Chapter 1, Part 2

They talked shop for a while longer, but the conversation eventually wound down and Gwen dozed off for real this time. It amazed him that she could sleep with a large double espresso-laced latte in her system. Just like Rose, he mused, trying to ignore the pang of loss that still seeped through him when he thought about her. In comparison, his own need for sleep was significantly less. His fifty-first century origin and genetics had a good deal to do with that, but even for his own century, he'd always managed to get by on a greatly reduced sleep schedule. The other cadets at the Time Agency Academy had always been especially envious of the ability, not to mention it had driven more than one lover up the wall.

All the same, there were still never enough hours in the day. Even now his thoughts wandered back to the other part of his job--not only the job that was expected of him, but the job he knew he had in front of him to ensure the history he knew ran to course.

With the loss of Torchwood's London HQ and the ferociously patriotic Yvonne Hartmann, his responsibilities had increased immensely, and with them, his opportunities to effect change. Previously the director of a relatively underregarded and often forgotten field office, he was now director of the Torchwood Institute's relocated HQ in Cardiff. Overnight, he'd found himself answerable to none but Britain's Royal Family themselves, and in a unique position to shape the organisation's future. He'd been given ultimate control over the medium, namely the Institute's operating policies and procedures, with which to begin the transformation of the clandestine, rabidly nationalistic Torchwood of the present into the Torchwood he knew from the historical records of his time period, the public Torchwood that came from virtually nowhere to become the major player in Earth's exploration of space.

When the United States shuttle programme ended in 2009, it was--will be; he needed to remember when he was--Torchwood, newly internationalised, that quickly became--becomes--the only name in space vehicle contracting. They've got a lot of growing, and growing up, to do in the next few years. But he'd already been hard at laying what groundwork he could: new policies mostly, retraining and, when absolutely necessary, removing personnel, recreating the organisation from the bottom up in some places. It'd taken a hefty shove to overcome the inertia of the deeply ingrained shoot first, British Empire forever mentality, but things were finally moving.

Recently, he'd been trying to forge better relations with UNIT-UK. While they'd worked together in the past, the union had always been grudging and tainted by a certain resentfulness on both sides--the mishandling of the Sycorax invasion was the latest example. As far as he'd been able to ascertain, no matter how in tune their objectives might be, any partnership of Torchwood with UNIT always ended up degrading into a pissing match over jurisdiction and authority, and who got to keep the toys.

He'd been triumphant to a point. Currently stashed in with the gear he'd brought along was one United Nations Intelligence Taskforce language translator, the most current database and software patches installed, Torchwood on the books as an official field tester. It helped that he'd offered his own knowledge of alien languages to the project, most of which had been incorporated into this latest database. It helped more that he'd agreed to push through one very special policy change, too--the one he'd been working on for the last week, tinkering with the wording, writing and rewriting sections of it, unsure whether he was just trying to get it right or whether he was trying to come to terms with his own feelings on the subject of the change: the amendment to the Institute's original charter to remove the Doctor from the scope of their investigations.

Evidently he'd been on UNIT's payroll for quite some time during the 1960's and 70's and they still held a rather strong loyalty to the guy. Jack could understand that, even if he was hard pressed to muster the same emotion within himself any more. Personally, his own feeling toward the man was one of ambivalence. He knew firsthand how astoundingly good the Doctor was at fostering that sort of loyalty, how terrifyingly easy it was to be drawn into the orbit of the star that was the Time Lord. And he knew the pain of being torn away from that star and left behind. UNIT was only out to protect their own and the fact that Torchwood had the Doctor listed as an enemy of the nation had to rankle more than a little.

UNIT's defence of their wayward charge wasn't the only factor in the matter. To achieve what it needed to, Torchwood could not waste its efforts obsessively tracking one alien who, Jack grudgingly admitted, typically did plenty more good for the country--hell, the planet, the solar system, the galaxy--and its populace than harm. There were many other more important endeavours the organisation could put its resources into.

Jack was pretty confident that pushing through the policy change regarding the Doctor would present little challenge. He had a fairly impressive case built and Yvonne's Ghost Shift insanity only added support to it.

Of course, he'd been there to save the planet's bacon when Yvonne had done everything she could to push the envelope and invite disaster on a cosmic scale. Torchwood had finally caught the Doctor, not through any great strategy or carefully conceived attack, but because they were stupid and arrogant enough to create a problem so massive that the Doctor couldn't help but notice it. Pushing at the very fabric of space-time until it shattered. Aiding an invasion force--albeit unwittingly--to cross over from an alternate universe. And harbouring another, the Daleks--again, unwittingly.

He shuddered at the thought, but more so at the memory it evoked of the last battle he'd fought by the Doctor's side, at staring down the Dalek gun aimed at him and the blackness.

In the weeks after, Jack had pored over what little documentation there was about the incident, gathering every scrap he could find, but the picture remained unpleasantly incomplete. Had they not had their own troubles protecting the rift in Cardiff from the invading Cybermen, he would have been at Torchwood Tower himself the moment he heard the Institute had the Doctor in their hands.

Nevertheless, despite the horrors he'd faced that day, the most distressing element of it crossed his desk a few weeks later. It was the list of missing-presumed dead. Rose Tyler was on it.

For good or for ill, to maintain his sanity, he'd convinced himself that she wasn't really dead. She couldn't be. She was missing; obviously that meant she had to be with the Doctor. Worryingly, the list had also contained one Jacqueline Tyler, Rose's mom, and one Mickey Smith, Rose's ex-boyfriend. Surveillance video put them both at Torchwood Tower that day. Though he hadn't met Jackie, he'd met Mickey once. Nice enough guy, but a bit wet, in Jack's opinion. In the Doctor's, too. Jack couldn't imagine the Doctor letting him or Rose's mother aboard the TARDIS to travel, so what were they doing with him at the Tower?

Based on that evidence, he'd formulated a plausible hypothesis, one that allowed him to ignore probability and left him at peace enough to rest at night. One that allowed him to continue to deny the possibility that the beautiful, caring woman that he couldn't get out of his head might be dead. The only explanation had to be that Torchwood had got too close, that they'd figured out who Rose was and tried to get at the Doctor through her family. There was no way the Doctor would stand for something like that, but he wouldn't leave innocents in danger either. Jackie and Mickey were only missing. Like Rose's case, no bodies had turned up. Jack wanted to believe that the Doctor had removed Mickey and Jackie from Torchwood's grasp and set them up with a new life someplace else. A kind of witness protection. Catastrophes like the Ghost Shift invasion were custom-tailored for just that sort of disappearance. He should know; he'd staged a few for himself.

Gwen stirred in her sleep, sweeping aside the raven's wing of hair that had settled across her face as she surfaced drowsily for a moment to enquire where they were and if he wanted to swap drivers. He slipped on a smile for her. He estimated less than two hours to Denbigh and told her he was good. She nodded and searched briefly for a more comfortable position in the leather seat before dropping off again.

He doubted that they'd find out anything they didn't already know and, had he kept the case to himself, he would have skipped interviewing Clarkson and the other officers out of Denbigh Station altogether, but Gwen had set up the appointment. She was a fine investigator in her own right. He'd give her some leeway to approach it in her own style. And even if they didn't get any new intel, they'd at least have a chance to convince the inspector to hold off on the police's manhunt until he and Gwen had had their look.

oOoOo

Summoned by the station reception officer on duty, Inspector Chris Clarkson met them and, after introductions were exchanged, ushered them to small meeting room near the back of the station. Fortyish, Clarkson's build was slightly doughy in the middle, but there was a trimness about the rest of him that served as evidence that this was a recent change. And certain amount of fatigue showed as dark circles under the inspector's sharp green eyes.

He was nervous, too, but Jack could easily mark the cause of that down to their visit. They'd introduced themselves as agents of Torchwood--another effort to legitimise the organisation and bring it out of the cloak and dagger realm--and associated the Institute with the security services. If Clarkson ever had heard of Torchwood before this, Jack was sure it was probably in the whispered context of black-ops and perceived troublemakers vanishing without a trace. In light of that, he did his best to look harmless, hoping Gwen would do the same--no need to scare the guy unduly. They weren't here to shake things up, and the inspector was looking harried already.

Settling into one of the chairs around the laminate conference room table, he sought to reassure Clarkson. "Relax; this visit is nothing to worry about. Just a little courtesy call so you know we're poking around on your turf. We're interested in two deaths that occurred near Llangynhafal."

The inspector relaxed some. "Of course, I know just the ones, but why would the security services be concerned?"

Gwen gave him a faint but kindly smile. "We're not at liberty to discuss that at this time."

Clarkson was instantly chagrined. "Oh, yes. Of course," he acquiesced, apologetic. And I thought the Cardiff police force rolled over easy, Jack thought, except the woman I stole away from them, that is.

"We're already familiar with the official reports, but getting a local perspective is often very helpful," Gwen explained from her seat to his left.

Clarkson, across the table, nodded his understanding as he folded his hands in front of him.

Gwen checked the file she had with her, likely more for show than a need to look anything up, as she took the opportunity to organise her thoughts. "You're inspector for the ward, but you weren't the investigating officer for either of these cases?"

"I was on leave." He smiled, a mixture of pride and timidity. "My missus had a baby--a son." That explained the fatigue. The poor guy wasn't sleeping through the night yet.

Jack offered the obligatory congratulations with a wide grin, silently thanking whatever deities were listening at the time that it wasn't him. "Your first?" he asked.

With a vigorous nod, Clarkson responded, "Ta. It's been a learning experience, that's for certain."

Gwen's kindly smile was back as she steered the inspector back onto track. The piercing look Jack received let him know she'd thank him not to derail the conversation too badly. "So tell us about the area. I'm going to guess things don't often stack up like this."

"Never! The whole place is usually quiet as can be--farms mostly. Only troubles round here are poaching, kids and the odd rowdy tourist. Dean dying and that other poor bloke in the same week, it's unheard of. Still coroner didn't find anything amiss in either of 'em."

"You knew Dean Longden?" Gwen enquired.

"In passing. He was a member of the local caving club. Usually lent his help whenever we had a tourist go missing--like we've got those two suspected missing right now. They sometimes get themselves in a scrape down in one of the old mines. Dean'd go round and check for us."

Jack perked up a little. "Heard about that, actually. Any more news?" He'd been hoping that those two would have turned up. Now he wanted to know how much time he and Gwen had before the search began in earnest.

Clarkson shook his head, frowning. "No. We had a quick look around the area they were headed to--right near where Dean and the other bloke were found coincidentally--after the call came in from Mrs Barger--she runs the B&B in Llanrhaeadr. The two missing are her lodgers. If there's still no word by this evening, we'll begin a search and start an official investigation. In most cases like these, we find that they turn up again within forty-eight hours after having decided to take an unscheduled day-trip someplace."

Gwen nodded knowingly as if she'd dealt with similar situations. "So the bodies were found in the same general location. And your tourists were headed out there as well." Spying a local area map on the pinboard near the door, she gestured to it, rising from her chair as she did. She unpinned the map and brought it to the table. "Can you show me here where exactly we're talking?"

Clarkson rose, too, getting a better look by leaning over the map. "Aye." A second's searching to orient himself, and the inspector pointed. "Dean and Roger Nelms were found here. The GPS co-ordinates are noted in the file," he told them. Michael Westman and Douglas Matheson--Mrs Barger's missing lodgers--said they were going out to the mine just here." His finger slid a very short distance and he looked up at them. "Less than half a mile, I think."

Gwen's expression turned thoughtful. "The mine? More cavers, then?"

"Seems so."

"Longden and Nelms were both found out in the open, correct? Dean hadn't been out at the mine?"

"We can assume not. He didn't have his gear with him. Anyway, he seemed the type who was smart enough not to do any serious exploration without a partner and backup. No, from what I've been told, he was only out walking."

At Gwen's request, Clarkson dutifully rounded up the officers that had filed the Longden and Nelms case reports. Seeing no need to interfere, Jack let her continue to run the interview, very occasionally putting in a question of his own. While Time Agency methods bore some similarity to those of this era's police, this was her show to run. She was on home ground here--her profession, her country, her time zone--and she was proving she was a pro. When she finished her cross-examination of the investigating officers, Jack was no more or less reassured about what might be lurking out on the moor, but with so much talk centred around the mine Clarkson mentioned, he was beginning to think the wild idea of throwing in the climbing gear might not be so wild after all.

Finally, Gwen exhausted her line of enquiry, much to Clarkson's, and his own, relief. She was thorough, and she was good, he'd give her that. Regardless, he was glad that she didn't give the poor inspector or the other officers too hard of a time, but just from this session, he could tell he never wanted to experience a serious grilling from her. Thank goodness she's on our side.

Standing, he shook the inspector's hand. "Thank you, Inspector Clarkson. I hope you don't mind if we go up and poke around for ourselves a bit."

"Not at all," he said, shaking Gwen's hand as well. "If you wanted, I could accompany you, though I'm not sure what you expect to find." Somehow Jack couldn't quite believe that the offer was anything more than Clarkson being polite. His initial unease hadn't completely faded.

Jack grinned at the man. "I'm not sure we know either. But I don't think we need to trouble you further by dragging you out there. Tell you what, if we have any further questions, we'll give you a call?"

Clarkson appeared to be moderately relieved by that answer. "Certainly. You have the number." With one last enquiry about the best place for lunch and another round of thanks, they left the inspector to return to his duties.

oOoOo

The day that had promised to be crisp and sunny in Cardiff had turned to something decidedly cloudy by their journey north. Though rain didn't appear to be a threat, the cloud cover was thick enough that the ruggedised Army GPS receiver--the PLGR; for some reason, Jack insisted on using the silly official acronym and it was beginning to stick--had taken longer than usual to acquire. Even without rain, the leaden weight of the PLGR in her hand and the climbing gear and computer in the rucksack on her back were doing their best to drain any pleasure out of the hike. They'd had to leave the Range Rover behind and walk in and, by extension, pack in any equipment they might need.

That Jack kept forgetting the length of his legs in comparison to hers didn't help matters. He'd get caught up in the story he was telling and end up outpacing her by a fair distance before he remembered himself to drift back to keep pace with her. In all she was finding the whole experience wearing and was glad Jack seemed content to talk for both of them.

Though she did have to marvel at the way he could carry on so blithely, telling stories, and he still managed not to give away anything personal about himself. Listening, she realised that most of his stories, the ones about events she didn't witness herself, had a sanitised feel about them. No surnames and no real location information. She didn't doubt that everything he'd related had actually happened, a little exaggeration in places notwithstanding--really, fifteen of them...naked. Still, there remained the perception that someone had tripped through Jack's past life with a thick black marker and censored all the details.

Yet again she had to wonder who he was, where he came from. On their drive to Denbigh, she'd caught a glimpse of another Jack, a weary, brooding, pained Jack. Wrapped in his private thoughts, it had taken him a few seconds to notice she was awake. In that moment she was given an unguarded view of a man steeped in bone-deep sadness. He'd been hurt, deeply, and not very long ago, she guessed. It broke her heart to see that the man she'd thought to be so alive, so full of energy, was so radically different, so broken. She'd been torn as to whether to offer a consoling hand, but then he smiled his bright smile and the moment was gone, the mask he showed the world back in place.

Relief flowed through her when the PLGR finally registered that they were close to the crime scene co-ordinates. She let Jack know that they were getting close, pointing out the marker she spotted in the distance.

As they approached, a length of bright yellow barrier tape fluttered from an anonymous stake, the only visible remnant of the investigation into Longen's death. Not far away, somewhat hidden behind a rise in the rocky, scrubby landscape, a similar stake marked the place where Nelm's body had been found.

"They were close," she said. She estimated less than 150 yards separated the two sites as she absently stowed the PLGR in her rucksack.

Jack swore. Gwen was pretty sure that was what it was. She didn't catch the words--she couldn't even be sure they were English--but the tone and inflection was definitely one of abrupt annoyance and the mildly guilty glance he sent her way confirmed the suspicion that he'd said something he knew shouldn't have.

"What've you got?" He was messing with the wide cuff on his right wrist that until now had been hidden by sleeve of his canvas jacket. She came to stand near him trying to see what he was looking at, but before she got a good look, he tugged his sleeve down. Another Harkness mystery, she noted. Hurriedly, he shrugged out of his pack and crouched to paw through it.

"Tell you in second," he replied, distracted by his efforts to pull what she recognised as a scanning device, the technical details of which she could never remember, from the rucksack. She knew Jack could rattle them off without a thought. Probably based on some sort of advanced alien technology. Which one specifically wasn't her department to know; they had Toshiko Sato for that.

Whatever he had found, Jack wasn't quite shaken, but he wasn't at all happy about it. When she had donned her Glock back at the Range Rover while they were gearing up, the measure had felt extreme for a trek through the countryside. The pistol's weight at her hip was suddenly a welcome reassurance.

Half a minute passed as he wrangled with the scanner, his expression growing more and more serious, her anxiety growing to block out her earlier frustration. Jack finally looked up from the device's display and focused his intent gaze on the horizon beyond the second crime scene marker.

She followed his gaze, but there was nothing there to see, nothing but the meeting of grey sky and gnarled grey-green land. "What is it, Jack? What did you find?"

His voice grim, he answered, "I found our killer."