‘Can I help you?’ he asked, his name badge announcing him to be Ifan Daffydd, Scheme Manager.
She knew all the details of the redevelopment work, having hacked into a number of public and a few very private records about the redevelopment. This meant that she could now shove her hands into her mackintosh pocket and produce an extremely accurate facsimile of a Council pass, giving her full authority to observe, enquire and generally stick her nose into any and all aspects of contracted work going on today and over the next few weeks.
‘Toshiko Sato, from the Senedd. Checking up on architecture, historical importance, blue plaques for famous Cardiff comedians, actors or raconteurs. That sort of thing.’ She showed her pass.
He offered a hand and she shook it. Firm, dry, casual. Good, not hiding anything then.
She pointed at the truck. ‘Took me by surprise, sorry. I was daydreaming.’
Daffydd shrugged. ‘Not a problem. How can I help?’
‘Talk me through what’s going on.’
‘Well,’ Daffydd said, leading her to the pavement, ‘the first thing we’re doing is putting in this revolutionary new lighting. It’s wireless, like one of those Internet routers. We put a box on here, and then embed in the pavement a series of halogen bulbs, protected by shock-proof glass. These will be arranged to a specific pattern and at a series of convex angles, and apparently, on a winter night, the beams should hit the underside of clouds and create a series of patterns. The lights have a series of gels that can be activated, creating different coloured patterns too.’
‘Colour me impressed,’ Toshiko laughed.
Encouraged by her enthusiasm (faked, but he didn’t know that), Daffydd took her to one of the plasterers’ trucks.
‘Then these guys will go into the houses, most of which we’re converting into luxury apartments, and we will be putting in similar wireless devices to control the electricity supply. Can’t do it with the gas pipes, sadly, but hopefully these places have a degree of safe gas and water piping – we’ll be checking all that. But basically our intention is to disturb as little of the structural integrity as possible.’ He pulled a brochure from his inside pocket. ‘These are some of the colour schemes and a 3D CG illustration of the streets, lit and with new trees planted. In twenty-four hours, this place will be a beacon for Cardiff’s redevelopment schemes.’
Toshiko was about to nod her approval when something occurred to her. ‘One day? To do… everything?’
‘Yeah, it’s great isn’t it? These guys came highly recommended by the company who developed the electrical routers. Part of their service. Council buys a few hundred, each router services ten houses, we get ’em delivered and fitted for free along with the whole refurbishment job.’
Toshiko smiled, hoping that her PDA’s encoder was recording the conversation. ‘Must cost a packet,’ she said.
‘Dunno,’ Daffydd replied, moving closer and leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘But you know, I don’t think so. City Hall seemed very keen, so it can’t cost more than the traditional way, and it’s quicker and makes less carbon footprints. Apparently.’ He paused for a second. ‘Never been quite sure how they work all that carbon footprint stuff out myself. I reckon none of them do, it’s just PR jargon.’
Toshiko moved towards him to reply. And to let the PDA do its stuff and get a good reading of Daffydd, in case he was an alien. ‘You know what, Ifan. I think you’re right. It’s all just hot air for the electorate.’
She shook his hand again, gripping it tightly, hoping he didn’t think it was a come-on. ‘Pleasure to meet you. I’d best leave you alone and get back to the Bay. Tell everyone you’re not knocking down any local treasures. Thank you.’
Daffydd smiled and turned away.
‘Oh, Ifan,’ Toshiko called to him. ‘Do you know who actually designed all this refurbishment? The architect, I mean. We have no records at the Senedd, it’s all still in Crickhowell House or up at City Hall, and I was just wondering…’
Daffydd threw over the pamphlet. ‘Keep it. Architect is on the back.’
Toshiko turned it over and stared.
There were the architect’s details: phone number, email, address and a long list of local Welsh (and a couple of Glaswegian) projects he had overseen.
And a photo.
‘Oh my God…’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Ms Sato,’ said a smooth-as-silk voice behind her. ‘I think you’ll find real gods are few and far between these days in Cardiff. You and your… associates saw to that.’
She swung round, knowing who would be standing there.
Sure enough, mid-70s, in his immaculate pinstripe suit and cravat, slicked-back silver hair, wide eyes bursting with intellect and… malevolence.
Just as he had looked the last time she saw him.
Just as he had in the architect’s photo in her hand. She glanced down at that once more. ‘It can’t be you,’ she murmured.
And so Toshiko never saw the punch which knocked her out cold.
EIGHT
Rhys Williams was at a table in the cafe at the end of the arcade, looking over at the new shopping development nearing completion opposite.
Apparently, Cardiff needed more shops.
He noticed that no one seemed to have considered that lorries would have a hard time getting down the slim roadways. Oh well, perhaps they’d sort that out later.
Things you think about when you run a fleet of delivery trucks.
He glanced at his watch and at the cold coffee opposite him. Every time they arranged to meet, he’d buy Gwen a coffee in the vain hope that it would somehow magically cause her to turn up at the agreed time. It never worked.
But he didn’t mind. They were getting married soon. She had said yes. YES! To marrying him! How bloody brilliant was that!
‘Daf, she said yes!’ he’d said triumphantly to one of his drinking buddies the day after.
‘Hey, Banana, how’s Lanzarote? I got some news, mate,’ he’d said to another on the phone.
‘Mam, it’s Rhys. I got some news for you. Great news. Well, I think it’s great news. Well, it’s great for me. No, I told you, I won’t know about the job for a couple of weeks. No… no, will you listen… Look, you better sit down then… No, I’ve not had an accident, Jesus, will you let me speak?’ That one had gone a bit downhill, truth be told.
And today, he and Gwen were going to agree on a venue. Well, he suspected he was going to be told what the venue was. And who was coming. And what he was wearing.
And you know what, that was fine. Because he was marrying the most fantastic woman in the world and, so long as she had the wedding she wanted, that was good enough for him!
So long as bloody Torchwood didn’t get in the way – oh God, maybe that’s why she was late. Maybe Jack bloody Harkness, aka God, had told her she couldn’t have the day off.
Did Torchwood even do days off?
He never asked her that. Somehow the idea of Handsome Jack signing leave forms appealed to Rhys.
‘Excuse me, it’s Rhys Williams isn’t it?’
Rhys looked up at the old guy stood beside him. Smart dresser, bit… you know,
‘Umm, yeah?’
‘You look well. Better than the last time I saw you.’
‘Have we met?’
‘You might say that. Once upon a time, in a different life.’ The old man produced a business card.
Rhys read the name and shrugged. ‘Sorry mate…’
