Sarah Pinborough - Into the Silence

'And the alien takes the instruments they use to sing with.'

'But why?' Gwen asked. 'Because it likes the sound or because it hates it?'

Jack rested his hands on the desk and leaned on it. 'Right at the moment that doesn't matter. What's important is that the singing somehow draws it.'

'But why now? This competition has been running for a few years now. Why hasn't the alien attacked earlier?'

'The competition's much bigger this year than before.' Ianto looked up. 'Don't you read the local papers? Just about every spare space in Cardiff has been rented out to choirs and singers from all over Wales. After Britain's Got Talent , they all seem to think they're going to be the next Paul Potts. That or the last choir standing.' He sipped his coffee, shaking his head slightly. 'Everyone seems to suddenly think they can sing their way to fifteen minutes of fame, but at least in this competition you have to get past the regional heats. And even though a lot more have got through from those this year, most of the worst ones will get knocked out in the final rounds.'

It was only when he paused that Ianto noticed both Gwen and Jack staring at him.

'What?'

Gwen felt the corners of her mouth tugging into an amused smile. 'Just sounds like you know a lot about it, that's all.'

Ianto frowned. Why did he suddenly feel like he'd admitted to something weird? 'I used to do a bit of singing myself.' He paused, trying but failing miserably to keep the defensive edge out of his voice. 'In fact, I've picked up tickets for the final. It'll be nice to be in

the Millennium Centre for once, rather than under it.'

Jack smiled. 'Two tickets?'

'Of course.'

Gwen was still staring at him as if he had something strange smeared across his face and she didn't know quite how to address it. But then she could be like that. Just because she had the most obvious 'real' life out of the Torchwood team, both past and present, Ianto thought she sometimes forgot that they'd all had lives of some sort before joining up, and sometimes ghosts from them lingered. And not all of the ghosts were bad.

'A singer,' Gwen said finally. 'I wish I'd known that earlier. You could have sung at mine and Rhys's wedding. It would have been lovely.'

Ianto smiled. 'Don't you think your wedding day was special enough?'

'You're right.' Gwen sighed. 'I was bloody lucky to make it down that aisle at all. Wouldn't have wanted you distracted by trying to remember a load of lyrics. And anyway, after all that running around you'd have probably sounded crap anyway.'

All three of them back in the memory for a moment, Ianto watched as Jack's eyes dropped to the empty chairs. For a moment they sat in silence, but Ianto didn't feel the need to break it. No one needed to speak, and he was pretty sure that none of them had the words anyway.

Eventually, Jack coughed a little. 'So, we've got an alien that is drawn to good singing for whatever reason, and can change shape and move freely over high spaces. At least it's a start. Gwen, I want you to do a database search on the last two criteria. When you're done, give me what you've found and I'll take over. That sound thing is bugging me.'

Gwen nodded. 'What about the press? Are you going to give Cutler a cover story he can use for now? I don't see three mutilated singers staying off the front pages, no matter how many strings you pull.'

'Cutler's a big boy. He can manage for now. And anyway, I'm not sure I want this kept quiet at the moment. If it frightens a few singers away, there's not so many left for us to worry about. Speaking of which…' He glanced down at that large dial of his watch. 'I think it's time for the news.'

Out of the Boardroom and back in the heart of the Hub, Jack, Gwen and Ianto gathered around the small TV that looked so out of place amongst the high-tech computer equipment that filled the desk spaces. Jack turned the volume up as the opening titles for the news came to an end, then folded his arms across his chest.

The murders were the first headline, and Ianto thought that if Jack was happy for the press to be involved in this one then he should be looking pretty ecstatic. The newsreader stared intently into the camera.

' Three competitors in the Welsh Amateur Operatic Contest have been found dead in three separate locations across the city over the past twenty-four hours. The victims, two male and one female, whose names have not been released, were all qualifiers for this year's final to be held in ten days' time at Cardiff's Millennium Centre. Although the police are not releasing any details of the causes of death, it is believed that they are treating each as a murder enquiry and have not ruled out that the deaths are linked .'

The camera cut away from the studio and out to Cardiff's central police station. A tired-looking blond man in his thirties came out of the building and stopped at the top of the stone steps. He didn't carry an umbrella, instead ignoring the rain as he stared grimly into the flashing bulbs and microphones of the journalists.

'Is that Cutler?' Ianto asked.

Jack nodded. 'Does his face ring any bells?'

Ianto shook his head. 'Should it?'

'He says he had a case that was taken over by Torchwood One back in 2003. You used to work there. Dig through the records we've got and see if you can find out what it was. I'm curious. He seems pretty sharp.'

Ianto nodded. 'Will do.'

On screen, Cutler glared at the camera, his chin tucked down a little, like a boxer preparing for a fight, as journalists shouted questions over each other. After a moment, he raised his hand, his brow furrowing slightly with impatience. He didn't wait for the small crowd to fall silent but started speaking over them, forcing their quiet if they wanted to hear what he had to say.

'We obviously can't say too much at this time given that the investigation is under way, but South Wales Police can confirm that three bodies have been found dead over the past twenty-four hours, and that we are treating these deaths as suspicious.' He paused, the space immediately filled with a cacophony of voices all demanding attention. Cutler continued as if only he and the camera were present.

'We also have reason to suspect that the deaths may be linked. Until we can give out further information, we would ask the public not to panic but also to take the usual sensible precautions.' For the first time he lifted his chin fully. 'That's all I can say at this time.'

Turning, Cutler moved quickly away from the reporters who were still shouting questions at him and went back into the station. Ianto was pretty sure he could make out words like 'Singers' and 'Competition' in the questions fired at the policeman's back. Given the way the victims had died, he figured it wouldn't be too long before one of the tabloids was hinting at the gruesome details, no matter how much of a media ban the police put on them, and then there'd be panic. As much as working for Torchwood was sometimes draining, he didn't envy Cutler's job.

Jack rolled up his sleeves and clapped his hands. 'Right then, let's get to work. We've got an alien to track down.'

Up on the Cardiff streets, evening slowly drew in, the dark night falling with the rain, coating the gloom with shifting shadows. Heels clicked quicker on the pavements, as people rushed to find their way to the warmth of their bright homes, shivering away the dampness of the day. Cars and buses blared horns and churned out chunks of acrid, irritated fumes. No one looked up. And, even if they had, the dark shape that darted here and there against the night would have been barely visible as it searched the city.

Hannah Lafferty undid the buttons of her smart woollen coat and gritted her teeth. The woman had to be joking. Beside her, the rest of the Milford Haven Women's Institute Choir were doing exactly as she was, all staring in disbelief at their musical director, Annaliese George. Hannah's fingers resisted the stiff buttons and, glancing down, she didn't recognise the gnarled hand at the end of her wrist for a moment. When did all those knotted veins and liver spots appear? Why was it that sometimes slow changes seemed to happen all of a sudden? Was it supposed to fool you into thinking that old age was somehow OK?