Sarah Pinborough - Into the Silence

As Adrienne stepped inside and grimaced a smile at Ceri, Ryan's tune didn't even waver.

The Bay View Beverley Bed and Breakfast wasn't quite close enough to the bright lights of the Cardiff Bay area to charge premium rates, but being within walking distance it could be guaranteed a steady trade throughout any busy months. Still, Gwen wasn't entirely sure that the owners would be able to fight a false advertising claim if it ever went to court. She reckoned that to consider yourself Bay side, you'd have to at least be able to see the Bay from some part of the building, even if it was only the attic.

The owners in question, Mr and Mrs Beverley, both in their early fifties, were sat sipping tea in their small, overly dressed dining room along with the five or six other guests who had been unfortunate enough to be in the building during that morning's incident. Passing them to head up the stairs, it was clear they were all badly shaken. Even from a distance, Gwen could see an old-fashioned teacup trembling in one man's hand as a policewoman took a seat opposite him. She could understand that tremble. She still felt a little unsettled after her encounter at the hospital.

'Make sure we get copies of all their notes.' Jack headed up the narrow, steep stairs. 'I doubt they'll have anything solid to give us, but it'll all help.'

Nodding, Gwen looked down at the royal blue carpet. It was threadbare in patches, and, although the skirting boards were clean, they were chipped and tatty and could do with replacing. Maybe the Bay View Beverley Bed and Breakfast wasn't doing so well after all. How was a murder going to affect their business? No wonder the middle-aged couple looked so worried.

The police photographer gave her a brief nod as he squeezed past, heading downstairs, and Gwen thought he looked as pale as his plastic suit. Whatever had happened up there wasn't going to be pretty. But then she wasn't expecting it to be after what they'd seen in the church. At least she, Jack and the police had some idea of what they would find. Whichever of the Beverleys had discovered the body hadn't had that privilege. How long would it be before the B amp; B would be on the market?

More uniformed officers trotted past them on the narrow stairwell, disgruntled expressions clouding their faces, clearly not happy to be relinquishing another crime scene to the mysterious Torchwood team.

Reaching the top of the building, Gwen followed Jack round the tight corner and through a door with a tacky ceramic sign with roses and lilac growing around a black number 7. She idly wondered whether someone should point out to the Beverleys that maybe a trip to Ikea wouldn't do their style any harm. Perhaps today wasn't the day for that. Her internal flippancy in the situation surprised her, and she wasn't sure whether she liked it or was appalled by it. Shaking her hair a little, she tried to get a grip on herself and concentrate.

'Well, well.' Detective Inspector Cutler was standing in the middle of the double bedroom, his hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets, his suit jacket undone. 'It's Mulder and Scully.'

He smiled and, although his eyes were brighter, Gwen thought he looked as scruffy first thing in the morning as he had done late at night. Even though his suit was smart and his shirt tucked in, there was something about him that seemed to her as if he'd just tumbled out of bed. And he still hadn't shaved. Looking at his broad chest and crumpled face, she had to admit there was something attractive about him. In fact, a part of her would have quite liked to see him tumbling out of her bed. Or into it.

As if confirming he was having the same thoughts, Jack gave the policeman a broad grin. 'We must stop meeting like this.'

Cutler raised an eyebrow. 'Trust me, I'd be happy to.' He nodded towards the small en suite bathroom. 'He's in there.' Stepping aside, he made room for Jack and Gwen. 'It's not pretty. His name's Barry Llewelyn, 49, checked in late last night with his wife. He's here for the singing competition. Just like the other one. And, as you can see, he's gone out the same way.'

Gwen moved into the doorway and froze for a moment. Her stomach lurched slightly, acid burning its way up into her chest before, swallowing hard, she controlled it. In many ways, this crime scene was far worse than the one they'd dealt with in the Church of St Emmanuel the previous night, if it was at all possible for the sight of one man cut open from the throat to the pelvis to be preferable to another one.

'How come Ianto gets to stay back at the Hub?' she said softly.

Jack clenched his jaw. 'We have stronger stomachs.'

'I'm glad you're sure about that.'

Unlike the church, the en suite was tiny. As the man had died, his blood had splattered all over the walls, the crimson splashes demanding attention against the purity of the tiles. Handprints blurred down the inside of the cubicle where the victim had obviously tried to stay upright in the face of his terrible attacker. The shower head had come loose from its holder and hung down on its hose, peering over the body with useless concern.

Barry Llewelyn was naked. He might have been a strong man when he was alive, but lying on the lino of the tiny shower room and toilet, his body slightly arched and positioned somewhere half-in, half-out of the shower, his legs looked skinny and insubstantial, too pale from blood loss, their whiteness blending in with the ceramic of the toilet bowl that his foot touched. The muscles of his upper arms had slackened, appearing flabby as they reached outwards to the walls. As with the victim in the church, Barry Llewelyn's torso had been peeled open, his skin an unwrapped towel around his delicate organs.

Gwen fought the urge to grab a sheet from the bedroom and cover him over. There was something vaguely pathetic about the sight of any naked middle-aged man and the fact that this one was terribly mutilated didn't detract from that. She was only glad that his face was turned the other way and she didn't have to look into his dead eyes. It was a sight she'd never really got used to. She wondered for a moment what he'd find to say if they could use a resurrection glove on him. Looking at the way his insides were exposed and throat damaged, she guessed he'd probably be saying bugger all. Despite her own black humour, she shivered. Aside from the fact that it had nearly killed her, there were a million other reasons to be glad that the resurrection glove was one piece of alien technology they wouldn't be using again.

Jack peered into the man's exposed throat.

'Are they missing?' Gwen asked.

Jack stood up. 'Yep.'

'The vocal cords and larynx?' Cutler spoke from behind them. 'I noticed that too.'

Turning away from the body, both Gwen and Jack stared at him. He shrugged.

'It may be your jurisdiction, and to be honest your problem and amen to that, but I'm still curious.' The Detective Inspector sat on the edge of the unmade bed. 'I took a good look at the police photographs last night.' He smiled, and Gwen wondered if it was the wistful quality in that damaged expression that made him so attractive.

'Did they help you sleep?' Jack asked.

'Ha. No.' Cutler frowned. 'But I figured that the killer wouldn't have opened up the poor bastard that precisely for nothing.'

'And you were right,' Jack interrupted. 'I guess you know more about anatomy than Scully here, but we'd be grateful if you could keep your findings to yourself.'

Cutler held up his hands. 'Trust me, I'm not looking to steal Torchwood's glory.' He sighed. 'But if all this gets out…' He ruffled the mess of his hair. 'We all know it will get out. And as soon as it does, I'm going to be in the firing line from the press. So the quicker you have some answers, the happier I'll be.'