Guy Adams: The House That Jack Built: The House That Jack Built

The tunnel badly needed sorting out, the damp having encouraged moss to cluster around the light fittings like bushy green beards. It smelt bad too, though he was unsure whether there was much he'd be able to do about that. He hated getting behind in his housework. The Hub had gone to pot over recent months.

He walked through the weapons store — trying not to think about the amount of dusting that represented — then into the Hub itself.

Gwen had beaten him back.

'Took your time,' she said as he wheeled the trolley past her desk.

'I mind the speed limits when I have dead bodies in the back of the van,' he replied. 'Has Jack called that old friend of his yet?'

'Alexander Martin?' Gwen shook her head. 'Don't know. He was dealing with the boy's parents.'

'Oh.' Ianto nodded, lining the trolley alongside the upper railing of the Autopsy Room. 'The fun bit of the job.'

'Yeah.'

'Makes a change from you having to do it, I suppose.'

Ianto attached the slab of tarmac to a chain winch bolted into the ceiling, lifted it up and then lowered it into the Autopsy Room so that it was sat on the examination table. He ran down the stairs, lined the slab up and made sure the supports were tightened so the table could take the weight. He jogged back up the steps and over to his desk to check whether anything significant had occurred in his absence.

There had, and his face fell as he scanned his monitor screen. 'There's been another chronon surge…'

'Where?' Gwen asked, scooting over on her wheeled chair.

'Right on top of the last one.'

'That's horrible,' said the new woman.

'It is,' Gloria replied, sucking the pale blue smoke of her cigarette deep into her long-suffering chest. It wheezed under the assault, huddling behind the cotton of a knock-off designer blouse her husband had brought back from a 'business trip' to Thailand. As long as that was all he brought back, Gloria had long decided not to ask questions. 'And you can bet there'll be drugs behind it. They're all on drugs these days.'

Gloria peered through the privet hedge, trying to get a look at the woman who'd moved into Jackson Leaves. She looked young — though Gloria thought that about most people these days.

'I knew Joan,' she said. 'The lady that used to own the house.'

'My aunt.'

'Really?' Gloria relished the surprise she conveyed in her voice. 'She never mentioned you.'

There was little polite one could say to that of course.

'We weren't all that close.'

'So sad.' Gloria's casual spite had some bite left to it. 'It's terrible a woman of that age being so alone. Especially at the end.'

There was a slight pause from the other side of the hedge, and Gloria wondered if the young woman was going to argue. She hoped so; there was nothing she liked more than a good argument.

'At least she had her friends,' the young woman said. 'And neighbours of course. If you'll excuse me, I really must get on with the unpacking.'

Gloria let the woman go, too angry at having been outdone to think of a suitable reply. She ground her cigarette into the blue-granite gravel of her driveway, which was a considerable improvement on the cheap, weed-strewn grit of Jackson Leaves she assured herself, and turned her Ferragamo shoes — or at least a market-stall approximation of them — back toward the house. She couldn't loiter in the garden all day, after all.

Inside, she glanced at the clock in the kitchen and sighed. It was only four o'clock, and that limited her choices as far as slaking her thirst was concerned. Sometimes she just couldn't understand how time went past so slowly. It felt nearly time for bed, it really did.

She flipped the switch on the kettle and shuffled through the box of exotic teas she kept mainly for show. She was sure there was an Earl Grey left in there, which was as much of a concession towards the exotic as she was willing to make if not in company. No, no Earl Grey… There was a 'Lady Grey' though… How different could it be? A little more long-suffering and capable of multitasking than the Earl, she imagined, pulling the cardboard tab from the top of the bag and dangling it from its clean white thread.

The kettle bubbled like her anger at the woman next door. It didn't have her patience, though, and was quick to boil. She poured the water on the teabag, cursing as a droplet of boiling water splashed from the cup and scalded the back of her hand. She slammed the kettle onto the worktop and seethed. She simply wasn't a woman used to not getting her own way in everything . Her entire life was constructed around her need to win. Certainly she had chosen her husband Trevor for his submissiveness; that and the fact he was able to earn the amount of money she deemed a bare minimum for comfortable living. If he didn't get a promotion soon, though, she'd have words. Penylan wasn't what it once was, and it was time they moved somewhere a little more exclusive. She didn't want to share a postcode with people like Danny Wilkinson, let alone have them turn up dead on her doorstep. Dear lord, she might as well be living in Splott.

Did you have milk with Lady Grey? She checked the little envelope it came in, but it didn't say. She supposed it didn't matter as long as she wasn't in company. A dash of skimmed milk and she was walking through to the lounge. She was so tired…

She put her tea on a side table, dropped down into her reclining, tan leather armchair and promptly burst into flames.

The fire burned with sufficient intensity to fix her to the spot, her muscles constricting in the heat and drawing her legs and arms to the chair as if she were gripping it in terror. In fact, there was too much pain for fear to even enter her head. She smelled herself cooking for a few moments before the heat seared the sensory cells in her nose. She saw a bubble of fat from her thigh pop and fizz — hadn't she always said she needed liposuction? — but then her eyes turned from weak brown to creamy white to nothing but rivers of hissing milk that cried themselves dry along her bursting cheeks. This was a blessing, there was nothing to be gained from watching her own flesh blacken and crack even as — bizarrely — the rest of the room escaped unscathed.

The windows appeared to be crying as much as Valerie Wilkinson, the rain trickling its way down the panes, dripping off the sill onto wilting blooms hammered down by the seasonal downpour.

'I'm sorry,' said Jack, unable to think of what else to say.

'No you're not,' she replied after a moment or two, dabbing at her running nose with a torn fist of kitchen roll. 'You didn't even know him. He's just a problem to solve.'

Jack stared at the floor, tracking the patterns in the lino as if following a maze that would let him escape from the unpleasant atmosphere.

'Yes,' he said eventually. 'But I will do my best to solve it, for what that's worth.'

She looked him up and down. 'I'm not sure it's worth much… I can't even remember who you said you were. You're not police.'

'No.'

'Why can't I remember?' she stumbled slightly, holding on to the work surface for support. 'I don't even remember letting you in…'

Jack got to his feet picking up the empty mugs from the table. 'You won't.'

Her legs gave way beneath her, so he put the mugs down quickly, moved to her side and supported her weight.

'It's OK,' he said. 'It just causes memory retardation, no other side effects.' That we know of anyway , he thought. He made her comfortable and lifted her chin slightly so he could look into her eyes. 'Your son died in a road accident. It was sudden and he felt no pain. There was nothing strange about the circumstances and, as sad as you are, there is no choice but to accept it and move on with your life.'