The House That Jack Built

FIVE

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.'

He sighed, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket — such an old-fashioned future-boy… who even carried handkerchiefs these days? — and began to rub down any of the surfaces he might have touched.

'You'll think your heart is broken,' he said, rubbing the armrests of the chair he had sat in and the surface of the pine table. 'That the death of someone who was once part of you can never be weathered, that you will just sit and rot…' He bit his lower lip. Who was it he was trying to convince here, her or himself? 'But life goes on.' He stared right at her. 'You can, you will, know happiness again.'

His mobile began ringing, and there was a flicker in her eyes as it broke through the haze of the drug.

'Who are you?' she whispered, half-noticing him.

'I'm the last person you should ask that question,' he replied, pulling her eyelids gently closed with his fingers and answering the mobile. 'Hold on,' he said into the phone. 'You never saw me,' he whispered in Mrs Wilkinson's ear as she sank into sleep, moving quickly out of the house, wiping the door handles as he went.

Outside, he put the phone back to his ear. 'Hey, Gwen, sorry… Just readjusting the facts in the case of Danny Wilkinson.'

'No problem. Police reports altered and the usual news blankets in place at my end. Traffic accident, as you said.'

'Great. Thanks.'

'You may have another one on your hands, though. Huge chronon surge not a stone's throw from where we found the body, I've sent the coordinates to your PDA.'

'Great…' Jack was already climbing into the driver's seat and accessing the GPS software. 'Got it,' he said as the bookmark popped up onscreen. He dropped his mobile into his pocket and drove back towards Jackson Leaves. By now the rain was really thundering down, bouncing off the road surface and chasing leaves and litter along the gutter. He had to lean forward in his seat to see through the windscreen, even with the wipers on full speed. The police tent had been retrieved in his absence, and the excavated trench was overflowing with rainwater. God always cleans up his crime scenes.

He parked up and checked his PDA again. The surge appeared to be coming from the house almost directly opposite where Danny Wilkinson's body had been found. It hid its Edwardian heritage under layers of middle-class chic; faux-Japanese stone garden in front, Laura Ashley curtains visible through the lead-lined double-glazing. Come Christmas, Jack was in no doubt that ghastly fibre-optic threads would dangle from the guttering. Maybe a hollow-plastic Santa hiding within the shadows of the conifers, a brittle dwarf devoid of happiness or soul.

Jack pulled up the collar of his coat and clambered out of the SUV, dashing through the rain to the cover of the house's front porch. He rang the doorbell. No answer. Dropping to his haunches, he poked the letterbox open and peered through. There was little to see but a cream hallway leading through to the kitchen, where the owner was at work if the smell was anything to go by, Jack's mouth watered at the thick scent of roast meat. Pork, if he was any judge.

He rang the bell again and moved towards the lounge window, peering through the rain-splashed glass at the dark shape he could see sat in the far corner. Oh… Not pork.

He moved back to the front door but didn't bother with the bell, trying the handle just in case. The door was unlocked, so he pushed it open.

The smell of cooked meat washed over him. Now that he knew what it actually was, it made his belly groan. He pulled out his handkerchief, held it in the rain for a moment and then wrapped it around the lower part of his face so he looked like a Wild West outlaw. It didn't completely remove the smell, but it lessened it enough to walk inside without fear of throwing up. He took a few deep breaths of cool, wet air before moving into the lounge.

The body was black and pink, streaked with slicks of pearlescent body fat that caught what little light there was from the late-afternoon sun outside the window. Jack hunted through the inside pockets of his coat and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. With gritted teeth, he took hold of the woman's body and tilted it slightly in the chair. The scorch marks on the leather made it impossible to believe that the fire had started anywhere but the victim herself. Somehow she had burned while the rest of the room had remained untouched. Her skin crumbled and flaked under his fingers as he let her rock back to where she had been sitting. Looking around, he could see no other sign of damage; the ceiling bore a black mark where the smoke from her burning candle of a body had stained the paint, but that was all.

Suddenly the corpse flared again, knocking him on his back as he threw himself away from the blaze. The flames roared around the woman's body, small embers glowing inside her like the pulsing light of a firefly.

Then, as instantly as it had reignited, it vanished, the flames disappearing to leave just the smouldering cadaver.

Jack's mobile rang again. He snatched it out of his pocket and answered. 'Let me guess,' he said straight away. 'Another surge?'

'Yes,' said Ianto. 'Same location as before but very brief. How did you know?'

'I was looking at it.' He got to his feet, keeping his distance from the body. 'I have a cremated corpse sat in front of me. Nothing's damaged but the chair it was sitting in.'

'Freaky.'

'Oh yeah… I'll bring the body in, but I want you to paper over the cracks for me.'

'No problem, bringing up the details now… The house belongs to Trevor Banks, he was a banker…'

'Deceased is a woman.'

'Most likely his wife then, Gloria. We'll confirm that when we have the body. I'll see if I can trace Mr Banks before he gets in your way.'

Through the window, Jack watched a BMW pull into the drive.

'Too late, he's here. Back soon.' Jack cut off the call and reached into his pocket for the Retcon. What an afternoon this was turning out to be…