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 amp; 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 the 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.
However, as they'd gathered in the tatty and cramped reception area, it had become all too apparent that the Melrose Hotel didn't live up to the photos and description on its website. Hannah's teeth clenched tighter, straining her jaw, which wouldn't be good for her singing, but she couldn't help that. The hotel had failed to mention in their advertising that they had no lift, that all ten of the ladies' twin rooms were up on the fourth floor, and that the stairs were steep and uneven to say the least. Some doctors might encourage old women to spend their days dragging themselves up and down flights of steep and uneven stairs for no good reason other than their health but, as far as 62-year-old Hannah Lafferty was concerned, those doctors were daft. Old age was all about taking it easy and eating what you wanted. If it had been up to her, they'd have complained to the manager, but it seemed the rest of the group didn't want to cause a fuss and so she had gone along with it.
Staring now at Annaliese George and her chignon hair and perfect make-up, Hannah decided this was one time she was going to take a stand.
'What exactly do you mean you want us to move all the chairs?' Her voice a soft growl, she felt very tempted to point out that Annaliese was quite new to the organisation and should really stop trying to boss them around. She was their musical director; she could boss them around when they were singing. That was about it.
'They'll interfere with the acoustics.' Annaliese's clipped tones reeked of Surrey, and Hannah wished, not for the first time, that the woman would just move back there.
Enid Evans timidly stepped up, unwinding a scarf from around her neck. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly. 'But there must be at least a hundred or more of them.'
'Keep that scarf on, Enid!' Annaliese tutted. 'You need to protect
your voice.'
'Well, folding up and stacking all those chairs is hardly going to help our singing voices, is it?' Alice's voice rose from somewhere towards the back of the group, and Hannah smiled. The choir had no chance of winning anything in the competition, they had no illusions about that, but they did have Alice Jones and her beautiful soprano. Some of the others might not want to admit it, but it was Alice who lifted them out of the ordinary and into something more than that.
'You don't have to move them, Alice.' Annaliese obviously knew it too. 'You could just make sure that everyone has a bottle of water to sip by their place.'
A murmur of discontent rustled along the line, and Hannah raised an eyebrow. 'We don't have any stars in the choir, Annaliese.'
'No we don't,' added Alice.
Hannah stared at the rows of chairs that stretched towards the gloomy rear of the Llandaff community centre, and then checked her watch. 'Look ladies, we've only got the hall for an hour and a half. It's six o'clock now. If we move all those chairs it'll just waste rehearsal time. We can work around the acoustics. Let's just get on with singing.'
The rustle of discontent translated into murmurs of assent and, knowing when she'd lost, Annaliese clapped her hands together and turned her back on the uniform chairs. 'Let's get to your places and ready to start. Form your lines.' With a nod and a raised eyebrow she organised the choir into a presentable semi-circle of three rows. 'And remember ladies, never sing louder than lovely!'
Half an hour later and they were in full voice, belting out their arrangement of 'How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?' It had been Annaliese's choice and, although Hannah had hated it at first, she had to admit that it worked for them. They were women of the right age and could have fun with it, without making it sound twee. As much as Annaliese George irritated her as a person, she was definitely a talented musical director.
Despite the chill that hovered under the high ceilings of the practical seventies hall, Hannah's face was warm as her breath moved in a steady flow, pushing out her sections of the song, and she relaxed into the enjoyment of being part of the wave of sound created by her friends around her. She looked down at Annaliese, her stout but elegant form standing about two rows back into the empty audience seating, the top of her hair lost and absorbed into the dusky darkness of the rear of the centre.
Into the Silence t-10 Page 5