Torchwood Long Time Dead (10 page)

existed within, as it reached out back through the

viewer and sought him out. He had what it needed.

He couldn't tear his eyes away and cold sank in

through his skin as the dimension tore into his

mind for his fears and terrors and the things that

woke him in the night when he was a child.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He

wanted to turn his ship around and go home and

shout to the world that the spiritualists were right

and there were things worse than the endless sleep

that faced them all. There was a blacker darkness

than nothing and they should pray to nature and

physics and each other that it would never find

them.

He did none of those things. Instead, his eyes

exploded as the dimension took him, and his body

died, sitting in shit, in his commander's chair.

The ship drifted for years, for a while sucked into

the orbit around the sun, mimicking the third

planet's movements, the rotting body and rusting

ship looking on as life formed there and spread

across its surface. As the law of averages would

have it - if not the laws of physics pure that the

young adventurer had once held so dear - the

dead ship finally drifted into the rift and joined

the debris there, not long in fact before the search

vessel cruised by the small solar system so far from

home.

They didn't pause for long and didn't see the tiny

rift above the third planet. The young adventurer

would not have come this far from home, they

concluded, before turning back.

As the law of averages - which often proves to

be the most reliable - would have it, the small

viewing device finally slipped out through the tear

hidden within the rift. But like its creator it wasn't

unchanged by its experience. The unnatural had

connected with it for too long, perhaps because

its creator was endlessly tormented in the foul

darkness. There was no screen waiting for it to be

switched on and SEE. Just the hungry darkness.

Time passed and the small metal card drifted

through the rift, until finally, as the law of averages

would have it, the viewing device finally fell from

the rift and to the third planet below, falling into

the ocean. The third planet had grown and filled

with life since the young explorer had paused

above their skies. They too had been plagued with

glimpses and fears of something beyond. They, like

all the other civilisations, gave it a name and, like

all the other civilisations, some laughed at it, and

others believed it was what waited for so many of

them when the quiet nothing of death came.

And all through the years, beyond the tear in

the rift, Hell waited.

'Commander Jackson?'

The soldier had probably spoken his name more
than once judging by the uncertain look on his
face when Elwood Jackson looked up. He wasn't
surprised. He'd been lost in the information the
police had given him regarding the murders, and
his head was swimming slightly. That they were
committed by the same person who had killed
John Blackman was clear, but who
was
that? All
his staff were present and correct. Could one of
them have killed Blackman and gone and dumped
the suit in a back alley and then got back to the site
and into their own, to make it look as if someone
had killed him and left? Could anyone have done
that without being noticed? He was angry enough
that someone had been able to just walk out of
the site with a suit on without being stopped or
questioned.

They'd all got slack, that was what had

happened. The operation had been going well and
with little interest or interference from the rest of
Cardiff, or indeed the country, and so those on duty
weren't staying focused. Well, they bloody would
do from now on, even if he had to drag them down
to the mortuary and show them those awful dead
bodies himself. Death itself didn't bother him, nor
would he expect it to bother his soldiers - they
were all experienced campaigners who had no
doubt each seen horrific sights. But the unnatural
quality of these deaths was disturbing. There
was nothing earthy and gritty about them, and
although they'd been told to expect 'interesting'

finds on the recovery dig, this was something else.

He was both looking forward to and dreading
the pathologist's report on the bodies. He hoped
there'd be an explanation for the eyes.

'What is it, Corporal?' He closed the folder and
thankfully placed the dead in his top drawer. He'd
looked at them enough for one day.

'The Department have sent over a new Liaison
for you.' The young man stepped aside. 'Sue
Costa.'

For a moment, Commander Jackson said

nothing. He was too surprised. The woman in the
doorway stepped forward and smiled, her teeth
perfectly white. Her dark eyes twinkled in her
face and he decided in that instant that she was
quite beautiful; feline and languid perhaps, but
beautiful. Her red shirt dress stopped just above
the knee, and he couldn't help his eyes wandering
down her slim body to the matching red heels at her
feet. He was old, admittedly, but he wasn't dead.

He could still appreciate a good-looking woman,
and after the pictures he'd just been studying, she
was a welcome relief.

'You look surprised to see me,' she said, still
smiling. 'Sorry about that. You know what the
Department are like. You should have an email
somewhere saying I'm coming.'

'You're right,' he said. 'I wasn't expecting you.

What exactly have the Department sent you for?'

He glanced up at the waiting soldier. 'You're
dismissed, Corporal.'

'Yes sir. We checked her on the way in, sir.

She's cleared.'

They waited until the door was closed.

These murders,' the woman said, taking a seat
opposite his desk and crossing her elegantly long
legs. The Department feel that it's probably best
if I act as your liaison with the police while the
investigation is under way. Thus far, the activity
at this site has caused no problems with the
general public, and should anyone suspect that
perhaps someone involved with the work here is
responsible - well - you can imagine.'

'Quite true.' Commander Jackson wasn't quite
sure how to react. The request was perfectly
reasonable, and yet he couldn't help but feel that
some of his control was being wrested from him.

'You have a high profile in the city and the
Department feel that the residents have grown to
trust you - your military and war record certainly
help that - and therefore they don't want that
reputation damaged. Not while you still have so
much more to do here.'

'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.

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.

T 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.'