4
Jack was watching the screen.
The orange glow was brighter now.
Tiny flames licked the night sky on the horizon.
The fire was spreading.
But that was someone else's problem. Thank Christ. He had his own stuff to sort out.
He called Davidson for the umpteenth time, waited as long as the voicemail, and then hung up without leaving a message.
The door opened again.
"I said to tell them to fuck off," Jack boomed.
"Told them sir. They didn't. But it's not that."
Jack squinted at the man in the impeccable suit.
"What now?"
"They've found another one, sir."
"Another body?"
"Another Sharon Madison. Two of them, actually."
Jack stood up. "How d'you mean? Cut in half?"
Ianto nodded. "Top to bottom."
Jack sat down.
"Fuck," he said, and then he stood up again. "Fuck! A serial killer alien?"
"Actually, no. Don't think so, sir," said Ianto as he handed him a sheet of paper. "Not unless he can fly."
Jack stared down at the page.
It was a printout from the BBC News website with a photo of some uniformed types all gathered around a couple of white sheets. He tried to read the article, but one word kept rearing up at him.
"Egypt?"
"And there's this one," Ianto continued. He passed him another printout. He read it in silence.
"I can't even pronounce that," he said at last. "Where is it? Wales?"
"Thailand, sir."
Jack lowered himself onto his desk.
The stack of paperwork slid off it and onto the floor.
"Same as Sharon Madison, sir. Sliced top to toe, organs missing, the works," Ianto said. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, then changed his mind again all in the space of a second. "What do you think it is?"
Jack carefully folded the sheets and slipped them into his inside pocket.
"Bad news, Ianto," he said. "Get on the phone, will you? Get Davidson in here."
"I'll try, sir. Phone's playing up," Ianto said and he headed for the door.
"And don't tell anyone about this."
Ianto paused in the doorway. "Apart from the readers of the BBC website, you mean, sir?"
Jack twitched. "Fuck. Yeah. Apart from them."
The door closed.
Jack was halfway through gathering up the tower of paperwork when it opened again. He straightened up, knocking the back of his head on the underside of the desk.
"Ow! Christ. What now?"
"Swanson's on the phone, sir," Ianto said "And Unit really wants to talk to you."
"Tell Unit to get fucked. And tell that Swanson…" Jack thought for a moment. "Tell her to get fucked an' all."
Ianto nodded. "Right, sir."
He moved to go.
"Don't actually tell her that," Jack said. "Tell her I'll phone her back."
"Right," Ianto looked agitated and unsure. No wonder with the world crumbling around them. "And Unit?"
"Actually tell them to get fucked," Jack said. "Literally say those words."
"Right, sir. Will do, sir."
Ianto had barely shuffled off when another face appeared.
"Gwen. Thank fuck. Talk to me about ..."
"We've got him, Jack" she said, cutting him short.
Jack nudged the toppled tower of papers with his boot. "Which one?"
"Sharon Madison. The bastard that did it. Heddlu 'ave got him."
"You sure it's him?"
Ianto nodded as he entered behind her. "Oh it's him. He's confessed. In writing."
"In writing?"
"Yes Jack." Ianto shifted uncomfortably in his polished shoes. "More or less."
.
.
.
.
.
12:01 AM
Davidson lay there.
For a long time he just lay there on the carpet, the wind whistling through the broken window, his blood staining the neck of his pyjamas.
There was numbness in his chest, like the aftermath of an electric shock. His heart was no longer in there, it was up around his ears, surging the blood through his veins with a whump-whump-whump.
A breeze moved the curtains towards him and he scrambled back, jolting from his daze. He leapt to his feet and frantically looked around.
The phone.
Where was the—
Aha! He pounced on the handset like a tiger, snatching it up and stabbing three nines. He listened to the faint hiss of static as lines clicked together in an exchange somewhere.
"Come on," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the window frame. "Come on."
There was a click from down the line, followed by a series of short rising beeps.
"Sorry," chimed a polite female voice in his ear. "The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please replace the handset and try again. You have not been charged for this call."
Davidson pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the display.
Three LED number nines stood shoulder to shoulder on the screen.
He hit the button to hang up and dialled again. This time there was no delay before the beeps. "Sorry. The number you have dialled has not been recognized…"
"Fucking thing!" Davidson yelped.
He hung up and dialled the station.
He shifted anxiously from foot to foot while he waited for the ringing.
It never came.
There were no beeps or recorded messages this time, just a hiss and a click and a continuous flat tone.
"Fuck!"
Davidson tossed the phone onto the couch and glared at it with contempt. He hurried through to the bedroom where he'd abandoned his clothes in a pile and fumbled through his trouser pockets until he found his mobile.
He pressed the top button and tapped his pin number on the screen.
The phone unlocked and a message flashed up telling him he had missed calls.
Twenty-seven of them.
Davidson's stomach knotted as he swiped through the list.
Harkness, Harkness, the station, Harkness.
There were a few others, too.
His mother (twice).
His sister in Edinburgh (four times).
Two random numbers he didn't recognize and a Caller Withheld.
Mostly, though the screen was flooded with Harkness.
With a few taps he called the number back. He held his breath and waited.
The cold breeze from the living room swirled into the bedroom and Davidson shivered in his thin pyjamas.
There was no sound from the phone.
He checked the screen, which still claimed to be Dialing Number.
It was taking it's time about it.
Keeping the phone to his ear, Davidson slipped off his pyjama bottoms and pulled on the discarded trousers. He'd tossed his boxers in the washing basket and the others were piled up with the other clothes on the couch. He'd have to go commando for now. It was, he reckoned, the least of his problems.
He fumbled with the button and held the phone in the crook of his neck as he carefully zipped up the fly. Wriggling his bare feet into his shoes he checked the screen again.
Still dialling.