Something in the Water (2 page)

He was blithering. Doing exactly what Iuean always complained about.

But Saskia seemed not to notice, or perhaps care. She said, ‘I’m looking for the right kind of man. And I think you’re the one.’

‘Ah,’ he said, for want of anything more intelligent to say. He decided at this point it was best to just shut his mouth and say as little as possible. At least until his brain starting thinking again. Saskia was staring back at him, and he had a sudden vision of himself lying on top of her, looking down into those indefinable green-grey eyes as he made love to her on his desk.

Bob shook his head to clear it. ‘Saskia – Miss Harden – you’ve been coming to see me every week for the last month. I know you’ve had your problems with the police, and I have agreed to help and support you in your recovery as much as I can but …’ He struggled for something to say and then opted for a weak smile. ‘I have to draw the line somewhere.’

She looked away from him for the first time, and Bob felt as though a light had been turned off somewhere. The world was suddenly a dimmer place. He coughed politely to make her look up at him again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude. It’s just that …’

‘What?’

He couldn’t see what she was wearing under the raincoat – there was only a triangle of pale flesh visible between the lapels. There really was nothing to suggest that she was wearing anything at all underneath. He wondered what it would be like to kiss those strange, mysterious lips.

Bob coughed again and sat back in his chair, taking in a good breath of air. Finally, finally, his professional training reasserted itself. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Saskia. Don’t get me wrong. But this isn’t the time or the place for … for this. It’s not that I’m not interested. But I am a doctor. There are rules about this sort of thing.’

‘Rules?’

‘Yeah.’ He sat forward and punched some keys on the laptop, making sure that he didn’t look into her eyes again. ‘Look. You show every sign of making a full and proper recovery – but I want to keep things professional. I have to keep things professional. At least in this surgery. You must understand that. OK?’

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. Her eyes told him everything he needed to know: that what he had said made no difference to her at all. His words had been no more than the pathetic bleating of a lamb under the watchful eyes of the wolf. Eyes that were still full of hunger, a strange, inexplicable craving that went beyond simple lust. Bob found he was completely unable to speak or move. In that timeless interval in the conversation, Bob was suddenly and coldly struck by how appropriate the name Angel of Death was for her.

Because, somewhere deep inside him, he realised that he was absolutely terrified of this woman.

The eyes blinked, as cool and grey as an alligator gliding under the water’s surface. ‘Well then,’ she said, unfolding herself from the seat. ‘I’d better be going. Catch you another time.’

Bob stood up awkwardly, aware that he was sweating. He tried smiling at her and held a hand towards the door. ‘I’ll set up another appointment for you next week,’ he told her. ‘See Miss Bird on the desk on the way out and she’ll confirm the time. OK?’

She nodded and left. Bob stood in the doorway for a few moments and watched her walk away, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips beneath the material of her raincoat. He felt nothing. The attraction had simply vanished, leaving a freezing ache in his chest and throat.

When he lifted his hands to his face, they were visibly shaking.

ONE

Owen Harper was waiting on the street corner, pulling his leather jacket tighter to keep out the worst of the drizzle. A cold wind blew in from the River Taff, dragging a squall of freezing rain through the grey city streets. It was bad weather, even for a late-summer night in Cardiff, and Owen hated waiting at the best of times.

He checked his watch, angling his wrist towards the nearest street light so that he could see the display. At exactly two minutes to midnight, he heard the growl of an engine and then a big black off-roader appeared around the corner, blue lights flickering in the windscreen. The SUV skidded to a halt right next to him, TORCHWOOD stencilled in black on the rain-speckled wing.

The passenger door popped open, and Owen peered inside. ‘Going my way?’ he asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

The interior was illuminated by a complicated range of VDUs and dashboard controls. Captain Jack Harkness was at the wheel, a broad grin on his face. ‘All the way,’ he said.

‘I bet you pick up guys like this all the time,’ said Owen as he climbed in and shut the door.

‘It’s the car,’ Jack smiled. ‘Everyone digs the car.’

The SUV surged forward. ‘So, where are you taking me tonight?’ Owen inquired politely. ‘Dinner? Pictures? Underground car park?’

‘It’s a surprise.’

A chain-link fence flashed by, topped by old plastic bags caught on the barbed wire and fluttering in the wind.

‘Charming spot,’ Owen remarked.

‘Industrial estate,’ said Jack. ‘Weevil country.’

This got Owen’s full attention. ‘You’ve seen him?’

‘We’ve accessed CCTV security footage of the area from the cops. No doubt about it, Big Guy’s here somewhere.’

Owen let out a whistle. Big Guy was a rogue Weevil that had been giving them the slip for nearly two months; it had left a trail of dead and injured throughout Butetown, always disappearing back into the sewer system before they could catch it.

‘No wonder you dragged me out of bed.’

Jack glanced across at him. ‘Well, you are our go-to guy for Weevils.’

‘Yeah.’ Owen felt the junction of his neck and shoulder a little nervously. He had suffered a bad Weevil bite not all that long ago and the wound still ached. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Ghost hunting near Newport.’

‘Oh.’ Owen wondered at this. It was unusual for just two of them to go after a Weevil; but then Big Guy was unusual. He didn’t question the importance of ghost hunting in Newport compared to taking Big Guy down. Jack was wearing the kind of face that didn’t welcome questions like that. Owen guessed that he knew the situation wasn’t ideal but didn’t want to miss a chance of catching the Weevil.

Jack slung the SUV around another corner and met a roadblock. The wet night air was full of flashing blue lights and policemen in large fluorescent jackets. He slowed down, negotiating a couple of squad cars until he drew level with one of the cops, a big sergeant with a bushy ginger moustache and watchful eyes. Jack slid the driver’s window down and the sergeant leaned in, removing his cap first and shaking the rain off it.

‘Evenin’ all,’ said Owen.

The sergeant glared at him but then flicked his gaze back to Jack, acknowledging his authority. ‘Reckon we’ve got your man holed up in that warehouse,’ the policeman said gravely. He used his cap to indicate a low, two-storey building further down the street. ‘Standing orders are to leave these things to Torchwood – so this is me, leaving it to you, OK?’

‘OK,’ Jack nodded.

The policeman looked him up and down and Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Want my phone number, constable?’

‘That’s Sergeant Thomas, to you, sir,’ replied the policeman solemnly. ‘And no, I do not.’

He stepped back, waving them on, and Jack turned to Owen with a rueful smile. ‘Can’t win ’em all!’

Then he tooled the SUV past the cordon and they left the blue lights in a cloud of carbon-neutral exhaust.

‘That’s the place.’ Jack slowed down and nodded at a crumbling sandstone building. It looked cold and forgotten, silhouetted against the dull orange furnace of the city beyond.

‘It’ll be deserted,’ Owen said. ‘The blues and twos will have scared it off.’

Jack shook his head. ‘The cops have put men on all the sewer entrances within a half-mile radius. Big Guy’s in there, and he’s ours.’

Owen shifted in his seat so that he could reach the stun-gun in his jacket pocket.

‘Leave it,’ Jack advised. ‘This guy’s too big and he’s going to be mad as a bagful of rattlesnakes. We’ll never get close enough to be polite. This one’s going down.’

He speeded up again as they approached the warehouse, the SUV’s powerful halogens throwing up fat circles of light across a pair of wide doors. Owen saw some faded lettering over the entrance, but the SUV was now moving too fast for him to read it; Jack had floored the accelerator and the SUV was charging forward. The lights grew brighter as it approached the brick wall, and Owen flung up a hand to protect his face against the inevitable collision but, at the last second, Jack twisted the wheel again, slewed the car right around and hit the wooden doors broadside.

The SUV rocked under the impact but the doors gave, splintering as the old wood fell apart along seams of wet rot. The vehicle turned again, the heavy tyres losing their grip on the wet concrete floor of the warehouse, and the headlamps sent searchlight beams roving crazily around the darkened interior. They glimpsed metal pillars, stairs, balconies and a huge pile of bin bags in one corner.

Jack had his door open before the SUV had fully come to a halt, was out and running, gun in hand. His boots echoed across the hard floor, causing rats to flood out of the bin bags and into the shadows. Owen followed, drawing his own gun, hearing the triumphant shout as Jack saw something moving on the far side of the room.

‘Up there!’ Jack flicked on a powerful LED torch, its beam zigzagging up a metal staircase. ‘Stop it!’

Owen snapped off a couple of shots in the right direction, but the rounds drew nothing more than sparks off metal. The boom of the heavy automatic reverberated around the warehouse like trapped thunder looking for a way out.

Without breaking his stride, Owen sprinted for the stairs leading up the gantry. Jack was right behind him, and he must have seen the thing again, because next Owen heard the heavy crack of Jack’s old Webley revolver, and more sparks flew somewhere up in the darkness.

They split up, Owen taking the stairs on the left while Jack headed right. Owen took the metal steps three at a time, thighs straining, but he had to make the effort. They had been chasing this particular Weevil for long enough. It was big, tough and bastard cunning. Finally, they had it trapped.

Owen reached the landing and dropped to a crouch, arms extended, gun in both hands, trying not to breathe too hard. He didn’t want to compromise his aim, for one thing, and then there was the smell.

‘This place is bloody rank,’ Owen said. ‘What the hell’s making that stench?’

Jack’s reply came promptly from the shadows: ‘Shh! Thought I saw something …’

Owen concentrated. The shadows were deep up here, and huge, grimy cobwebs floated among the girders of the ceiling and balcony like ghosts.

But there was something, up ahead, moving slowly in the darkness. Owen levelled his gun quickly, feeling a familiar surge of adrenalin. Then he forced himself to slow down; to do it properly. He summoned the clarity of mind he used on the shooting range and sighted carefully along the automatic’s barrel, weapon held high, level with his eye.

He thought he could see it – just a silhouette, no more than one clot of darkness among all the others, but something was wrong. It didn’t have the right shape for a Weevil. It didn’t sound like one either – no harsh breathing or guttural noises.

The target spun, dropped, and Owen’s shot went wide. Something clanged at the far end of the landing and he heard Jack shout. For a horrible moment Owen thought he’d hit him, but then he saw Jack running back down the stairs, greatcoat flapping behind him like bat wings.

Bloody hell! The thing had jumped. Straight off the gantry, a forty-foot drop.

Suicide, normally, even for a Weevil. But Torchwood didn’t deal with normal.

Owen swore loudly and doubled back, hurrying down the steps.

He found Jack at the bottom, circling the area warily, gun held down in a two-handed grip. He didn’t look happy.

‘Don’t tell me we lost it,’ Owen said between breaths. ‘Not after all this.’

‘No way,’ Jack snapped. ‘It’s in here somewhere and it’s not leaving.’

For a second, all they could hear was their own heavy breathing. They stood still and listened carefully. The warehouse wasn’t huge, but it was full of echoes and dark places. It would be possible to hide in here – but not for ever.

A rat darted out of a side opening and disappeared into the shadows. Owen realised the significance immediately, exchanging a nod with Jack. Something had spooked that rat.

‘This way,’ said Jack quietly, moving forward, pistol raised. Owen followed him through the narrow doorway into a tiled passage. There was just enough light to see their way through to a large chamber on the far side. It was cold in here and there was a sound – unmistakably water, gently lapping at the edges of a large tank. It sounded to Owen like they had wandered into a swimming baths.

‘Phew! What is this place?’ hissed Owen, scouring the gloom. The terrible stench of putrefying waste was far worse here, hitting them like a wall of offal.

‘Fish farm. Used to be, anyway. Closed down and scheduled for demolition.’

‘Can’t come soon enough.’

‘Hold it.’ Jack stopped, held up a warning hand. He shone his torch down at his feet and found that he was standing in a large puddle of dark blood. Close by, a Weevil lay on its back, mouth open wide, stomach and chest opened even wider.

The rancid stench of Weevil blood hit Owen, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, gagging reflexively. ‘God almighty,’ he hissed a moment later, swallowing down the bile. ‘What the hell did that to him?’

‘It’s Big Guy,’ Jack said.

‘Was Big Guy.’ Owen, recovering, took a closer, more professional look. The bestial features were frozen in a surprised snarl. Fangs glinted in the torch light. Further down, torn muscle and intestines filled a gaping wound. ‘He’s been ripped open like a packet of crisps. Not many things could do that to a Weevil.’

They exchanged a look of mutual puzzlement, and then suddenly turned back to back, ignoring the corpse, covering each other.

‘Whatever it was, it may still be here,’ Jack whispered.