatience. He didn't wait for the small crowd to fall silent but started speaking over them, forcing their quiet if they wanted to hear what he had to say.
'We obviously can't say too much at this time given that the investigation is under way, but South Wales Police can confirm that three bodies have been found dead over the past twenty-four hours, and that we are treating these deaths as suspicious.' He paused, the space immediately filled with a cacophony of voices all demanding attention. Cutler continued as if only he and the camera were present.
'We also have reason to suspect that the deaths may be linked. Until we can give out further information, we would ask the public not to panic but also to take the usual sensible precautions.' For the first time he lifted his chin fully. 'That's all I can say at this time.'
Turning, Cutler moved quickly away from the reporters who were still shouting questions at him and went back into the station. Ianto was pretty sure he could make out words like 'Singers' and 'Competition' in the questions fired at the policeman's back. Given the way the victims had died, he figured it wouldn't be too long before one of the tabloids was hinting at the gruesome details, no matter how much of a media ban the police put on them, and then there'd be panic. As much as working for Torchwood was sometimes draining, he didn't envy Cutler's job.
Jack rolled up his sleeves and clapped his hands. 'Right then, let's get to work. We've got an alien to track down.'
NINE
Up on the Cardiff streets, evening slowly drew in, the dark night falling with the rain, coating
the gloom with shifting shadows. Heels clicked quicker on the pavements, as people rushed to find their way to the warmth of their bright homes, shivering away the dampness of the day. Cars and buses blared horns and churned out chunks of acrid, irritated fumes. No one looked up. And, even if they had, the dark shape that darted here and there against the night would have been barely visible as it searched the city.
Hannah Lafferty undid the buttons of her smart woollen coat and gritted her teeth. The woman had to be joking. Beside her, the rest of the Milford Haven Women's Institute Choir were doing exactly as she was, all staring in disbelief at their musical director, Annaliese George. Hannah's fingers resisted the stiff buttons and, glancing down, she didn't recognise the gnarled hand at the end of her wrist for a moment. When did all those knotted veins and liver spots appear? Why was it that sometimes slow changes seemed to happen all of a sudden? Was it supposed to fool you into thinking that old age was somehow OK?
Feeling the numbness that had been rattled into the base of her spine since the early morning, Hannah decided that her hand was attached to the right body. A body that was getting old and couldn't deny it any longer. Her stare intensified into a glare as the choir and its director moved into a silent stand-off. It had been a fairly long journey in a very old minibus with only a tired fan heater on the dashboard to keep them warm, and none of their joints were as young or flexible as they used to be. Even Alice Jones, who was a mere slip of a thing at only 45, had complained of a sore back when they'd finally climbed out at the hotel.
And the hotel was another story in itself. After deciding to give the competition a whirl, admittedly at Annaliese's insistence, and having surprised themselves by getting through the regional heats, they had been very pleased with themselves when they had booked their accommodation early. No one would be able to say the Women's Institute was disorganised and left with nowhere to stay, not like some of the larger choirs in the competition whose members had ended up scattered far and wide in hotels and bed and breakfasts across the city because they'd left their bookings too late.
Into The Silence Page 5
