Into the Silence

that looked so out of place amongst the high-tech computer equipment that filled the desk spaces. Jack turned the volume up as the opening titles for the news came to an end, then folded his arms across his chest.

The murders were the first headline, and Ianto thought that if Jack was happy for the press to be involved in this one then he should be looking pretty ecstatic. The newsreader stared intently into the camera.

'Three competitors in the Welsh Amateur Operatic Contest have been found dead in three separate locations across the city over the past twenty-four hours. The victims, two male and one female, whose names have not been released, were all qualifiers for this year's final to be held in ten days' time at Cardiff's Millennium Centre. Although the police are not releasing any details of the causes of death, it is believed that they are treating each as a murder enquiry and have not ruled out that the deaths are linked.'

The camera cut away from the studio and out to Cardiff's central police station. A tired-looking blond man in his thirties came out of the building and stopped at the top of the stone steps. He didn't carry an umbrella, instead ignoring the rain as he stared grimly into the flashing bulbs and microphones of the journalists.

'Is that Cutler?' Ianto asked.

Jack nodded. 'Does his face ring any bells?'

Ianto shook his head. 'Should it?'

'He says he had a case that was taken over by Torchwood One back in 2003. You used to work there. Dig through the records we've got and see if you can find out what it was. I'm curious. He seems pretty sharp.'

Ianto nodded. 'Will do.'

On screen, Cutler glared at the camera, his chin tucked down a little, like a boxer preparing for a fight, as journalists shouted questions over each other. After a moment, he raised his hand, his brow furrowing slightly with impatience. He didn't wait for the small crowd to fall silent but started speaking over them, forcing their quiet if they wanted to hear what he had to say.

'We obviously can't say too much at this time given that the investigation is under way, but South Wales Police can confirm that three bodies have been found dead over the past twenty-four hours, and that we are treating these deaths as suspicious.' He paused, the space immediately filled with a cacophony of voices all demanding attention. Cutler continued as if only he and the camera were present.

'We also have reason to suspect that the deaths may be linked. Until we can give out further information, we would ask the public not to panic but also to take the usual sensible precautions.' For the first time he lifted his chin fully. 'That's all I can say at this time.'

Turning, Cutler moved quickly away from the reporters who were still shouting questions at him and went back into the station. Ianto was pretty sure he could make out words like 'Singers' and 'Competition' in the questions fired at the policeman's back. Given the way the victims had died, he figured it wouldn't be too long before one of the tabloids was hinting at the gruesome details, no matter how much of a media ban the police put on them, and then there'd be panic. As much as working for Torchwood was sometimes draining, he didn't envy Cutler's job.

Jack rolled up his sleeves and clapped his hands. 'Right then, let's get to work. We've got an alien to track down.'

NINE

Up on the Cardiff streets, evening slowly drew in, the dark night falling with the rain, coating the gloom with shifting shadows. Heels clicked quicker on the pavements, as people rushed to find their way to the warmth of their bright homes, shivering away the dampness of the day. Cars and buses blared horns and churned out chunks of acrid, irritated fumes. No one looked up. And, even if they had, the dark shape that darted here and there against the night would have been barely visible as it searched the city.

Hannah Lafferty undid the buttons of her smart woollen coat and gritted her teeth. The woman had to be joking. Beside her, the rest of the Milford Haven Women's Institute Choir were doing exactly as she was, all staring in disbelief at their musical director, Annaliese George. Hannah's fingers resisted the stiff buttons and, glancing down, she didn't recognise the gnarled hand at the end of her wrist for a moment. When did all those knotted veins and liver spots appear? Why was it that sometimes slow changes seemed to happen all of a sudden? Was it supposed to fool you into thinking that old age was somehow OK?

Feeling the numbness that had been rattled into the base of her spine since the early morning, Hannah decided that her hand was attached to the right body. A body that was getting old and couldn't deny it any longer. Her stare intensified into a glare as the choir and its director moved into a silent stand-off. It had been a fairly long journey in a very old minibus with only a tired fan heater on the dashboard to keep them warm, and none of their joints were as young or flexible as they used to be. Even Alice Jones, who was a mere slip of a thing at only 45, had complained of a sore back when they'd finally climbed out at the hotel.

And the hotel was another story in itself. After deciding to give the competition a whirl, admittedly at Annaliese's insistence, and having surprised themselves by getting through the regional heats, they had been very pleased with themselves when they had booked their accommodation early. No one would be able to say the Women's Institute was disorganised and left with nowhere to stay, not like some of the larger choirs in the competition whose members had ended up scattered far and wide in hotels and bed and breakfasts across the city because they'd left their bookings too late.

However, as they'd gathered in the tatty and cramped reception area, it had become all too apparent that the Melrose Hotel didn't live up to the photos and description on its website. Hannah's teeth clenched tighter, straining her jaw, which wouldn't be good for her singing, but she couldn't help that. The hotel had failed to mention in their advertising that they had no lift, that all ten of the ladies' twin rooms were up on the fourth floor, and that the stairs were steep and uneven to say the least. Some doctors might encourage old women to spend their days dragging themselves up and down flights of steep and uneven stairs for no good reason other than their health but, as far as 62-year-old Hannah Lafferty was concerned, those doctors were daft. Old age was all about taking it easy and eating what you wanted. If it had been up to her, they'd have complained to the manager, but it seemed the rest of the group didn't want to cause a fuss and so she had gone along with it.

Staring now at Annaliese George and her chignon hair and perfect make-up, Hannah decided this was one time she was going to take a stand.

'What exactly do you mean you want us to move all the chairs?' Her voice a soft growl, she felt very tempted to point out that Annaliese was quite new to the organisation and should really stop trying to boss them around. She was their musical director; she could boss them around when they were singing. That was about it.

'They'll interfere with the acoustics.' Annaliese's clipped tones reeked of Surrey, and Hannah wished, not for the first time, that the woman would just move back there.

Enid Evans timidly stepped up, unwinding a scarf from around her neck. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly. 'But there must be at least a hundred or more of them.'

'Keep that scarf on, Enid!' Annaliese tutted. 'You need to protect your voice.'

'Well, folding up and stacking all those chairs is hardly going to help our singing voices, is it?' Alice's voice rose from somewhere towards the back of the group, and Hannah smiled. The choir had no chance of winning anything in the competition, they had no illusions about that, but they did have Alice Jones and her beautiful soprano. Some of the others might not want to admit it, but it was Alice who lifted them out of the ordinary and into something more than that.

'You don't have to move them, Alice.' Annaliese obviously knew it too. 'You could just make sure that everyone has a bottle of water to sip by their place.'

A murmur of discontent rustled along the line, and Hannah raised an eyebrow. 'We don't have any stars in the choir, Annaliese.'

'No we don't,' added Alice.

Hannah stared at the rows of chairs that stretched towards the gloomy rear of the Llandaff community centre, and then checked her watch. 'Look ladies, we've only got the hall for an hour and a half. It's six o'clock now. If we move all those chairs it'll just waste rehearsal time. We can work around the acoustics. Let's just get on with singing.'

The rustle of discontent translated into murmurs of assent and, knowing when she'd lost, Annaliese clapped