Her monitor was attempting not to look smug as it offered an alphabetical list of news reports and police files relating to the road in Penylan. She was surprised by how many there were, even more so once she realised they all related to the same building: the house she had seen the young couple moving in to. But that was nothing compared to the final revelation her computer had to offer. She stabbed at the button of her desk intercom, scanning the text on her screen as she waited for Jack to answer.
'Hey, Gwen,' barked the intercom speaker. 'Please tell me it's not morning already.'
'We need to talk,' Gwen replied. 'Boardroom, twenty minutes.'
'OK,' Jack said as he strolled into the Boardroom. 'Brighten up my night and tell me you've found something we can go beat up. Dealing with Alexander's given me lots of aggression to work off.'
'Sit down,' Gwen replied, connecting her PDA to the projector, 'and shut up.'
'I just love bossy women,' Jack replied, though his smile soon faded as her mood reached him.
The projection screen began to fill with images: an elderly lady with skin as pale as a bed-sheet; a skinny girl, little to her but cheekbones and sadness; a long-haired surfer-type, beard grown thick to hide his youth; a glamorous woman, headscarf and big sunglasses; a myopic balding man, like a mole in a pullover… The faces kept coming, fourteen in all, until one final portrait made Jack sit forward.
It was his own.
'What have all these people got in common?' asked Gwen.
Jack could only shrug, though a suspicion rolled around in his head that was confirmed when she cued up the next image.
'They all lived here,' she said, pointing to the photo of the Edwardian house. 'Jackson Leaves, built in 1906 and trouble ever since, it seems. Were you going to mention it?'
'That I lived there?' Jack replied. 'Probably not… It hardly seemed relevant. I've been around, you know… There's not many parts of Cardiff I don't know intimately.'
'Not many of its residents either,' Gwen muttered.
'My point is, just because I used to live nearby doesn't mean Danny Wilkinson's death was anything to do with me.'
'Maybe not, but I'd be willing to bet that something about that house is connected.' Gwen tapped the trackpad on her PDA, and the line of faces reappeared on the projection screen. 'It has a history, Jack,' she pointed at the faces. 'You're the odd one out here. Know why?'
Jack shrugged.
Gwen stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she believed him or not. 'You're the only one who's still alive,' she said. 'The rest of them died in the house.'
' All of them?' said Jack. 'That's long odds.'
' Ridiculously long, and they don't include people like Danny who died on the doorstep.' Gwen stared at the faces on the screen. 'The odds get worse,' she continued, pointing at the old lady. 'Joan Bosher. Lived there over thirty years before a heart attack sent her packing, she's the one who left it to the young couple we saw moving in yesterday. She's the only person on this list whose death could have been natural. The rest… no way.'
She pointed at the thin woman. 'When Joan Bosher originally moved in, she let out rooms to lodgers. This is one of them: Kerry Robinson, librarian and aspiring poet, opened her wrists in the bathtub.'
She moved her finger to the long-haired man. 'Richard Hopkins, trainee hairdresser in Barry, also a lodger. He went berserk with a croquet mallet at a local pub.' Gwen glanced at her PDA to remind her of the name. 'The Hop and Kilderkin… Ran back to the house and put a pair of hairdressing scissors through his left eye.' She pointed at the woman in a headscarf. 'Michelle Sillence, interior designer — owned the place before Joan with an intention to renovate. She didn't so much as open a pot of paint…'
Gwen sighed and rubbed at her tired face. 'She was found hanging from one of the roof joists in the attic, pigeons had made a meal of her face. We've got the lot, drowned, shot, stabbed…' She gestured vaguely at the faces in front of them. 'All of them died… badly at Jackson Leaves.'
Jack stared at the screen. 'It was a nice house…'
'You — and possibly Joan Bosher — are the only ones who think so. As much as it makes me cringe to say it, something about that house attracts violence and death.'
'So what is it, and why were Joan and I not affected?'
'You telling me that you live a violence-free life?'
Jack stared at her for a moment. 'I suppose not.'
'For all we know, you just might not have noticed.'
Jack's mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. 'Yeah?'
Gwen watched the smile falter on his face. 'In your what?' he asked before his expression changed from confusion to concern. 'I know where it is,' he snapped. 'I'll be right over.'
He closed the phone.
'Ianto's been found unconscious,' he said. 'You'll never guess where …'
TEN
It was almost as if the ghostly water had frozen Rob, stuck on his knees staring at the spare bed that had reasserted itself in the room. It seemed solid enough. The creases of the off-white sheet, the loose silken threads on the embroidered base, a plastic badge with the brand-name on it turned yellow over the years. It seemed ridiculous to think that an old bathtub had occupied the same space only a few minutes ago.
He looked down at his wet shirt, a hint of pink in the damp of the white fabric. That was real enough. He heard Julia leave the room, but his mouth felt soft and useless, and he couldn't believe it would ever be used for speaking again. This proved untrue, as the minute he heard her scream he was shouting her name and getting to his feet.
She was standing in the hallway, staring down at a man in a three-piece suit who lay unconscious at her feet.
'He's real,' she said, nudging him with her foot.
Rob dropped to his haunches and rolled the man onto his back. There was a white sheen to his hair and eyebrows, small crystals on his cheeks and forehead. Rob touched the skin gently. 'Ice,' he whispered. 'He's covered in bloody ice.'
Julia made a slight groaning noise and leaned against the airing cupboard door. 'What's going on?' she said, not expecting an answer.
Rob didn't feel up to giving her one. 'He's alive,' he said, feeling the man's pulse. He frisked through the man's pockets, pulling a wallet out of his jacket. The wallet was sparse and ordered, unlike his own graveyard of receipts and store benefit cards; there was a crisp twenty-pound note, a plain black credit card and a business card featuring a simple message: 'The bearer of this card is Ianto Jones. If found, please dial 000 and wait for a response.'
'That's not even a proper number,' Julia said, reading over Rob's shoulder.
'One way to find out,' he replied, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and dialling three zeroes. Someone answered almost straight away, and Rob raised his eyebrows at Julia. 'Hello, erm… My name's Rob Wallace, and I've just found someone called Ianto Jones in my airing cupboard.'
The other person obviously commented on this. Julia watched a flash of embarrassment cross her husband's face before anger reasserted itself. 'I know it sounds bloody mad,' he replied, 'but it seems to be the night for that around here. There was a… ghost…'
It was the first time the word had actually occurred to Rob, and the minute it fell out of his mouth, he wished he could swallow it again — it sounded stupid and embarrassing, the sort of thing a child would say. 'Look, it doesn't matter. He's alive but he's out of it. Freezing cold and… well, I don't know… he seems OK, but he shouldn't be here, that's for sure. I'm in Penylan, a house called Jackson Leaves…' Rob looked startled, holding the phone away from his head.