cold. Felt it coming on yesterday.’
‘Well no bloody wonder!’ Iuean leant back from his desk, balancing his chair on two legs and putting his hands behind his head. ‘Something’s definitely going around. I’ve had six chest infections and four cases of flu since Monday. And that’s not including all the usual bloody sore throats and sniffles.’
Bob could feel that tickle building in his own throat and quickly cleared it. The cough stung.
‘So what’s the matter?’ Iuean asked. ‘Come on, I need to write up some notes and make a cost breakdown for the new practice nurse. I haven’t got all day to waste on you coughing your guts up in my office and mooning over that bloody woman.’
‘I’m not mooning over her!’
‘You fancy her, don’t you?’
‘Well I’m not sure. I think I do, yes.’ Bob looked up apologetically. ‘Is that right? Should I? She’s a patient, after all.’
‘Hardly. So she’s registered with you and she’s been to see you a few times. So what? She’s single, isn’t she? No bloody relatives or next of kin as far as I remember from her notes. Bloody well up for it as well, from what you’ve told me. Go for it!’ Iuean sat forward, suddenly serious. ‘Maybe a personal relationship, rather than a professional one, is just what she needs. Have you thought of that? I can tell by your vacant expression that you have not. Well, do think about it. Some problems can’t necessarily be solved in the consulting room. Go on, see her, ask her out. Talk to her as Bob Strong, not Dr Strong. Or do you think the ex-Mrs Strong wouldn’t approve?’
‘It’s not that. She’s just a bit … well, as you said. Odd.’
‘She’s a woman! What do you expect? Normality?’ Iuean tutted impatiently. ‘You’re setting your standards too bloody high, boyo, that’s your trouble. Get in there while she’s still interested, you fool.’
‘Yeah. Maybe you’re right.’
‘I always am. I have two perfect marriages and two perfect divorces behind me to prove it.’
‘Thanks.’ Bob coughed again and searched for his hanky, only to find his trouser pockets empty. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. His throat was sore now and he decided to take some aspirin himself. He gave Iuean a small salute and headed back to his own surgery.
On the way past the reception desk, he stopped and spoke to Letty Bird. ‘Did Saskia Harden make an appointment for next week?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘I did tell her to stop at the desk on her way out and make one.’
‘Well, she didn’t.’ Letty tapped at some keys on her computer and swivelled the screen so that Bob could see. ‘There. Blank. At least, as far as Ms Harden is concerned. All you’ve got for this time next week — so far — is Mrs Finnigan’s bunions and the check-up on Mr Grundy. The scans should be back from the hospital by then, and you can tell him the good news. Or the bad news, depending on what the results are.’
‘I can hardly wait.’ Bob thought for a moment and then said, ‘Do we have Ms Harden’s phone number on file?’
Letty raised her severely plucked eyebrows.
‘I need to check something with her.’ He knew just the kind of sucked-lemon look a request like this would provoke, but he was determined to follow this through now.
Tight-lipped, Letty worked the keyboard and then frowned. ‘No. We don’t have any contact telephone number for her. Does she even have a phone?’
Bob shrugged. ‘Apparently not.’
‘Doesn’t have an address either by the looks of it. At least not one that makes sense. I know the Marshfield area. There’s no such place as this.’ She tapped the screen.
‘OK.’ Bob thanked her for nothing and turned towards his surgery, rubbing his chest painfully as he coughed again.
‘You should see a doctor!’ Letty called after him.
FIVE
Jack took out his frustration on the Hub’s firing range. He aimed the Webley one-handed, putting a single round through the chests of four separate Weevils and the final two bullets through the forehead of the last.
Owen peered into the dingy shadows at the far end of the disused underground tunnel. They kept it gloomy to make it more difficult. ‘That one was an inch high.’
‘So what? It’s dead, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yeah, dead as a cardboard cut-out with two bullet holes in it can be …’
Jack lowered the revolver and clicked open the cylinder. ‘So what’s your problem?’
‘Real targets don’t stand still. And even if they do stand still, the first round will knock them back. The second round will miss.’
Jack quickly reloaded. ‘Not me, buddy.’
‘You’re tired.’
‘Like I said — not me.’ Jack cast him a sideways glance. ‘Get anything from Big Guy?’
‘Not much. The wound was deep and lethal; you know that already. He never stood a chance. The damage to the internal organs was traumatic and consistent with a single, raking slash directed upwards from the crotch to the sternum. I imagine it must have made his eyes water somewhat.’
‘So what are we talking about? Some kind of predator?’
‘Unlikely. As far as we know, Weevils have no natural predators, although that is supposition on our part. We know so little about them, really. But a natural predator only ever kills to eat — and there was no sign of anything snacking on Big Guy.’
‘Could it have been disturbed?’
‘It’s possible. But somehow I doubt it.’ Owen let out a huge yawn he made no effect to conceal. ‘I’ve put him in the Morgue anyway.’
‘I thought you were going to get your head down? You look like you could do with some kip.’
Owen pursed his lips. He didn’t bother arguing. He was certainly tired, but he was still too wound up after the action in the warehouse. There was no way he was going to get to sleep now, and he didn’t feel like going home. Besides which, time on the firing range was always fun, and he knew perfectly well that Captain Jack Harkness could put six bullets through the same diamond on a playing card at this range. Even using that old relic of a handgun. Owen didn’t know why Jack was so attached to it; the weapons Torchwood had available were literally incredible; a lot of them were state-of-the-art firearms and many were augmented with alien technology. They had automatics that couldn’t miss, laser-guided rounds, explosive rounds, depleted uranium rounds, stun-guns, handguns that carried super-dense flechettes in a slim magazine containing nearly 200 shots. And yet Jack always stuck with his old Webley revolver, its grip worn smooth with years of usage and the flat-sided barrel nicked with a lifetime of action. He kept it in a large, old-fashioned leather holster at his hip.
Another six shots thundered down the range and punched flakes of paper into the damp air. Each round had struck the first three Weevil cut-outs in the eye.
Jack stood in a slowly moving cloud of gun smoke, arm extended, face stony.
‘Coffee, gentlemen,’ said Ianto as he came in. He put down the tray on one of the reloading tables and brushed a smudge of cordite from his shirt cuff. He looked up, saw Jack’s grim expression, then checked the Weevils. ‘Feeling a bit out of sorts, are we?’
‘I didn’t like the way they were looking at me.’
Owen smiled at Ianto and jabbed a finger at Jack. ‘He’s frustrated, he is.’
‘I know. He always aims high when he’s in a bad mood.’
‘You could both do with some practice yourselves,’ said Jack. ‘I want you all on this firing range at least once a day from now on.’
‘What’s the big hurry?’ Owen asked.
‘I don’t know — yet.’
‘It’s the Rift, isn’t it?’ said Ianto. ‘All these fluctuations and sparks. Something’s coming and we don’t know
