Into the Silence t-10

by Sarah Pinborough

  'Maybe it is insane,' Ianto cut in. 'Maybe that's why it's killing people.'

  Gwen shook her head. 'No, these deaths are too organised. If this creature was insane, it would just be charging through the streets of Cardiff ripping apart everyone it came across. This alien is selecting its victims specifically.'

  'Singers.'

  'Good singers,' added Jack. He looked over to Gwen. 'I think you're right. I'm not convinced that this alien is crazy. What it's doing might be crazy, but I don't think the essence of the alien is. Hell, I don't think it would even understand the concept.'

  'Maybe the Rift didn't drag it through. Maybe it came through because it wanted to.' Ianto's eyes were back on the small dark corner of the screen that showed a place so very, very — impossibly — far away.

  'It's a possibility,' said Jack. 'But one that we may never find the answer to, even if we do manage to catch this thing.'

  Gwen looked up. 'And do we have a plan for doing that?'

  'Ah…' Jack sighed and looked at his expectant team. 'Knowing what it is doesn't give us any help in finding it. The Rift activity only spikes pretty much immediately before an attack, which makes me think that this creature is somehow hiding just inside the Rift and only coming through when it's ready to kill.'

  Gwen stared at Jack, and then glanced over at Ianto, whose face looked as surprised as she felt. 'Hiding inside the Rift? Is that even possible?'

  Jack matched her gaze. 'You know as well as I do, with the Rift, anything could be possible.'

  'So we're in exactly the same position we were in yesterday?' Ianto asked.

  'No. We now know we can catch it. A portable prison cell will work on it, at least for an hour.'

  'And then what will we do with it?' Gwen peered over the top of her coffee mug. 'Sing it a lullaby and send it back through the Rift?'

  'Let's worry about that when we've caught it.'

  'Which brings us back to the original question.' Ianto finally looked away from the screen and back at Jack. 'How are we going to do that?'

  Jack's sparkling grin flashed. 'We're going to have to set a trap.' The sound of his mobile ringing pealed out from Jack's pocket and he groaned. 'Great.' Pushing away from the workstation, he took his coffee with him and headed back to his office. 'Gwen, I want you to get hold of Cutler and bring him in on this one. If we set a trap, I want it done with him in the know.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yeah.' Jack paused at his door and looked back over his shoulder. 'I read his file last night. I figure maybe Torchwood owes him.' The phone refused to go silent. 'Ianto, you get all the information from the crime scenes and see if there's anything we can use. Anything at all. Let's not lose any more people to this thing.'

  Closing the door, he finally flipped open his phone. Gwen sighed and pulled out her own mobile to find out exactly where Cutler was. Up to his eyes in crap, she should imagine, just like Jack Harkness was.

  FIFTEEN

  Journalists swarmed outside the police station like summer flies on roadkill and, pushing through them to reach the stairs, Gwen fought the urge to swat them away. What did they really want here: answers, or news of another gory death? Cardiff was selling record numbers of newspapers today and these vampires weren't going to want that to stop. Not just yet anyway.

  She bit back her disgust. Journalists were the leaders in the 'bad things happen to other people' brigade, as if their own lives were wipe-clean. One day, they'd each find out different. If they happened to become the news rather than just scavenging for it.

  'Are you with the police, lady?'

  A young man followed her up the stairs and tugged her sleeve slightly too insistently, making the collar of her jacket cut into her neck. 'You got any news on the Bruno murder? What about these other killings? They all by the same guy?'

  Yanking her arm free, Gwen glared at him. 'I've just lost my cat, that's all. Now get off me.'

  Taking the last few stairs two at a time, she pushed through the heavy door, shoving past the constable who was guarding the entrance, and headed straight for the desk sergeant.

  'Gwen Cooper. Torchwood.' The man behind the desk was a stranger to her. He raised his greying head and looked her up and down, and the disgruntled look was clear on his middle-aged face. She couldn't blame him entirely. The police knew very little about Torchwood, other than that they turned up and took over every now and again, and that could get under the skin. Still, they were all just doing their jobs, and ultimately they were all on the same side, even if it didn't always feel like it.

  Staring him down, she didn't smile. She was long past the stage of feeling split loyalties between her old job and her new work. Gwen was Torchwood through and through.

  'Where's DI Cutler? He's expecting me.'

  The sergeant stared at her for a moment before picking up the phone. 'I've got a Gwen Cooper here for DI Cutler.' He glanced up at her again, his disdain obvious. 'Apparently he's expecting her. Says she's Torchwood.'

  Gwen kept her own expression neutral. She knew his type; they were in all walks of life. The kind of man that was never going to respect a woman under 35, someone who was always going to think she had got to wherever she was by shagging someone.

  He put the phone down, and nodded very slightly towards the double doors. 'You'll find him through there somewhere. The incident room's on the second floor, but he might be out the back having a smoke.' He smiled. 'But you're Torchwood. You should find him no problem.'

  Gwen smiled back. 'I know where the incident room is.' Despite her smile, the words had an unmistakable acid edge. 'I used to work here. But thank you for being so helpful.'

  Leaving the sergeant to stew into his tea, she strode into the heart of the station. Phones rang, and printers rattled off reports and incident logs. She could feel the heightened energy in the air. While the rest of Cardiff was focused on the murders, there were men and women housed in this building who had to get on with solving all the other crimes that were still insisting on being committed daily: the domestic violence, the car thefts, the vandalisms. It was never ending.

  'Hi.' A smart WPC was scurrying by, a pile of papers in her hands, and Gwen stopped her with a gentle touch on the arm. She'd been just like that in these very corridors not so very long ago. 'I'm looking for DI Cutler. The miserable bastard on the desk said he might be out the back having a fag?'

  The young woman flashed a quick smile. 'Oh yes. He is. I saw him heading out five minutes ago. Just follow the corridor round and right at the end there's a fire escape. He's normally there.' Her smile lingered a little and, thanking her, Gwen wondered if the WPC had considered taking up smoking just to get to share that fire escape with the untidy London detective. Gwen wouldn't blame her. If she was single herself, she'd be tempted. There was something about a damaged man with a chip on his shoulder that was too bloody attractive. And she might not know Cutler well, but she knew him well enough to know that he fulfilled both those criteria.

  The fire door was ajar and, pushing it open, she found Cutler leaning on the railings and staring into the alleyway. Steam chugged out of vents on the wall opposite, which, if Gwen had her mental geography right, was the back of Giovanni's Trattoria. She suddenly wondered if this street even had a name, housing, as it did, only the ugly backsides of offices and businesses.

  Taking a long drag on his cigarette, Cutler didn't even turn round. 'I was hoping you wouldn't find me out here, Scully.'

  Stepping forward, Gwen joined him, peering out into the unsightly street full of bins and potholes now filled with dirty rain water. At least that had stopped for a while, even if the clouds were darkly ominous above them. 'We're Torchwood. We can find you anywhere.'

  'Really?' Cutler didn't contain his sarcasm. 'Then maybe rather than finding me, you should go find the bad guy.'

  'Fair comment.' She paused. 'I saw the reporters out the front. I take it you're not having the best day.'

  For the first time, Cutler turned to look at her, hi
s haunted eyes both defensive and appraising. 'The hyenas I can handle. Trust me, I've dealt with worse.' He paused and sucked on his cigarette again before flicking it out onto the tarmac below. 'Although if this isn't sorted soon they'll be dragging all that shit up again. That'll be fun.'

  Gwen noticed a flash of gold on his left hand and took a second to realise it was a ring. He was married. The information jarred in her head. That couldn't be right. He was too disaffected, too distant from the world to have anything like what she and Rhys shared. He was widowed or divorced. Had to be. Curiosity aroused, Gwen wished she'd taken a peek at his file. Maybe she'd get a look at it later.

  'Today I've been doing what I do worst,' Cutler continued, peering thoughtfully into his cigarette packet. 'Facing grieving people and having to lie and tell them that I'm chasing leads and going to catch whoever's doing this. Like I'm bloody Morse or Taggart or some other fictional character who never fails to help good win over evil.' He paused. 'What a pile of shit this is.'

  Feeling his tension escaping with his words, Gwen stayed silent. He needed to vent his frustration and it might as well be at her. An extra ten minutes or so wasn't going to make any difference. More steam pumped out from the restaurant opposite, drifting towards them before dying somewhere in the middle of the alley, ripped apart by the cool air.

  'Bruno's husband's a broken man.' Cutler tucked the cigarettes back in his pocket but stayed where he was. 'But then I think he was pretty much there before this happened. He's got that look of a man on the edge of collapse. She was going to fire him, he said. Sack him and divorce him.' He raised an eyebrow. 'She definitely would have done when she found out that he owed the tax man a bloody fortune. I don't even think it's his fault. From what I gather, she liked to live like a star and her best days were behind her.'

  Gwen lifted her chin to let the cool breeze touch her face. 'Poor workman blames his tools.'

  Cutler laughed a little; a soft, hollow sound. 'Yeah, and he definitely is her tool. Still,' he went on, 'Martin Meloy says he didn't care about that. He reckons he loved her.' He shook his head slightly. 'And I believe the sad little twat.' He pulled the cigarettes back out of his pocket and defiantly lit one. 'Love. Who'd bother? It only lets you down in the end.'

  'Worth it sometimes, though.' Gwen looked down at her own wedding band.

  Cutler laughed again. 'Give it time and some challenges. Then come back and tell me you're still happy.' At least this time there was a twinkle of genuine humour in his eyes, and for a brief moment Gwen saw almost behind the dark shadows in them to the person he might once have been.

  He frowned. 'Anyway. Where's Mulder?'

  Gwen smiled. 'Captain Jack Harkness is spending the morning doing what he does worst. He's strapped to his desk, fielding calls he doesn't want to take.'

  'Him too? Maybe we've got more in common than I gave him credit for. So, what's he sent you to tell me?' He raised an eyebrow. 'Does he want to make sure the puppet doesn't try pulling his own strings?'

  The bitter edge stung through the last sentence, and Gwen felt her own hackles rising a little. 'I don't know what happened with you and Torchwood One, that's not my business, but you really don't know Jack Harkness if you think that's how he sees or treats people.' She paused. 'He wants to set some kind of trap for the alien and he wants you in on it.' The first drops of rain fell heavily from the over-burdened sky. 'He thinks Torchwood owes you.'

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Cutler shrugged. 'Mulder may be right on that one.'

  The fire door opened and the constable who had been keeping an eye on the journalists at the main entrance to the station peered round the door.

  'Sorry to disturb you, sir.' He looked warily over at Gwen before continuing. 'There's a bloke at the front desk. Says he wants to see you.'

  Cutler snorted. 'Tell him to join the queue.'

  'I did tell him you were in a meeting, but he's refusing to leave. I think he's a bit hysterical. Says he's that poof's boyfriend. Says you spoke to him this morning.'

  'That poof 's name was Ben Pritchard,' Cutler growled, making the young constable visibly flinch and pull back slightly behind the safety of the heavy door. 'And as we're as yet unable to tell his boyfriend who was responsible for ripping his loved one apart in a park, I suggest you start showing a little more respect.'

  The constable's face was beetroot. 'Sorry, sir. Didn't mean anything by it.'

  'And that,' Cutler dropped the half-smoked cigarette and left it to die on the damp ground before letting his eyes slash through the man as they passed him, 'makes it worse.'

  Drew Powell was sitting dejectedly on the hard bench that lined one bleak wall of the reception area, his face blotchy from tears, his fingers worrying at a cotton handkerchief. Gwen looked at the chubby man. His short hair was fluffy and unkempt where she thought it would normally be carefully styled with wax or gel and his eyes were exhausted.

  'I told you to pack up and go home, Mr Powell.' Cutler's voice was weary, but kind, as if he felt some of the other man's grief personally. 'We'll let you know when we can release the body. Go back to your family and friends. This place can't be any good for you.'

  Drew Powell stood up and paced. 'I can't go home. Not now.' He paused and looked from Cutler to Gwen and back again. 'I saw the news. Couldn't help it. Maria Bruno's dead too. You didn't tell me.' He held the handkerchief up to his nose, pressing it against his face, sucking the smell in rather than using it to clean himself. It wasn't his, Gwen realised. It was Ben's. Powell was using it like a comfort blanket.

  'Do you think whoever killed her killed my Ben too? They said… they said she was mutilated. Just like Ben.' His voice dropped to barely a whisper, his energy draining.

  Cutler glanced at Gwen and shrugged slightly. 'I can't discuss the details of the case with you. Not at this stage. It could jeopardise the ongoing investigation. I'm sorry.' His apology sounded hollow.

  Drew turned his desperate stare on Gwen. 'You can't tell me anything?'

  'Detective Inspector Cutler's right,' she told him. 'I know this is terrible, but the best thing for you is to go home and grieve. We'll do everything we can.'

  The chubby man lifted his chin and took a deep, snotty breath through his nose. He pursed his lips. 'I am not going to be going home. I shall sing in that competition.' His lips wobbled a little as tears threatened, but he swallowed them back. 'Pritchard and Powell came second last year, and we would have won this year. I'm not letting Ben down now. I'll sing on my bloody own if I have to!'

  Drew turned on one heel in a dramatic pre-exit stage left moment worthy of any theatre in the world, but it only seemed pathetically fragile in this situation. He was about to flounce out of the station and into the glare of the hungry media, when Gwen felt the tingle of an idea run through her. Reaching forward, she touched his arm. He turned.

  'What?'

  Although they were the only people in the front of the station apart from the desk sergeant, she stepped in closer. Beside her, Cutler did the same.

  'What are you doing, Scully?'

  She didn't look at him, focusing on Drew. 'What if we could find you another singing partner?'

  He stared, his pale eyes searching into hers. 'I don't want to sing with anyone else.'

  'But what if you could sing with someone and maybe have a chance of helping catch whoever did this to Ben?'

  'Scully-'

  She glared at Cutler cutting him dead. 'The name's Gwen Cooper. And back off.'

  Drew's eyes widened. 'I'll do it,' he whispered.

  'It's too dangerous,' Cutler snapped. He looked at the small, chubby man, whose eyes at last held something other than sheer desolation. 'I'm sorry. It's too risky.'

  'But it's my risk, isn't it?' Drew stood up close to Cutler and pulled himself as tall as he could manage. 'And Ben wouldn't hesitate… wouldn't have hesitated… to do it for me.'

  Gwen was pleased to hear that the smaller man had his own reserve of steel to coat hi
s words with.

  She pressed speed dial on her mobile. 'Ianto. Tell Jack I think I've got a plan.' She paused. 'And it involves you.'

  SIXTEEN

  Be careful what you wish for… The old saying ran through Ianto's head as he walked up the stone-flagged stairs to the tiny Gothic chapel of St Jude's. Its dark walls were aged and weather-beaten and, surrounded as it was by the comparatively vast and bright office buildings that had grown up in the nearby streets since the 1970s, it was almost forgotten and invisible, just a dark shadow of history clinging to existence against the inevitability of change.

  Pulling open the heavy door, he stepped into the vestry, immediately shivering in the warmth. The bricks and mortar may have been ancient, but the inside was relatively modern and well maintained. There were no draughts or bad lighting and the pews were light wood, covered in soft, fresh, red bench cushions.

  Walking up the aisle, the words echoed again in his head.

  Be careful what you wish for. It may come true.

  He was definitely learning the meaning of that. Yes, he'd been stuck in the Hub a bit too much recently, but this plan of Gwen's wasn't exactly what he'd meant by wanting to get out more. Chasing down Weevils, yes. Tracking alien technology on the move, yes. Being stuck with Drew Powell all bloody day, no. That had definitely not been what he'd wanted. It wasn't as if it gave them any more than an outside chance of catching the damned thing.

  He took a sip from his strong takeaway coffee and then tore open the wrapper of a chocolate bar with his teeth. He was going to need the energy. Mentally and emotionally at any rate. The chocolate and caramel tasted good, and the next sip of coffee melted the remains in his mouth, making sure none escaped the trip into his blood stream. The coffee was over-brewed, but at least the taste of chocolate overpowered it slightly. He needed it, however bad it tasted. There couldn't be enough sugar and caffeine to help him cope with Drew Powell. The man strained even Ianto Jones's natural calm reserve. As far as Ianto was concerned, Ben Pritchard must have been a saint.