remaining ramrod straight in his own chair.
Yorke’s territorial hackles had already been raised by the authority that Torchwood assumed. But his mood had soured further when he learned that this Torchwood delegation was run by a Captain from the RAF, someone he would conventionally outrank. It was plainly as much as he could bear to take instructions from the shabby individual before him, who had his shirt tails hanging over the front of his trousers and a coat with a huge tear in the sleeve.
And worst of all, Gwen could tell from the lecture they were getting, was the fact that Jack was an American.
‘British Army’s held in the highest regard. All round the world. Respect that was hard-won over recent years.’ Yorke spoke like he had to pay for every word in a telegram. ‘Northern Island. Falklands. Bosnia and Kosovo. The Gulf, obviously. And countless peacekeeping ops throughout the world.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack said as Yorke took a rare pause to draw breath. ‘We appreciate that.’
‘We?’
‘Torchwood,’ said Jack calmly.
‘Ah. I thought you meant the Americans.’
‘My team are not American.’
‘You’re telling me that you’re English, then,’ said Yorke.
‘Welsh,’ Gwen told him, emphasizing her accent. ‘And Doctor Sato here is Japanese. What’s your point?’ Jack nudged her with his elbow. ‘Sir,’ she added lamely, as though that might rescue the situation.
Yorke had barely met Jack’s eye throughout the conversation. He preferred to keep looking back over his own shoulder, through the second-storey window and out over the grounds towards the assault course where distant figures struggled under nets and over walls. It also gave Gwen the impression that he was studying the crown and pip on his shoulder insignia. As the conversation continued, he was considering his position in more ways than one.
‘Our professionalism in the British Army doesn’t come through chance,’ Yorke continued. ‘We attain it by constant, thorough and tough training.
Not good enough to pronounce Welsh properly, you English twerp, thought Gwen.
‘Look at them out there,’ said Yorke, nodding towards the assault course. He turned back to his desk and clasped his hands together on its buffed wooden surface. His lizard eyes flicked across his visitors, and the unspoken comparison was clearly ‘and look at you in here’. But instead he said: ‘Those youngsters out there started with reveille at 6 a.m. They’ve performed drill practice, map reading, first aid and rifle handling. A six-mile run and a drill test we call “passing off the square”.’
‘Busy morning,’ said Gwen, and got another nudge from Jack.
‘They are the best.’ Yorke seemed to be addressing his comments now to the two soldier escorts who still stood at the back of the room behind them. ‘And the best are taught by the best. So, no need to have dragged your team all the way out here on this lovely Sunday afternoon, Captain Harkness. We can conclude this investigation ourselves.’
‘Was Sergeant Anthony Bee one of the best?’ Jack said.
Yorke’s fluent lecture stumbled to a halt. ‘I really cannot comment at this stage of the investigation,’ he said eventually. He’d stopped looking out of the window. Jack certainly had his attention now. He tried to rally again. ‘It’s “Anthony”, by the way. With a hard “t”.’
Jack ignored Yorke’s attempt to reassert his superiority. He scattered six photographs carelessly onto the Lieutenant-Colonel’s tidy desk. ‘Recent brutal murders from the centre of Cardiff. Do they look familiar?’
Yorke gave the photos a cursory examination without touching them. ‘You can’t expect me to believe that these vagrants have any connection to Caregan.’
Jack shoved the photographs across the desk, closer to Yorke. ‘Not the people. Their wounds.’
Yorke considered the evidence briefly before pushing it slowly back across his shiny desk. ‘That’s something you’d need to ask Doctor Death.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘The MO. He’s Doctor Robert De’Ath. It’s a joke.’ Yorke forced his thin lips into a tight, mirthless smile in an attempt to illustrate this.
‘I’m sure Gwen will bear that in mind,’ said Jack. He turned and said to her: ‘You can start with the Medical Officer while Tosh and I finish up here.’
Yorke stood up, annoyed that Gwen was already moving towards the door. ‘You may have jurisdiction here-’
‘You know we do,’ Jack interrupted him. ‘You made three separate phone calls about it in the half hour after we told you we were on our way.’
‘How could you…?’ Yorke saw Toshiko’s smug expression, and his bluster petered out at last. He sat back down in his chair. ‘I didn’t request any help from Torchwood, Captain,’ he grumbled.
Jack sat down in the chair opposite him. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel, I don’t remember saying we were here to help you.’
Gwen leaned in to murmur in Jack’s ear. ‘Polite conversation,’ she reminded him.
Jack was still telling Yorke what he expected from him as Gwen left the room with one of the soldier escorts and closed the door behind her.
Gwen’s escort was the stocky lad, with Slav features. It didn’t surprise her when he told her he was Private Wisniewski, but when she persuaded him to reveal his first name (‘John-Paul… with a hyphen’), that was less expected. Private Wisniewski marched her briskly around the corners of several white stucco walls. The buildings were mostly indistinguishable, and laid out in a simple grid fashion that made it hard to keep track of the route. They eventually crossed a cracked expanse of grey tarmac, across which the wind blew directly at them. Wisniewski barely flinched as the gust whipped rain into their faces.
Over the noise of the rain Gwen could hear voices shouting a mixture of encouragement and abuse at the soldiers who were struggling through the assault course. They skirted another open expanse, this time a dirt and gravel rectangle traversed by wires on short red metal posts, around which trainees crawled, ran, or climbed, seemingly oblivious to the rainfall that soaked their uniforms, their weaponry and their huge backpacks. From further away came the crack of single gunshots on a distant firing range.
Major Robert De’Ath was a complete contrast to Yorke, and almost too eager to please. He took one look at Gwen as she entered his office and immediately asked her in his soft Scots accent to take a seat while he found her a towel to dry her hair. He dismissed Private Wisniewski, who said that he would wait outside. De’Ath then offered her a cup of coffee, apologising because he’d just run out of milk so it would have to be black, and would that be all right with her?
And yes, he’d heard all the jokes about his surname, thanks. ‘My favourite is “De’Ath warmed up”. Speaking of which, here’s your coffee.’
Major Robert De’Ath was in his early forties, with close-cropped light brown hair that framed a freckled bald head. He was wearing fatigues, the standard green and grey battledress, so she assumed he was on duty.
‘I need to know about Sergeant Anthony Bee,’ Gwen said.
De’Ath settled into his own chair, and placed his hands on his knees. Gwen noticed that his desk was placed facing the window, so that the Major could talk to his visitors without having the furniture as a physical barrier. ‘Terrible business.’
‘Tell me more.’
De’Ath looked up at the ceiling, as though he was visualising something. His voice sounded further away somehow. ‘Anthony Bee was a PT instructor here at Caregan. Well respected. Admired by the men. Some of the officers suspected that he was too familiar with the other soldiers.’
‘In what way?’
De’Ath paused. ‘Having a drink with them at the Feathers,’ he said cagily, ‘that sort of thing. Not the sort of fraternisation Lieutenant-Colonel Yorke really approves of.’
‘I can imagine. Did you disapprove?’
De’Ath smiled at her. ‘No. Though you’d expect a Medical Officer to say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Why?’
