Torchwood Long Time Dead (2 page)

He touched it gently, but all he could feel was
her skin underneath. That was wrong. That was
definitely wrong. He looked back at the twisted
metal and the way she lay, and he knew, as his
bladder contracted, that his first impression had
been right. She'd come out of the drawer. Had it
been her coffin? That wasn't possible, surely?

Her back arched suddenly and she gasped

loudly, sitting bolt upright with a sudden jolt. The
speed of her movement surprised John, and he
tumbled backwards from his crouch into a sitting
position.

Who are you?' he breathed.

She moved like a cat, quick and flexible, and
within a second she was free of the drawer and
holding his head in her hand. Had she even been
hurt at all? Had the moaning simply been a lure?

Why was he suddenly so terribly afraid?

He looked up at her face. A small smile teased
her full lips as she tilted her head and leaned in
towards him.

'I have something to show you,' she whispered.

And then she did.

As he looked into the terrible, empty blackness
of her eyes, John Blackman knew with certainty
that there would never be a date with Lucy
Waters. Terror gripped his soul and the darkness
that swirled in her eyes sucked him in.

He was so lost, he barely felt it when Suzie
Costello stabbed him hard in the liver with a
broken shard of glass, all the time smiling at him
as he died.

Detective Inspector Tom Cutler wasn't quite sure
how he'd ended up back at the excavation site this
morning, but somehow here he was. He sipped his
cooling coffee and watched for any sign of activity
from beyond the barriers. He should have been at
the station. He had the paperwork on the Frame
case to finish up, and the DCI's weekly briefing
was due to start at ten. If he was going to make
that, then he needed to leave now. His feet didn't
move though. Just five more minutes.

It was barely a month since a terrorist attack
had demolished the heart of Cardiff Bay, leaving
a bomb crater where the millennium water tower
had once stood. When the government teams and
the army had first started to dig through the
rubble, the crowds had been quite large, mainly
muttering about why on earth all the men and
women were in protective clothing if the public
announcements were to be believed and there was
nothing for the residents of Cardiff Bay to fear.

Now, however, they were three weeks in, and
most passers-by barely glanced at the Portakabins
and sheets of plastic that covered the entrance to
the site. There were still army officers guarding
the barriers, but there was no real threat of anyone
trying to break through. Not since the drunk
teenagers had tried to get in on the first weekend
of the excavation project. They hadn't succeeded.

Cutler and his new sergeant, Andy Davidson, had
responded to that call-out from the army and had
given the kids a stern warning then taken them
home. Cutler remembered that night. Sergeant
Andy had done most of the talking. Cutler hadn't
been able to take his eyes from the sheets of white
plastic. They flapped in the breeze and he caught
glimpses of the dark within. It teased him.

The next day had been a day off, and he'd treated
himself to lunch in the Bay. He'd eaten quickly
and then wandered down to the site, convincing
himself it was just a whim, and that it hadn't been
the sole purpose of his lunch out. Since then, he'd
found time to be here at least once every couple of
days. More recently though, his visits had become
twice a day where possible. And he was intent on
making it possible. Something about the place
fascinated him, and he couldn't figure out what it
was. When he was away from the site, it was as if
he had a quiet itch constantly in his brain.

There was something about this place that
niggled at him. As if there was something he
should
know
, but every time he went to the place
in his mind that was bugging him, there was just
an empty space. It was weird. It wasn't like him
either. He was the golden boy of the Force and
had been ever since he'd solved the now infamous
gruesome murders during the Welsh Amateur
Operatic Contest and been persuaded to stay
in Cardiff rather than head back to London. He
was easy-going and got on with all his colleagues,
commanding respect where it was due. This
solitary behaviour wasn't in his nature.

That hadn't stopped him coming down here

again
, though, and, when he was here, the
strangeness of his new obsession didn't matter.

He wasn't getting any answers by watching, but
he still felt soothed. He shoved his hands into his
pockets and frowned. What was that? He pulled
out the rectangular packet. Cigarettes? He stared,
surprised. When had he bought those? He hadn't
smoked in months, and he'd quit so naturally that
he found it hard to remember ever being a smoker
in the first place. Smoking, like these visits, wasn't
in his nature. He went out for long runs at least
three times a week and ate healthily. Cigarettes
didn't fit with that lifestyle.

Still, as he stared at the packet, he fought the
urge to open it and light one up. He shoved them
back into his coat; out of sight, almost out of mind.

He should leave. He'd be late. He was about to
reluctantly turn away when a figure emerged from
behind the heavy plastic sheeting. Tom Cutler
moved closer to the barriers, wanting to catch a
glimpse of the face through the plastic square,
but sunlight bounced off it, spoiling his view.

Whoever it was nodded a swift hello at the soldier
guarding the entrance and then strolled away.

Instead of going into one of the Portakabins, the
figure walked straight out through the barriers,
barely three or four metres from where Cutler
was standing, picking its pace up to a brisk walk.

Cutler frowned again. Outside the barrier? In a
contamination suit? They never did that.

The figure was pulling off its helmet when
sudden activity back at the site distracted Cutler.

Another two suited-up people emerged from behind
the plastic, but this time they were moving with
purpose. They jogged over to the largest of the
trailers and ran inside. Cutler glanced back the
other way, but the original figure had disappeared.

Something was wrong. Had they found something
in the site that had freaked one worker out and
made them flee the site? That didn't ring quite
true. The person hadn't been running. They'd just
simply walked confidently away.

He wondered why it bothered him. For all he
knew, the restrictions had been lowered and it
was fine to leave the site with all the gear still
on. He knew nothing about the operation - no
one did, even though Commander Jackson had
been quite high profile amongst the press and
local dignitaries, including coming to their police
dinner as a guest of the Commissioner. He was
everywhere, but saying nothing of significance.

Cutler wondered if anyone else had noticed. But
then, no one else appeared to share his fascination
with this place.

Back behind the barrier, the figures re-emerged
from the cabin. Commander Jackson, in his full
army uniform rather than a protective suit, was
with them. If his face was anything to go by, then
whatever had sent the two men scurrying to find
him, wasn't good.

Cutler's phone was ringing. Shit, it was 10.15.

'Where are you, boss?' Andy Davidson asked.

Cutler could hear his concern. He was never late

- not for a briefing.

'Sorry, I'll be there in five.'

Jackson and the two men vanished behind the
plastic sheeting.

'Everything all right, is it, sir?'

Yeah. Just overslept. Forgot to set my phone.'

It was a lousy excuse and he knew it, but Davidson
wouldn't question him. His behaviour might have
been a bit strange recently but not enough to
warrant any probing from either his sergeant or
his boss. Not yet anyway. Reluctantly, he turned
away and dumped his cold coffee in a bin. It was
time to get back to the daily grind. He forced
himself not to peer over his shoulder for one last
look. He did have
some
control, after all.

'What the hell happened here?' Commander

Jackson crouched by the body. 'He's a bloody
civilian.'

'He signed a disclaimer. There won't be any
trouble.'

Commander Elwood Jackson looked up.

Sometimes he wondered just how depersonalised
his special detail were. Where did they train
them? As far as he was concerned, a little heart
went a long way, even in the business of kill or
be killed. It was a different Army from when he'd
joined up, and when he looked at this new breed

- those now siphoned off to be Department men -

he felt every year of the passed time in his bones.

Not for the first time since he'd arrived in Cardiff,
he wondered if he was simply getting too old for
all this.

'A man's dead. There already
is
trouble.' The
lab rat, pathetically dressed in only his underwear,
was lying on his side, and Jackson carefully rolled
him over.

'Jesus.' The voice behind him muttered. Maybe
these men weren't so inhuman after all. 'What the
hell happened to him, sir?'

John Blackman's eyes were bleeding.

Commander Jackson couldn't be sure, but it looked
very much like they had exploded. A thick piece of
glass was also stuck so deep into the dead man's
side only a small edge was visible. That wound,
however, was clean. It was as if all the blood in his
body had been sucked up to his brain and forced
out through the terrible injury to his eyes. He
swallowed his disgust. This wasn't good.

'He'll have to stay here until tonight. We can
get the body out then. Too much of the site is
visible to risk it now.'

'What did that to him, sir?'

'Search this area. Look for any device he may
have touched or activated by accident.' Commander
Jackson looked at poor Dr Blackman's eye sockets
again and suddenly felt naked without a suit on.

'And where the hell are his clothes and his
suit?' he asked. 'I presume he was wearing clothes
under it?'

Til check, sir.'

On his feet, Jackson scanned the area with his
torch, professionally covering the ground with the
light, careful not to pass over anything or miss a
space out. Nothing. No sign of either clothes or
suit. Metal gleamed in several places amidst the
wreckage and he stared at one of the large objects.

A large metal drawer. Looked unpleasantly like
it might have served as a coffin. No wonder this
basement level was filled with the stench of death
and rot. He had been warned that they might
come across the dead amidst the treasures the
Department wanted. And here they were. One
drawer nearby had broken open but he couldn't
see any glimpse of a body. He looked back down
at Blackmore's terrible corpse. Suitless. An empty
drawer and a missing suit.

'I need to go and call this in,' he muttered,
aware of the two men watching him impassively.

He couldn't show any hint of being in any way
unsettled by this discovery. They relied on him to
stay calm. 'Find that suit. And I want to know if
anyone is missing.'

Back in the bright light of his makeshift office,
Commander Elwood Jackson couldn't shake off
the chill and stink of the vault. There had been a
moment's hesitation at the other end of the phone
when he'd described the scene to David Elliott,
the smooth and calm Department chief he was
responsible to, and it hadn't reassured him. The
idea that something had got out of one of those
broken drawers, killed John Blackman and stolen
his suit in order to get away should have been
preposterous.

When he'd taken command of this operation
it had been made very clear that they were not
looking for survivors. Broken down to basics this
was an equipment salvage operation. It was simply
that the equipment might be highly sophisticated
and like nothing Jackson and his men had seen
before. That hadn't concerned him at the time.

He was used to simply managing operations and
following orders from above. That the orders were
coming from the Department rather than military
command was really neither here nor there. The
outcome was the same, and it wasn't as if they
were in the field. The building collapsing aside,
there should have been no real reason for anyone
to be injured or lose their lives. All the men on site
knew that whatever they pulled out of the rubble
had to go to Blackman and his ilk for further
studying. Soldiers, in the main, weren't a curious
bunch. That's what made them such good soldiers.