SIXTEEN
They drove through the pouring rain. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire stretched off into distance as far as Gwen could see. Warning signs on the enclosure flashed past at regular intervals: ‘Ministry of Defence Property’. After she’d seen a dozen of them, she’d worked out that the rest of the wording on them was the stilted formality of the Official Secrets Act describing the risk of arrest and prosecution for ‘unauthorised persons’.
Eventually, Jack pulled the SUV over onto a grass verge. A painted notice on stout poles indicated they’d reached Caregan Barracks, home to Y Cymry Deheuol, the Southern Welsh Regiment. Parked under this sign, also angled up on the verge, was Gwen’s black Saab.
Toshiko got out of the Saab and walked towards them, clutching a plastic bag under one arm. Gwen wound down her window so that they could talk.
‘Only just got here myself,’ said Toshiko. She held out the keys to the Saab. ‘Want to swap?’ Gwen accepted the keys and got out.
Toshiko took the passenger seat, next to Jack. ‘Here’s your shirt,’ she told him, and passed him a tissue-paper parcel from the plastic bag. ‘I chose you a blue one. You know, for a change.’
Jack wriggled about in the driver’s seat as he started to remove his jacket and braces.
Gwen stood in the rain, feeling it soak into her hair, wondering how much longer he was going to take. She saw that Toshiko had demurely faced away from Jack as he pulled on the fresh shirt.
While he dressed, Jack leaned across the car a little so that Gwen could hear him through the window. ‘Let’s be cautious with the armed forces, OK? In the face of alien weirdness, the military instinct is to involve UNIT at the first opportunity. We can do without that kind of hassle. Follow my lead.’
‘Any other last-minute pearls of wisdom?’ Gwen asked him. ‘Only I’m getting drowned out here.’
‘That’s nothing,’ said Toshiko. ‘You should see it in Cardiff now. Much heavier than here, and still deteriorating. The worst seems to be confined to the Bay area. It’s like a microclimate.’
‘Microclimate as in “tiny amount of sun”?’ retorted Jack, and put the SUV into gear again. ‘We might as well be in Manchester.’
Gwen drove after them through the entrance. They showed their IDs and, after some further consultation, the sentries lifted the red-and-white-striped barrier to allow them in. A jeep with two armed soldiers escorted them past the crisp tramping of a drill practice, and into the visitors’ parking area. One soldier was a stocky youngster with Slav features, the other was tall enough to look thin in comparison.
The army buildings were squat, low affairs. Grim and dreary in the afternoon’s grey light, with wide and shallow-sloping roofs that glistened in the rain. Few had more than one storey, white stucco walls with aluminium-framed windows punched into them at regular intervals. One of the buildings had a second storey clad in stained dark timber, and it was towards this that the soldiers steered them.
The Torchwood team walked together between their escorts, Toshiko in the middle.
‘What can you tell us about the base commander?’ asked Jack.
Toshiko was able to read information off her PDA as they walked. ‘Daniel Yorke. Lieutenant-Colonel. Queen’s Gallantry Medal 1988. Played hockey for Combined Services. Graduate of Sandhurst. Did special duties in Afghanistan. Were you looking for anything in particular, Jack?’
‘Just hoping to make polite conversation.’
There was a laminated notice affixed to the wall outside the base commander’s office. It detailed, in brief, the expectations of soldiers at the barracks. The list started with ‘Selfless Commitment – to put others before you’, went through ‘Courage’, ‘Discipline’, ‘Integrity’, and ‘Loyalty’, and concluded with ‘Respect for others – to treat others with decency at all times’.
After five minutes with Lieutenant-Colonel Daniel Yorke, Gwen wanted to drag him from his own office and press his nose up against the notice so that he could read the last one. Press it quite hard, in fact, pushing firmly on the back of his shiny bald head.
They had remained standing in his sparsely decorated office. He had not invited any of them to sit in either of the two chairs on the near side of his large, uncluttered desk. Nor had he risen to greet them or shake hands, remaining ramrod straight in his own chair.
Yorke’s territorial hackles had already been raised by the authority that Torchwood assumed. But his mood had soured further when he learned that this Torchwood delegation was run by a Captain from the RAF, someone he would conventionally outrank. It was plainly as much as he could bear to take instructions from the shabby individual before him, who had his shirt tails hanging over the front of his trousers and a coat with a huge tear in the sleeve.
And worst of all, Gwen could tell from the lecture they were getting, was the fact that Jack was an American.
‘British Army’s held in the highest regard. All round the world. Respect that was hard-won over recent years.’ Yorke spoke like he had to pay for every word in a telegram. ‘Northern Island. Falklands. Bosnia and Kosovo. The Gulf, obviously. And countless peacekeeping ops throughout the world.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack said as Yorke took a rare pause to draw breath. ‘We appreciate that.’
‘We?’
‘Torchwood,’ said Jack calmly.
‘Ah. I thought you meant the Americans.’
‘My team are not American.’
‘You’re telling me that you’re English, then,’ said Yorke.
‘Welsh,’ Gwen told him, emphasizing her accent. ‘And Doctor Sato here is Japanese. What’s your point?’ Jack nudged her with his elbow. ‘Sir,’ she added lamely, as though that might rescue the situation.
Yorke had barely met Jack’s eye throughout the conversation. He preferred to keep looking back over his own shoulder, through the second-storey window and out over the grounds towards the assault course where distant figures struggled under nets and over walls. It also gave Gwen the impression that he was studying the crown and pip on his shoulder insignia. As the conversation continued, he was considering his position in more ways than one.
‘Our professionalism in the British Army doesn’t come through chance,’ Yorke continued. ‘We attain it by constant, thorough and tough training. Y Cymry Deheuol produces the best here.’
Not good enough to pronounce Welsh properly, you English twerp, thought Gwen.
‘Look at them out there,’ said Yorke, nodding towards the assault course. He turned back to his desk and clasped his hands together on its buffed wooden surface. His lizard eyes flicked across his visitors, and the unspoken comparison was clearly ‘and look at you in here’. But instead he said: ‘Those youngsters out there started with reveille at 6 a.m. They’ve performed drill practice, map reading, first aid and rifle handling. A six-mile run and a drill test we call “passing off the square”.’
‘Busy morning,’ said Gwen, and got another nudge from Jack.
‘They are the best.’ Yorke seemed to be addressing his comments now to the two soldier escorts who still stood at the back of the room behind them. ‘And the best are taught by the best. So, no need to have dragged your team all the way out here on this lovely Sunday afternoon, Captain Harkness. We can conclude this investigation ourselves.’
‘Was Sergeant Anthony Bee one of the best?’ Jack said.
Yorke’s fluent lecture stumbled to a halt. ‘I really cannot comment at this stage of the investigation,’ he said eventually. He’d stopped looking out of the window. Jack certainly had his attention now. He tried to rally again. ‘It’s “Anthony”, by the way. With a hard “t”.’
Jack ignored Yorke’s attempt to reassert his superiority. He scattered six photographs carelessly onto the Lieutenant-Colonel’s tidy desk. ‘Recent brutal murders from the centre of Cardiff. Do they look familiar?’
Yorke gave the photos a cursory examination without touching them. ‘You can’t expect me to believe that these vagrants have any connection to Caregan.’
Jack shoved the photographs across the desk, closer to Yorke. ‘Not the people. Their wounds.’
Yorke considered the evidence briefly before pushing it slowly back across his shiny desk. ‘That’s something you’d need to ask Doctor Death.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘The MO. He’s Doctor Robert De’Ath. It’s a joke.’ Yorke forced his thin lips into a tight, mirthless smile in an attempt to illustrate this.
‘I’m sure Gwen will bear that in mind,’ said Jack. He turned and said to her: ‘You can start with the Medical Officer while Tosh and I finish up here.’
Yorke stood up, annoyed that Gwen was already moving towards the door. ‘You may have jurisdiction here—’
‘You know we do,’ Jack interrupted him. ‘You made three separate phone calls about it in the half hour after we told you we were on our way.’
‘How could you…?’ Yorke saw Toshiko’s smug expression, and his bluster petered out at last. He sat back down in his chair. ‘I didn’t request any help from Torchwood, Captain,’ he grumbled.
Jack sat down in the chair opposite him. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel, I don’t remember saying we were here to help you.’
Gwen leaned in to murmur in Jack’s ear. ‘Polite conversation,’ she reminded him.
Jack was still telling Yorke what he expected from him as Gwen left the room with one of the soldier escorts and closed the door behind her.
Gwen’s escort was the stocky lad, with Slav features. It didn’t surprise her when he told her he was Private Wisniewski, but when she persuaded him to reveal his first name (‘John-Paul… with a hyphen’), that was less expected. Private Wisniewski marched her briskly around the corners of several white stucco walls. The buildings were mostly indistinguishable, and laid out in a simple grid fashion that made it hard to keep track of the route. They eventually crossed a cracked expanse of grey tarmac, across which the wind blew directly at them. Wisniewski barely flinched as the gust whipped rain into their faces.
Over the noise of the rain Gwen could hear voices shouting a mixture of encouragement and abuse at the soldiers who were struggling through the assault course. They skirted another open expanse, this time a dirt and gravel rectangle traversed by wires on short red metal posts, around which trainees crawled, ran, or climbed, seemingly oblivious to the rainfall that soaked their uniforms, their weaponry and their huge backpacks. From further away came the crack of single gunshots on a distant firing range.
Major Robert De’Ath was a complete contrast to Yorke, and almost too eager to please. He took one look at Gwen as she entered his office and immediately asked her in his soft Scots accent to take a seat while he found her a towel to dry her hair. He dismissed Private Wisniewski, who said that he would wait outside. De’Ath then offered her a cup of coffee, apologising because he’d just run out of milk so it would have to be black, and would that be all right with her?
And yes, he’d heard all the jokes about his surname, thanks. ‘My favourite is “De’Ath warmed up”. Speaking of which, here’s your coffee.’
Major Robert De’Ath was in his early forties, with close-cropped light brown hair that framed a freckled bald head. He was wearing fatigues, the standard green and grey battledress, so she assumed he was on duty.
‘I need to know about Sergeant Anthony Bee,’ Gwen said.
De’Ath settled into his own chair, and placed his hands on his knees. Gwen noticed that his desk was placed facing the window, so that the Major could talk to his visitors without having the furniture as a physical barrier. ‘Terrible business.’
‘Tell me more.’
De’Ath looked up at the ceiling, as though he was visualising something. His voice sounded further away somehow. ‘Anthony Bee was a PT instructor here at Caregan. Well respected. Admired by the men. Some of the officers suspected that he was too familiar with the other soldiers.’
‘In what way?’
De’Ath paused. ‘Having a drink with them at the Feathers,’ he said cagily, ‘that sort of thing. Not the sort of fraternisation Lieutenant-Colonel Yorke really approves of.’
‘I can imagine. Did you disapprove?’
De’Ath smiled at her. ‘No. Though you’d expect a Medical Officer to say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Why?’
‘Soldiers don’t just come to me for straightforward medical problems. They can turn to the MO for advice and counselling too. So I think the best MOs are those who wholeheartedly join in with the life of the community they serve. Sports. Social. You do a better job if you understand the daily routines of the soldiers in your care. Bee was like that, actually.’
Gwen finished her coffee, and cradled the mug in her hands. ‘Did Bee come to you for advice and counselling?’
De’Ath gave her a mock frown. ‘I’m sure you know I couldn’t tell you if he had. But I can tell you that what led to his death was utterly out of character for him.’
He could see her expression encouraging him to continue.
‘Sergeant Bee was shot dead while trying to steal an amphibious vehicle loaded with tools. I was also told earlier today that he had previously been suspected of stealing a jeep and some scuba equipment while supposedly on leave. So the authorities here kept an eye out for when he returned from his leave. They identified him as soon as he signed back into camp, and then tried to arrest him. He was shot dead while resisting arrest and threatening the sentries with a handgun.’
‘No prior indication of this?’
‘None,’ said Major De’Ath. ‘With anyone else, you’d suspect some extraordinary change in his personal circumstances or medical history. A trend of behaviour, unexpected absences. Something. But this was like some psychotic episode. And yet…’ His voice trailed off in puzzlement.
Gwen pushed him to go further. ‘And yet what?’
‘I spoke to some of the soldiers who witnessed the shooting. The man who killed him was one of the same youngsters whom he’d been teaching earlier in their training. Now, that young man needed some advice and counselling, let me tell you. Put yourself in his boots – he killed a man who he admired and respected.’ De’Ath looked straight at Gwen, and his cheerful eyes were cold and hard now. ‘He shot Bee because the sergeant had just shot dead one of his own. Kandahal was just nineteen. Bee killed him rather than surrender. How do you think the young soldier reacted?’
Gwen considered what Lieutenant-Colonel Yorke had said earlier. ‘Professionally?’
‘Well, yes,’ snapped De’Ath. ‘But what about after that? You must know what I mean, surely? The consequences for him. Emotionally.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You know, Sergeant Bee said a bizarre thing just before they shot him.’
‘Bizarre is my strong suit,’ said Gwen. ‘What was it?’
The Major shook his head, puzzled. ‘He said “See you again soon”. Foxton heard it cldearly. No one understands what he meant. But then, no one understands why he did what he did. The people he killed. And how…’
He put his face in his hands. It was as though he was trying to hide from something. Gwen just sat quietly, waiting for him to compose himself.
Eventually, he lifted his head again. Gwen didn’t say anything. It was something a detective inspector had once told her – make the other person uncomfortable with the silence. They might say anything to fill the gap, and that anything might turn out to be something useful. So she resisted the urge to speak even a few words of reassurance or distraction.
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Yorke briefed me ahead of your arrival,’ admitted Major De’Ath. ‘He told me you Torchwood people always take the extreme view. We have a saying in basic training: “If you hear hoof-beats, you look for horses, and not zebras”.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ Gwen said. ‘In my job, if I hear hoof-beats, I expect to see unicorns.’
‘I’m starting to understand that now.’ De’Ath took in a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. ‘What Bee said though. That wasn’t the only strange thing. We’ve had two other deaths here recently. Two more young soldiers. They had… savage injuries to the backs of their necks. At first we thought they were animal wounds…’
‘… but the tooth-marks were clearly human,’ Gwen continued.
De’Ath’s reaction told her she was right.
‘And from your post-mortem on Sergeant Bee, you concluded it was him that had bitten them. Murdered them.’
The Major was plainly astonished. ‘We’ve told no one. We hardly know how to describe what happened, never mind anything else. How can you possibly know about it?’
Gwen smiled apologetically. ‘Bizarre is my strong suit.’