His mobile began ringing, and there was a flicker in her eyes as it broke through the haze of the drug.
'Who are you?' she whispered, half-noticing him.
'I'm the last person you should ask that question,' he replied, pulling her eyelids gently closed with his fingers and answering the mobile. 'Hold on,' he said into the phone. 'You never saw me,' he whispered in Mrs Wilkinson's ear as she sank into sleep, moving quickly out of the house, wiping the door handles as he went.
Outside, he put the phone back to his ear. 'Hey, Gwen, sorry… Just readjusting the facts in the case of Danny Wilkinson.'
'No problem. Police reports altered and the usual news blankets in place at my end. Traffic accident, as you said.'
'Great. Thanks.'
'You may have another one on your hands, though. Huge chronon surge not a stone's throw from where we found the body, I've sent the coordinates to your PDA.'
'Great…' Jack was already climbing into the driver's seat and accessing the GPS software. 'Got it,' he said as the bookmark popped up onscreen. He dropped his mobile into his pocket and drove back towards Jackson Leaves. By now the rain was really thundering down, bouncing off the road surface and chasing leaves and litter along the gutter. He had to lean forward in his seat to see through the windscreen, even with the wipers on full speed. The police tent had been retrieved in his absence, and the excavated trench was overflowing with rainwater. God always cleans up his crime scenes.
He parked up and checked his PDA again. The surge appeared to be coming from the house almost directly opposite where Danny Wilkinson's body had been found. It hid its Edwardian heritage under layers of middle-class chic; faux-Japanese stone garden in front, Laura Ashley curtains visible through the lead-lined double-glazing. Come Christmas, Jack was in no doubt that ghastly fibre-optic threads would dangle from the guttering. Maybe a hollow- plastic Santa hiding within the shadows of the conifers, a brittle dwarf devoid of happiness or soul.
Jack pulled up the collar of his coat and clambered out of the SUV, dashing through the rain to the cover of the house's front porch. He rang the doorbell. No answer. Dropping to his haunches, he poked the letterbox open and peered through. There was little to see but a cream hallway leading through to the kitchen, where the owner was at work if the smell was anything to go by, Jack's mouth watered at the thick scent of roast meat. Pork, if he was any judge.
He rang the bell again and moved towards the lounge window, peering through the rain-splashed glass at the dark shape he could see sat in the far corner. Oh… Not pork.
He moved back to the front door but didn't bother with the bell, trying the handle just in case. The door was unlocked, so he pushed it open.
The smell of cooked meat washed over him. Now that he knew what it actually was, it made his belly groan. He pulled out his handkerchief, held it in the rain for a moment and then wrapped it around the lower part of his face so he looked like a Wild West outlaw. It didn't completely remove the smell, but it lessened it enough to walk inside without fear of throwing up. He took a few deep breaths of cool, wet air before moving into the lounge.
The body was black and pink, streaked with slicks of pearlescent body fat that caught what little light there was from the late-afternoon sun outside the window. Jack hunted through the inside pockets of his coat and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. With gritted teeth, he took hold of the woman's body and tilted it slightly in the chair. The scorch marks on the leather made it impossible to believe that the fire had started anywhere but the victim herself. Somehow she had burned while the rest of the room had remained untouched. Her skin crumbled and flaked under his fingers as he let her rock back to where she had been sitting. Looking around, he could see no other sign of damage; the ceiling bore a black mark where the smoke from her burning candle of a body had stained the paint, but that was all.
Suddenly the corpse flared again, knocking him on his back as he threw himself away from the blaze. The flames roared around the woman's body, small embers glowing inside her like the pulsing light of a firefly.
Then, as instantly as it had reignited, it vanished, the flames disappearing to leave just the smouldering cadaver.
Jack's mobile rang again. He snatched it out of his pocket and answered. 'Let me guess,' he said straight away. 'Another surge?'
'Yes,' said Ianto. 'Same location as before but very brief. How did you know?'
'I was looking at it.' He got to his feet, keeping his distance from the body. 'I have a cremated corpse sat in front of me. Nothing's damaged but the chair it was sitting in.'
'Freaky.'
'Oh yeah… I'll bring the body in, but I want you to paper over the cracks for me.'
'No problem, bringing up the details now… The house belongs to Trevor Banks, he was a banker…'
'Deceased is a woman.'
'Most likely his wife then, Gloria. We'll confirm that when we have the body. I'll see if I can trace Mr Banks before he gets in your way.'
Through the window, Jack watched a BMW pull into the drive.
'Too late, he's here. Back soon.' Jack cut off the call and reached into his pocket for the Retcon. What an afternoon this was turning out to be…
SIX
'It's warm,' Rob said, tugging off his paint-stained hoodie and tossing it into a corner of the room.
Julia wasn't listening. She was staring out of the bedroom window, watching the man she'd talked to earlier — the American in the big black car — run down next door's drive.
'What's he want now?' she wondered aloud. She hadn't expected an answer but Rob gave her one anyway.
'Who?' he asked, moving over to the window. Jack had vanished from sight.
'Nobody,' Julia answered, slightly embarrassed for speaking her thoughts aloud. 'Just some bloke that's been hanging around.'
'Hanging around?' Rob peered through the window, but there was nothing to see. 'He'll be hung from a lamp post if the Neighbourhood Watch catch him.' Turning to his wife he noticed her flinch slightly. 'What's up?'
She shook her head. 'Nothing.'
He wasn't so easily dissuaded. 'Yes there is. You've been funny all day. What is it?'
'Honestly, it's nothing. I didn't sleep well, that's all.'
Rob scratched at his stubble. She watched his dirty nails brush at the iron filings of his beard, wondering how many times she had seen him do it. It was an unconscious habit, like sticking the tip of his tongue out when he was concentrating or drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa while they watched telly. She loved him, she really did, but she wished he'd shut up.
'Is it this place?' he asked.
'Who likes moving?' she replied, only too aware that she hadn't answered the question.
'Certainly not me,' said Steve from the doorway, 'and it's not even my bloody house.' He gave Rob a pointed look. 'Wardrobe ain't going to carry itself, is it?'
'Sorry, mate, right with you.' Rob gave Julia a pleading look, making sure she knew he wasn't satisfied with her lack of answer, and followed his friend downstairs.
Julia listened to their feet stomp along the creaking stairs, heard Steve make some dismissive comment and Rob bluster defensively. She would never understand what Rob saw in Steve. They had known each other since school and sometimes gave the impression they were still there, the bully and his flunky. It angered her. Rob wasn't weak, but Steve tried to make him so. He was that type of person, a man who grew tall by knocking down others. A hateful man.
The anger felt good, solid and constructive, directed at a physical object. Rather than an indefinable mood, it was a relief to feel something so honest. Rather than swallow it — and scold herself for being so hostile — she relished it.
She left the room as she heard them begin to climb back up the stairs with the flat-pack wardrobe. She had
