the Bay, threatening rain from beyond the barrage and out into Mor Hafren.
Wildman swivelled back around to consider Jack again, careful not to overbalance on the scaffold platform. Gwen could see now that the top of Wildman’s grey jacket was wet and dark. The vivid red splash on his white shirt indicated that this was blood. Wildman’s neck and face didn’t seem to be marked. Maybe he had somehow scraped himself in the chase up through the building. The coat wasn’t his either, it was now apparent. The position of the buttons were for a woman’s raincoat, and that explained why the sleeves were too short. Wildman was breathing more easily now, and smiling broadly. His smile wavered a little when he saw Gwen at the rear of the room, but he soon refocused on Jack.
Jack had not moved from his precarious position in the centre. He held the pistol in a one-handed grip, unwaveringly pointed at Wildman. Jack’s other hand was at his side, the outside of his wrist against his hip. He knew Gwen was twenty metres behind him, even though she hadn’t spoken, had barely made a sound. He was waggling his fingers slightly, unseen by Wildman, to indicate that Gwen should stay back,
‘OK, so you checked out the view,’ Jack called to Wildman. ‘And you know you’re going nowhere.’
Wildman cocked his head to one side, contemplating Jack. ‘That weapon is a fascinating item,’ he said. His voice betrayed no worry, just amused interest. ‘Is it an antique?’
‘It’s a Webley,’ Jack replied calmly. ‘Mark IV. Point three-eight calibre, and a five-inch barrel. More than enough to pick you off where you stand.’
‘Interesting. Where do you get the cartridges?’
Jack’s aim didn’t falter. ‘What matters is where you might be getting one. Any moment now. Step back into the building. Away from the edge. Carefully.’
‘I think I’m safer where I am. Why don’t we just continue our chat right here?’
Jack moved his head to one side, and Gwen could see him smiling grimly. ‘OK. So maybe we start with the obvious stuff. Like, what’s your connection to the deaths of four vagrants. The ones that were found within a few minutes walking distance from the offices of the Blaidd Drwg nuclear research facility?’
Wildman tutted. ‘Shocking. I saw that on the news. We were all warned about it at the facility, of course. Wouldn’t want the staff to be harmed.’
‘No,’ snapped Jack. ‘No you weren’t warned. The murder of the vagrants didn’t make it to the media. We made sure of that. So you’re unusually well informed.’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘And their deaths match the times that you were just about to enter work, or you’d just left. We checked your ID badge accesses at Blaidd Drwg. They all match.’
Wildman’s smile didn’t change. ‘Do they?’
‘You even snuck out one lunchtime. What was that about? Hadn’t taken a packed lunch that day? No, that wouldn’t be it, because your access badge shows that you take lunch in the works canteen every day, 12.15 on the dot. Except for that day. The day the third victim died.’
‘It’s no crime to take a walk at lunchtime,’ observed Wildman mildly. ‘You could say it’s my constitutional right.’
‘You were killing people, not killing time…’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘… attacking defenceless victims and splitting open their heads.’
‘How dreadful,’ said Wildman.
‘It’s hard to believe, looking at you now. But you murdered them by biting into the backs of their necks.’
Wildman laughed in disbelief.
‘In fact,’ persisted Jack, ‘isn’t that spinal fluid now? There, down your chin? All over your shirt collar.’
Wildman raised his hands to his face, an almost involuntary reaction. His face clouded with anger.
Jack laughed. ‘Made ya look.’
The breeze through the building had begun to stiffen now. Jack’s greatcoat wafted out behind him, though his stance and his aim remained rock steady. The melancholy wail of a police siren carried up to them from the street as it drew nearer.
Wildman took another look backwards into the street far below. Returned his gaze to Jack. He didn’t look angry any more. He was calm.
‘C’mon, Wildman.’ Jack had adopted a cajoling note now. ‘There’s no escape from this. Gwen here, behind me, you’ve seen her. She’s called the police. So even if you get past me — and you won’t — you wouldn’t beat the cordon around this building. Come away from the edge now, carefully.’
‘Are you going to read me my rights?’ smiled Wildman.
‘You’re in the custody of Torchwood now. We’re not the police. We do things differently. But you’d know that already, from your work at Blaidd Drwg, wouldn’t you? And that means you know we can help you, Wildman. Whatever the problem is.’
Wildman raised his left arm, slowly so that it wouldn’t alarm his captor. Studied the chunky watch that poked out beyond his soiled cuffs. ‘Time of death…’ he murmured to himself. He lowered his arm, and studied his feet with a look that suggested he had never seen them before, or perhaps that they were the most fascinating things in the whole room.
Gwen thought she saw Jack’s arm tense up. ‘Don’t fool around, Wildman. I can take you out from here.’
Wildman looked up from his shoes. He stared past Jack, at Gwen. He was grinning now, like it was all a huge joke. He switched the grin back to Jack.
‘See you again,’ he said cheerfully.
Wildman allowed himself to fall. His feet didn’t move. His arms remained calmly by his side. He just dropped backwards, as though it was a trust exercise and someone was going to catch him.
But no one could catch him. The green netting parted soundlessly behind him. Guy Wildman was still smiling as he plunged backwards, head first, and tumbled to his death.
FOUR
Gwen pushed her way through the police cordon. Her words were ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ as she moved the police constables aside, but her tone was ‘get out of my way’. She knew that coppers responded to the sound of authority, were less likely to question her seniority because they were accustomed to simply obeying orders that were spoken clearly and unambiguously. It was a technique she’d seen the other Torchwood members use, even the more reserved Toshiko. Gwen was still trying to be polite about it. Unlike Owen, who was more likely to wave his ID, shout ‘Coming through!’ and then barge his way past. Sounding more assertive meant that Gwen got things done faster, got to her destination sooner. Not that Wildman was likely to be going anywhere in a hurry, mind. His last journey had come to an abrupt end after only a few seconds.
‘Sorry… Excuse me… Thanks… Keep those pedestrians back there, please…’
The only time it was awkward was when she came across her former colleagues. Like now. The blue flashing light of the nearby police car strobed over the chubby features of Andy Davidson. Once upon a time, he’d been showing her the ropes. Today, she was asking him to stay behind them.
‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ Andy said to her. But she noticed that he still held the yellow-and-black cordon tape up for her. ‘People will start to talk.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, stooping under the tape. ‘I imagine people are talking anyway, aren’t they Andy?’
‘Special Ops?’ he said. ‘Bound to have tongues wagging, isn’t it?’
Gwen chose not to answer his next, unspoken, question:
‘Can this be moved?’ she asked him.
‘Wait and see,’ he replied.
They rounded the front end of the bus. The windscreen was a crazed spider’s web of splintered glass, with a long smear of blood down its full height. The diesel engine was still chattering away. And the crumpled remains of Guy Wildman lay sprawled under the front wheels.
