‘Got to be something of that order,’ said Jack, at the wheel. ‘A suggestion or perception technique. Maybe a piece of found tech.’
‘Someone using something they shouldn’t, you mean?’ asked James.
‘Usually the way in this town,’ said Jack.
James peered out at the residential streets flickering by. ‘Any suggestions how we look for a man without a description to go on?’
‘Well,’ Jack replied, ‘I’m thinking he’s going to look like exactly what he pretends to be. A salesman. Smart, suit, well-groomed, going door-to-door.’
‘Because?’
‘Because he’s got to look the part to get inside in the first place, to walk down the street even. Whatever he pulls, he pulls it once he’s in. Like close magic. If what he’s using had a more powerful scope or range, there’s a good chance we’d have picked it up already. No, I’m betting he looks exactly like a salesman.’
James nodded. ‘And if anyone, like the police, did stop him in the street, he’d pull his trick on them too, and walk away?’
‘Right. You’ll notice from Tosh’s printout that he’s confident. He’s not afraid of hitting the same street several times, on the same day if he feels like it. He’s not afraid of being approached.’
‘What’s going to prevent him doing that to us?’ asked James.
‘We’re Torchwood,’ said Jack.
‘Right.’
They drove on.
‘Any particular reason you asked me to ride along with you?’ asked James. ‘Gwen was busting for an excuse to get outside.’
‘No reason,’ said Jack. ‘Except… there was something I wanted to ask you.’
‘What?’
‘Everyone seems full of beans today. After yesterday, I was worried, but everyone has bounced back. Except you.’
‘Me?’ James asked. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t seem as fine as everybody else. Any headache? After-effects?’
‘God, no,’ said James. ‘I’m bright as a button. Like Tosh and Owen both said, once the Amok stopped playing with us, everything felt so much better. We hadn’t realised how it had been crippling us. You too, right?’
‘Sure.’
‘My ribs ache a little,’ said James. ‘And I had some weird old dreams last night. But that’s all it is, I think.’
‘Weird dreams? What about?’
‘No idea. Can’t bring them back to mind. But they were just weird dreams, that’s all. Not alien mind-twisting crap.’
‘All right, if that’s all it is.’
‘Yeah. I was telling Gwen about it when we-’
James paused.
‘What?’
‘I was telling Gwen about it, earlier.’
Jack smiled. He pulled the SUV over to the kerbside. ‘You know I know, right?’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘It’s cool,’ said Jack.
‘Why have we stopped?’ asked James. ‘We’re not going to have some kind of formal talk are we?’
‘Get over yourself,’ said Jack. He pointed down the street. ‘Look what I see.’
SEVENTEEN
Dean Simms was nineteen years old, but reckoned he passed for early twenties in his Top Man suit. He was always particular about his presentation: mouthwash, a haircut once a week, always cleanly shaven, and a nice splash of smelly, though nothing too strong.
His old man had once told him that the real secret to selling was clean fingernails. ‘They always look at your hands, son,’ he’d said, ‘always at the hands. What you’re pointing to, your gestures. And nothing kills a deal quicker than closing with grubby hands. If you get the papers out to run through them, and you’ve got dirt under your nails, forget it. Client’s looking right at your hands at that stage, looking at the dotted line you’re pointing to. Oh, yeah, and have a nice pen. Not a biro.’
Dean’s old man had spent twenty-three years on the road in Monmouthshire and Herefordshire, flogging steam-cleaning systems door-to-door, so he knew the up and down of selling. Or ‘non-desk-based retail’ as he had preferred to call it. Dean had grown up paying close attention to his dad’s pearls of wisdom. His old man had always brought in decent money.
When Dean left school, his old man had tried to get him a job with the steam-cleaner company, but the Internet had been murdering face-sales by then, and there had been no openings, not even for ‘a lad with good selling potential’. A year later, his old man had been given his cards. That had killed him. Without a job at fifty-eight, he’d just withered away and died.
Determined to prove something, Dean had got himself a commission-only job with LuxGlaze Windows, but it had been a slog, and the product hadn’t been all that, and LuxGlaze always sent him to areas where the homeowners had been pre-pissed off by LuxGlaze’s carpet-bomb approach to telephone pitching. Twice, Dean had been chased off a plot by dogs, once by a man with a rake.
He’d switched to VariBlinds, then to Welshview EcoGlass, then back to LuxGlaze again for one awful, thankless, six-week effort to get himself a proper patch and actual customers.
There had come a time when Dean had started to think that maybe he wasn’t ‘a lad with good selling potential’ after all.
Then he’d got his break, and found his feet, and these days he was in business for himself. He stuck to his old man’s basic rules of salesmanship: presentation, clean nails and a nice pen. He’d always had the patter too, the charm factor that his dad had set plenty of store by. But Dean had something else, something his dad had never had. Dean knew the real secret of selling, and it turned out it wasn’t clean fingernails.
Dean Simms had the real secret of selling in his briefcase.
He checked himself in his rear-view mirror, checked his teeth for specks of food, checked his nails, checked his tie and got out of his vehicle. Game on.
The street was quiet. His vehicle would be all right where it was for an hour or so. He crossed the road.
His old man had always talked about ‘his patch’ with a genuine measure of proprietorial pride. Dean knew what his dad had meant. These streets were Dean’s patch, and he worked them hard. In return, they paid him well. Another few months, he reckoned, and he’d have to move area. Just to freshen things. You could go back to the well once too often, as his old man used to say.
He walked down the path, opening his zip-seamed briefcase, and looked at his list. It was easy to forget faces from one visit to the next. Early on, he’d hit the same house twice in a fortnight. Of course, the woman hadn’t recognised him, but he had no wish to repeat the mistake. He had a list of addresses printed off the electoral roll, and he ticked them off.
Number eight. Mr and Mrs Menzies. He consulted his watch. Two oh five. Just after lunch. Perfect.
He walked up the pathway of number eight and pressed the bell, hearing it ring deep inside the house. He waited, whistling softly.
The door opened. Ignite smile.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Menzies?’
‘Yes?’
‘Good afternoon, sorry to bother you. My name is Dean Simms of Glazed Over, and I’m in your area this afternoon to introduce a remarkable domestic opportunity. Now, it’s available for a limited period only, and exclusively, to a few, specially selected households.’
‘Are you selling?’ the woman asked. ‘Are you windows?’
‘I’m just here to talk about a remarkable domestic opportunity.’
‘I don’t want sodding windows,’ scowled the woman, and started to shut the door again. ‘Are you blind? We’ve got replacement windows back and front.’
‘Let me just leave you with a leaflet,’ Dean said, smiling. He reached into his unzipped case and squeezed the soft lump inside. ‘Just a leaflet, Mrs Menzies?’ He loved this bit.
‘A leaflet?’ she asked, slightly blank.
Dean’s grin broadened. He made a gentle sweep with his hand. ‘These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,’ he said.