Hokrala Corporation any day now. We’ve got lots to do.’
‘This Saskia girl could be a lead,’ Owen said quietly.
‘A lead?’
‘Ianto cross-checked his non-emergency paranormal police reports with missing persons and, er, water.’ Owen swallowed, realising how lame this was going to sound.
‘I thought it might provide some kind of lead on your missing alien,’ Ianto added. ‘It went missing in the fish farm, after all. That’s a water connection.’
‘Kinda tenuous,’ Jack said.
‘Except that I back-tracked Tosh’s Rift scan and found that the same kind of temporal spark that we registered at the fish farm also occurred at each of the locations where Saskia Harden was found dead in the water.’
‘You’ve got to admit it’s probably more than coincidence,’ Owen added. ‘Anyway, I think she’s worth checking out.’
Jack laughed knowingly. ‘Yeah, after all, she’s young, blonde, needs a shoulder to cry on …’
‘It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.’
‘So where does she live, this mysterious and beautiful serial suicide?’
‘We don’t know,’ Ianto admitted.
‘What is she? A vagrant?’
‘The address she gave the police doesn’t exist,’ Ianto replied. ‘They don’t actually know that — they’ll have picked her up and transferred her to hospital and left it at that. But she doesn’t feature on any government database — no birth certificate, education, national insurance, employment, taxation, or criminal record. Nothing at all. To all intents and purposes she doesn’t exist. That alone is enough to warrant some investigation, but no one else has the time or, it would seem, the inclination. No one, that is, except yours truly.’
‘OK,’ Jack said, and there was a hint of interest in his voice now. ‘So how you gonna find her?’
‘Well, that’s where I had to be extremely clever as well as amazingly handsome,’ Ianto said. ‘Because there was one, teeny-weeny little computer record which did feature Saskia Harden’s name: the appointments list at the Trynsel Medical Centre.’
The Trynsel Medical Centre was a newly built NHS facility on the outskirts of Cardiff. It was a single-storey, yellow-brick building with sliding glass doors and a receptionist who only looked up at Owen after he had stood in front of the reception desk for a full forty-five seconds. He’d counted them. In that time, Owen had checked out the open-plan waiting room, with its usual array of notices advertising flu jabs, health clinics, post-natal care and sponsored fun runs. There was a large poster devoted to stopping people smoking, and another one about mental health care. Beyond these cheery signs was the waiting room proper, seemingly full of people with bad coughs. There were mothers and children, old men, one or two younger guys, but all of them were coughing and they all had grey faces and dark circles under their eyes. One old guy was making a big show of bringing up something thick and gooey from the back of his throat into his handkerchief.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist eventually, raising her voice over the noise.
‘Yeah,’ said Owen, turning casually back to look at her. ‘I’d like to see Dr Strong, please.’
‘You mean you’d like to make an appointment,’ she stated primly.
‘No, I just want to see him. It’s not a medical matter.’ Owen gave her a brief, tight smile. ‘Well, it is a sort of medical matter I suppose. We were at uni together. He’s an old mate, and I thought I’d look him up.’
The receptionist’s face hardened minutely into a well-rehearsed mask of indifference. ‘I’m afraid Dr Strong isn’t available today.’
A large man had appeared behind the receptionist, middle-aged with a twinkle in his eye. He glanced up from the file he was reading at the mention of Strong’s name.
‘Someone looking for Bob?’
‘Yeah — me,’ said Owen quickly, before the receptionist could respond. He grinned and extended his hand towards the other man, introducing himself. ‘Dr Owen Harper. Hi. I was told Bob would be here.’
‘Well he would be, normally,’ replied the other man. He had an ID card hanging from his shirt pocket which read Dr Iuean Davis — Practice Manager. ‘In fact he was in this morning, but he’s had to go home ill.’
‘Typical,’ said Owen. ‘Something serious, I hope …?’
Davis smiled. ‘Flu, I reckon. Only started this morning — nasty cough. Like most of this lot, actually.’ He nodded at the waiting room full of people hacking and spluttering into hankies.
‘Yeah,’ mused Owen, curious despite himself. ‘What’s up with them?’
‘Search me. It’s either flu or biological warfare, I can’t decide which,’ Davis chuckled. ‘Or maybe it’s just something in the water. Anyway, I doubt Bob’ll be back soon.’
‘OK,’ said Owen. ‘No problem. I’ll try him at home.’
He walked out, with the sound of the receptionist coughing behind him.
Owen climbed back into his car and contacted the Hub. ‘Ianto, I need Strong’s home address.’
‘Problem?’
‘He’s not at the surgery today — he’s off sick.’
‘I always wondered why GPs don’t take more sick leave. After all, they spend every day meeting sick people. They must catch everything going at some point.’
‘Well there are plenty of them here. I’ve never seen such a pasty-faced bunch. What’s wrong with this area? TB epidemic?’
‘I’ll check if you like.’
‘Just give me his address. It can’t be far.’
Ianto tapped up Strong’s address and read it out to Owen.
‘I’m on my way now. This had better be worth it.’ Owen started the Honda and pulled out of the medical centre car park, nearly hitting another woman on her way in, busy coughing into a tissue.
Owen leant out the window. ‘You want to look where you’re going, love!’
‘Sorry,’ she wheezed, holding up a hand to show that she knew it had been her fault. She coughed again, a real hack, and looked down into her tissue. ‘It’s not the cough that carries you off — it’s the coffin they carry you off in,’ she said with a weak smile.
Owen nodded and drove off. He’d seen the red phlegm in the tissue. Professionally it troubled him, though the woman had been on her way to see her GP, which was the right thing to do. But the matter preyed on his mind all the way to Robert Strong’s house.
It was a pleasant semi-detached with a long driveway and a Ford Mondeo. Owen rang the doorbell and waited for an answer.
Eventually a man came to the door; Owen could hear him coughing on the other side. The door opened and a long, pale face looked out. ‘Yes?’
‘Dr Strong?’
‘Yeah. Who wants to know?’
‘My name’s Owen Harper.’
Strong was suddenly overtaken by a massive coughing fit, clutching the door to support himself as he doubled up.
‘Here, that doesn’t sound so good, mate,’ Owen said, automatically moving to help.
‘It’s been getting worse all morning,’ Strong told him between coughs. He sounded full of phlegm. After a few moments, he recovered and smiled wanly. ‘I had to come home from work today — never done that before in my life!’
‘I’m a doctor,’ Owen said. ‘Maybe I can help.’
Strong gave a short laugh. ‘I’m a doctor too,’ he said. ‘Fat lot of good it’s done me. Come in.’
It was a bachelor’s house, with black leather armchairs and a widescreen plasma TV, surrounded by untidy stacks of DVDs on the laminate flooring and a good-looking sound system. In the corner was a Wii console with a few games scattered around it. There was evidence of a previous life, however: a photo on the mantelpiece — Strong and a woman embracing, faces pressed together, grinning at the camera. Strong noticed Owen looking at it and said, ‘Ex-wife. Quite liked her, then.’
‘Creative differences?’
‘You could say that.’ Strong dissolved into more coughing and motioned towards a chair. ‘Take a seat,’ he
