Something in the Water

SIX

Owen drove his Honda 2000S to Trynsel. The sat-nav prompted him quietly from the dashboard, and he was connected to the Hub hands-free via his ear comm.

‘I was hoping for a day off,’ he muttered ruefully as the first spots of rain appeared on the windscreen. The two-hour nap he’d taken on the sofa by his workstation already seemed like a distant memory — or a brief, unsatisfying taste of what real sleep was like.

‘There are no days off at Torchwood,’ said Jack cheerfully. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Ianto’s got me chasing some pretty young blonde-’

‘He knows you so well.’

‘-with a suicide habit.’

‘Like I said. Hold it — suicide habit?’

‘She keeps throwing herself in the canal,’ Owen said.

‘She sure sounds fun.’

Ianto’s voice came through: ‘Saskia Harden. Serial attempts to take her own life, according to the police reports.’

‘And Torchwood is interested in her because …?’

‘Filed under paranormal,’ Ianto explained. ‘She’s been found face down in garden ponds, canals, even a lake, on no fewer than seven separate occasions in the last five months.’

‘That’s weird, but it’s not paranormal.’

‘Except that she was found dead on each occasion,’ Owen added. ‘You’ve got to admit, that’s one step further than weird.’

‘OK,’ Jack’s voice said, but there was still reservation. ‘And I take it that the police didn’t see this one-step-further-than-weirdness as an emergency.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Ianto.

‘So — why’s Owen on his way to find her?’ Jack’s voice took on a warning tone. ‘We’re busy, Ianto. I’ve got Gwen and Tosh looking for ghosts in the middle of nowhere and a Weevil-killer on the loose. Then there’s the young mother in Splott who’s got a spider the size of a dinner plate in her bath and we’re due another writ from the Hokrala Corporation any day now. We’ve got lots to do.’

‘This Saskia girl could be a lead,’ Owen said quietly.

‘A lead?’

‘Ianto cross-checked his non-emergency paranormal police reports with missing persons and, er, water.’ Owen swallowed, realising how lame this was going to sound.

‘I thought it might provide some kind of lead on your missing alien,’ Ianto added. ‘It went missing in the fish farm, after all. That’s a water connection.’

‘Kinda tenuous,’ Jack said.

‘Except that I back-tracked Tosh’s Rift scan and found that the same kind of temporal spark that we registered at the fish farm also occurred at each of the locations where Saskia Harden was found dead in the water.’

‘You’ve got to admit it’s probably more than coincidence,’ Owen added. ‘Anyway, I think she’s worth checking out.’

Jack laughed knowingly. ‘Yeah, after all, she’s young, blonde, needs a shoulder to cry on …’

‘It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.’

‘So where does she live, this mysterious and beautiful serial suicide?’

‘We don’t know,’ Ianto admitted.

‘What is she? A vagrant?’

‘The address she gave the police doesn’t exist,’ Ianto replied. ‘They don’t actually know that — they’ll have picked her up and transferred her to hospital and left it at that. But she doesn’t feature on any government database — no birth certificate, education, national insurance, employment, taxation, or criminal record. Nothing at all. To all intents and purposes she doesn’t exist. That alone is enough to warrant some investigation, but no one else has the time or, it would seem, the inclination. No one, that is, except yours truly.’

‘OK,’ Jack said, and there was a hint of interest in his voice now. ‘So how you gonna find her?’

‘Well, that’s where I had to be extremely clever as well as amazingly handsome,’ Ianto said. ‘Because there was one, teeny-weeny little computer record which did feature Saskia Harden’s name: the appointments list at the Trynsel Medical Centre.’

The Trynsel Medical Centre was a newly built NHS facility on the outskirts of Cardiff. It was a single-storey, yellow-brick building with sliding glass doors and a receptionist who only looked up at Owen after he had stood in front of the reception desk for a full forty-five seconds. He’d counted them. In that time, Owen had checked out the open-plan waiting room, with its usual array of notices advertising flu jabs, health clinics, post-natal care and sponsored fun runs. There was a large poster devoted to stopping people smoking, and another one about mental health care. Beyond these cheery signs was the waiting room proper, seemingly full of people with bad coughs. There were mothers and children, old men, one or two younger guys, but all of them were coughing and they all had grey faces and dark circles under their eyes. One old guy was making a big show of bringing up something thick and gooey from the back of his throat into his handkerchief.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist eventually, raising her voice over the noise.

‘Yeah,’ said Owen, turning casually back to look at her. ‘I’d like to see Dr Strong, please.’

‘You mean you’d like to make an appointment,’ she stated primly.

‘No, I just want to see him. It’s not a medical matter.’ Owen gave her a brief, tight smile. ‘Well, it is a sort of medical matter I suppose. We were at uni together. He’s an old mate, and I thought I’d look him up.’

The receptionist’s face hardened minutely into a well-rehearsed mask of indifference. ‘I’m afraid Dr Strong isn’t available today.’

A large man had appeared behind the receptionist, middle-aged with a twinkle in his eye. He glanced up from the file he was reading at the mention of Strong’s name.

‘Someone looking for Bob?’

‘Yeah — me,’ said Owen quickly, before the receptionist could respond. He grinned and extended his hand towards the other man, introducing himself. ‘Dr Owen Harper. Hi. I was told Bob would be here.’

‘Well he would be, normally,’ replied the other man. He had an ID card hanging from his shirt pocket which read Dr Iuean Davis — Practice Manager. ‘In fact he was in this morning, but he’s had to go home ill.’

‘Typical,’ said Owen. ‘Something serious, I hope …?’

Davis smiled. ‘Flu, I reckon. Only started this morning — nasty cough. Like most of this lot, actually.’ He nodded at the waiting room full of people hacking and spluttering into hankies.

‘Yeah,’ mused Owen, curious despite himself. ‘What’s up with them?’

‘Search me. It’s either flu or biological warfare, I can’t decide which,’ Davis chuckled. ‘Or maybe it’s just something in the water. Anyway, I doubt Bob’ll be back soon.’

‘OK,’ said Owen. ‘No problem. I’ll try him at home.’

He walked out, with the sound of the receptionist coughing behind him.

Owen climbed back into his car and contacted the Hub. ‘Ianto, I need Strong’s home address.’

‘Problem?’

‘He’s not at the surgery today — he’s off sick.’

‘I always wondered why GPs don’t take more sick leave. After all, they spend every day meeting sick people. They must catch everything going at some point.’

‘Well there are plenty of them here. I’ve never seen such a pasty-faced bunch. What’s wrong with this area? TB epidemic?’

‘I’ll check if you like.’

‘Just give me his address. It can’t be far.’

Ianto tapped up Strong’s address and read it out to Owen.

‘I’m on my way now. This had better be worth it.’ Owen started the Honda and pulled out of the medical centre car park, nearly hitting another woman on her way in, busy coughing into a tissue.

Owen leant out the window. ‘You want to look where you’re going, love!’

‘Sorry,’ she wheezed, holding up a hand to show that she knew it had been her fault. She coughed again, a real hack, and looked down into her tissue. ‘It’s not the cough that carries you off — it’s the coffin they carry you off in,’ she said with a weak smile.

Owen nodded and drove off. He’d seen the red phlegm in the tissue. Professionally it troubled him, though the woman had been on her way to see her GP, which was the right thing to do. But the matter preyed on his mind all the way to Robert Strong’s house.

It was a pleasant semi-detached with a long driveway and a Ford Mondeo. Owen rang the doorbell and waited for an answer.

Eventually a man came to the door; Owen could hear him coughing on the other side. The door opened and a long, pale face looked out. ‘Yes?’

‘Dr Strong?’

‘Yeah. Who wants to know?’

‘My name’s Owen Harper.’

Strong was suddenly overtaken by a massive coughing fit, clutching the door to support himself as he doubled up.

‘Here, that doesn’t sound so good, mate,’ Owen said, automatically moving to help.

‘It’s been getting worse all morning,’ Strong told him between coughs. He sounded full of phlegm. After a few moments, he recovered and smiled wanly. ‘I had to come home from work today — never done that before in my life!’

‘I’m a doctor,’ Owen said. ‘Maybe I can help.’

Strong gave a short laugh. ‘I’m a doctor too,’ he said. ‘Fat lot of good it’s done me. Come in.’

It was a bachelor’s house, with black leather armchairs and a widescreen plasma TV, surrounded by untidy stacks of DVDs on the laminate flooring and a good-looking sound system. In the corner was a Wii console with a few games scattered around it. There was evidence of a previous life, however: a photo on the mantelpiece — Strong and a woman embracing, faces pressed together, grinning at the camera. Strong noticed Owen looking at it and said, ‘Ex-wife. Quite liked her, then.’

‘Creative differences?’

‘You could say that.’ Strong dissolved into more coughing and motioned towards a chair. ‘Take a seat,’ he croaked.

Owen sat down. ‘No kids?’

‘Nah, thank God.’ Strong slumped into the opposite chair. ‘Never got round to that — creative differences, as you say. Or procreative differences. I wouldn’t have minded a couple of sprogs, but she wasn’t ready for them. Career came first, she said. First, last, and always.’

There was bitterness there, but only very slight. Strong was enjoying being single. Or at least he would have been, Owen thought, if he hadn’t been so ill.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ the man confessed. ‘I’ve never had anything like this before. Coughs and colds, yes, but this … this is something else. Reckon I’ve got flippin’ TB.’

‘That’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah — but not impossible. It is on the increase in the UK, has been for some years now.’

‘Only in inner-city areas — and then it’s the slums. But you’re a long way from those kinds of places here. Have you had any tests?’

‘Not yet. I’m waiting to see what happens.’

Owen smiled. ‘Keep taking the tablets and come back in a week?’

Another laugh, which turned into a coughing fit. ‘Yeah,’ he gasped after a pause. ‘That’s it. I’ve taken some codeine for the pain; I’m just sitting the cough out.’

‘Pain?’

‘In the throat, when I cough. Most likely it’s a bad throat infection.’

Owen nodded, thinking. He wondered whether he should say he’d stopped in at the Trynsel practice or not. But the pause in the conversation had given Strong the chance to reassess his visitor.

‘You didn’t say what you called for.’

‘It’s just routine,’ Owen lied. ‘When a GP goes down as quickly as you have, we have to follow it up. It’s automatic.’

‘We?’

‘NHS Direct.’ Owen had said the first thing that came into his head and instantly regretted it.

Strong wasn’t impressed. ‘Rubbish,’ he said, and a more wary look came into his eyes.

‘No, it’s true. When a GP contracts a serious illness we have to investigate. Government policy now.’

‘Serious illness?’ There was genuine worry now. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

Owen hoped serious illness was just enough to steer Strong away from asking too many questions about where he’d come from. ‘Well, it’s probably nothing, is it? But it’s procedure. Have to be sure.’

‘Sure of what?’

‘That it’s nothing too serious.’ Hold on, this is getting daft. Nothing-too-serious? Not-serious-enough? Just-about-right-serious?

Strong leant forward, hunched over as he coughed once or twice and looked Owen carefully in the eyes. ‘My boss thinks it’s biological warfare, you know.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve got to admit it makes a kind of sense. It sounds mad but it’s not as unlikely as all that. What if there’s been a leak somewhere, from some kind of government research facility. Look what happened last year with that foot-and-mouth outbreak — all because of some burst drainpipes in the floods. Contaminated the area where some builders were working, and then they trampled it onto the farms.’ Strong sat back, his chest rumbling with another cough. ‘Maybe there’s something in the water. Or someone’s brought this into the surgery, probably by accident, and I’ve picked it up.’ He looked pointedly at Owen. ‘And that’s why you’re here.’

‘It is?’

‘You’re not from NHS Direct. You’re from the Government, I can tell. Got Civil Service written all over you. Could even be MI5 — am I right?’

‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’

Strong laughed and then coughed, long and hard, turning red in the face with the strain of it. Owen went out into the kitchen and fetched a glass of water. By the time he got back, Strong was slumped in his chair, pale and exhausted, with flecks of spit on his chin. ‘God, I feel awful,’ he muttered, rubbing his chest. ‘So. What happens now? Am I whisked away to a top secret research lab for tests? Or just disappeared, so no one will ever know what happened to me?’

Owen looked as though he was considering for a moment before replying. ‘We may have to do some tests, yes, but you won’t have to go anywhere. In fact I can take a blood sample right here, right now.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the field kit he always carried: a slim box no bigger than a pencil case containing needles, syringes, sterilised pads, scalpels. Some of the stuff was more advanced than the most up-to-date medical equipment available anywhere in the world.

‘You came prepared,’ said Strong, automatically rolling up his shirtsleeve.

‘I was a Boy Scout.’ Owen pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, assembled a hypodermic, sterilised a patch of skin on Strong’s forearm and tapped a vein until it stood out. Then he quickly and expertly extracted some blood.

‘Nicely done,’ Strong said, and then coughed. ‘Didn’t feel a thing.’

‘I’ll get this analysed and then we’ll know what’s what,’ Owen said as he stowed the kit and sample. ‘But as far as we’re concerned, at the moment you’ve just got a bad case of flu — although it could be a new strain.’

‘Asian flu?’

‘Doubtful, but it’s really too early to tell. Like I said: tests. That’ll give us an idea.’

Strong sat back, clearing his throat painfully again, thinking about the implications. He looked twenty years older. ‘Bloody hell, this is just awful. How long am I going to be off work?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Owen assured him, sounding positive but professional. ‘Remember, this is all precautionary. It’s probably nothing.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strong, in a hollow voice that meant he had said those same words to patients a hundred times before and not meant it either.

‘Get some rest,’ Owen advised him. ‘I’ll give you a call and let you know the results as soon as. OK?’

Strong nodded, reaching for his tissues again as another coughing fit began. He waved as Owen let himself out.

Back in the car, Owen contacted Ianto again.

‘It’s me. I’ve seen Strong and he’s in a bad way. Coughing up blood. I’ve taken a sample for analysis and I’m on my way back now. Do us a favour and get my stuff set up.’

‘As you wish.’ A pause. ‘And what about Saskia Harden?’

Owen swore. ‘Listen, never mind her for the moment. I’m more worried about Strong. I saw another patient at the medical centre with the same symptoms, and possibly a whole lot more in the waiting room. Whatever this is, it needs prioritising.’

‘Once a doctor, always a doctor, eh?’

‘I’ll do my job, Ianto, and you do yours. That way we all get job satisfaction.’