…’
He was blithering. Doing exactly what Iuean always complained about.
But Saskia seemed not to notice, or perhaps care. She said, ‘I’m looking for the right kind of man. And I think you’re the one.’
‘Ah,’ he said, for want of anything more intelligent to say. He decided at this point it was best to just shut his mouth and say as little as possible. At least until his brain starting thinking again. Saskia was staring back at him, and he had a sudden vision of himself lying on top of her, looking down into those indefinable green-grey eyes as he made love to her on his desk.
Bob shook his head to clear it. ‘Saskia — Miss Harden — you’ve been coming to see me every week for the last month. I know you’ve had your problems with the police, and I have agreed to help and support you in your recovery as much as I can but …’ He struggled for something to say and then opted for a weak smile. ‘I have to draw the line somewhere.’
She looked away from him for the first time, and Bob felt as though a light had been turned off somewhere. The world was suddenly a dimmer place. He coughed politely to make her look up at him again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude. It’s just that …’
‘What?’
He couldn’t see what she was wearing under the raincoat — there was only a triangle of pale flesh visible between the lapels. There really was nothing to suggest that she was wearing anything at all underneath. He wondered what it would be like to kiss those strange, mysterious lips.
Bob coughed again and sat back in his chair, taking in a good breath of air. Finally, finally, his professional training reasserted itself. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Saskia. Don’t get me wrong. But this isn’t the time or the place for … for this. It’s not that I’m not interested. But I am a doctor. There are rules about this sort of thing.’
‘Rules?’
‘Yeah.’ He sat forward and punched some keys on the laptop, making sure that he didn’t look into her eyes again. ‘Look. You show every sign of making a full and proper recovery — but I want to keep things professional. I have to keep things professional. At least in this surgery. You must understand that. OK?’
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. Her eyes told him everything he needed to know: that what he had said made no difference to her at all. His words had been no more than the pathetic bleating of a lamb under the watchful eyes of the wolf. Eyes that were still full of hunger, a strange, inexplicable craving that went beyond simple lust. Bob found he was completely unable to speak or move. In that timeless interval in the conversation, Bob was suddenly and coldly struck by how appropriate the name Angel of Death was for her.
Because, somewhere deep inside him, he realised that he was absolutely terrified of this woman.
The eyes blinked, as cool and grey as an alligator gliding under the water’s surface. ‘Well then,’ she said, unfolding herself from the seat. ‘I’d better be going. Catch you another time.’
Bob stood up awkwardly, aware that he was sweating. He tried smiling at her and held a hand towards the door. ‘I’ll set up another appointment for you next week,’ he told her. ‘See Miss Bird on the desk on the way out and she’ll confirm the time. OK?’
She nodded and left. Bob stood in the doorway for a few moments and watched her walk away, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips beneath the material of her raincoat. He felt nothing. The attraction had simply vanished, leaving a freezing ache in his chest and throat.
When he lifted his hands to his face, they were visibly shaking.
ONE
Owen Harper was waiting on the street corner, pulling his leather jacket tighter to keep out the worst of the drizzle. A cold wind blew in from the River Taff, dragging a squall of freezing rain through the grey city streets. It was bad weather, even for a late-summer night in Cardiff, and Owen hated waiting at the best of times.
He checked his watch, angling his wrist towards the nearest street light so that he could see the display. At exactly two minutes to midnight, he heard the growl of an engine and then a big black off-roader appeared around the corner, blue lights flickering in the windscreen. The SUV skidded to a halt right next to him, TORCHWOOD stencilled in black on the rain-speckled wing.
The passenger door popped open, and Owen peered inside. ‘Going my way?’ he asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.
The interior was illuminated by a complicated range of VDUs and dashboard controls. Captain Jack Harkness was at the wheel, a broad grin on his face. ‘All the way,’ he said.
‘I bet you pick up guys like this all the time,’ said Owen as he climbed in and shut the door.
‘It’s the car,’ Jack smiled. ‘Everyone digs the car.’
The SUV surged forward. ‘So, where are you taking me tonight?’ Owen inquired politely. ‘Dinner? Pictures? Underground car park?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
A chain-link fence flashed by, topped by old plastic bags caught on the barbed wire and fluttering in the wind.
‘Charming spot,’ Owen remarked.
‘Industrial estate,’ said Jack. ‘Weevil country.’
This got Owen’s full attention. ‘You’ve seen him?’
‘We’ve accessed CCTV security footage of the area from the cops. No doubt about it, Big Guy’s here somewhere.’
Owen let out a whistle. Big Guy was a rogue Weevil that had been giving them the slip for nearly two months; it had left a trail of dead and injured throughout Butetown, always disappearing back into the sewer system before they could catch it.
‘No wonder you dragged me out of bed.’
Jack glanced across at him. ‘Well, you are our go-to guy for Weevils.’
‘Yeah.’ Owen felt the junction of his neck and shoulder a little nervously. He had suffered a bad Weevil bite not all that long ago and the wound still ached. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Ghost hunting near Newport.’
‘Oh.’ Owen wondered at this. It was unusual for just two of them to go after a Weevil; but then Big Guy was unusual. He didn’t question the importance of ghost hunting in Newport compared to taking Big Guy down. Jack was wearing the kind of face that didn’t welcome questions like that. Owen guessed that he knew the situation wasn’t ideal but didn’t want to miss a chance of catching the Weevil.
Jack slung the SUV around another corner and met a roadblock. The wet night air was full of flashing blue lights and policemen in large fluorescent jackets. He slowed down, negotiating a couple of squad cars until he drew level with one of the cops, a big sergeant with a bushy ginger moustache and watchful eyes. Jack slid the driver’s window down and the sergeant leaned in, removing his cap first and shaking the rain off it.
‘Evenin’ all,’ said Owen.
The sergeant glared at him but then flicked his gaze back to Jack, acknowledging his authority. ‘Reckon we’ve got your man holed up in that warehouse,’ the policeman said gravely. He used his cap to indicate a low, two-storey building further down the street. ‘Standing orders are to leave these things to Torchwood — so this is me, leaving it to you, OK?’
‘OK,’ Jack nodded.
The policeman looked him up and down and Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Want my phone number, constable?’
‘That’s Sergeant Thomas, to you, sir,’ replied the policeman solemnly. ‘And no, I do not.’
He stepped back, waving them on, and Jack turned to Owen with a rueful smile. ‘Can’t win ’em all!’
Then he tooled the SUV past the cordon and they left the blue lights in a cloud of carbon-neutral exhaust.
‘That’s the place.’ Jack slowed down and nodded at a crumbling sandstone building. It looked cold and forgotten, silhouetted against the dull orange furnace of the city beyond.
