Chapter Text
When his phone rang Andy cursed fluently in several languages before snatching it off the bedside table and flipping it open. “Yes?”
“Andy?” It was Mairwen de Castro, the night-shift officer at the Lanishen police station. “You didn't hear it from me 'cause I'm not on the phone right now, but there's something your lot should look at here in our turf.”
Andy was instantly awake. “What's going on?”
“We got a call yesterday afternoon to the home of Beth and Mike Halloran. Nice couple. He's a barrister, she teaches graphic design at the Arts College. Semi-detached in Old Vicarage Close. No kids yet. Except that when we got there, Mike Halloran was dead, there were two other bodies, as yet unidentified, in the kitchen, and Beth Halloran sitting on the parlor window seat, rocking herself like a kid. Memory is totally gone.”
“It sounds pretty ugly, but...”
“Wait for the best part,” Mairwen interrupted. “The working assumption was that it was a home invasion gone wrong, so they brought in a Medium to contact the two in the kitchen. She ended up in the hospital. The best she can tell us is that something very powerful slammed her back. A force she had never felt before.”
By the time Mairwen finished, Andy was already standing and trying to put on his jeans one-handed. “And why hasn't this made its way to the Episcopal Court yet?”
“The Chief Constable isn't what you call fond of the Bishop. He decided it could wait until Monday.”
“I see. I'm sure Her Grace will be pleased. Thanks, Mairwen. I haven't heard from you and I'm not inviting you to lunch on Saturday at our usual place.”
She laughed. “I'll see you at one, then.”
Andy closed the phone and threw it on the bed while he rummaged in the closet. He pulled a polo shirt over his head and slipped his feet into boat shoes. He had spent several weeks running about from Ireland to Wales and back again as the Bishop's official representative, wearing out his two best suits. It was a great relief to wear Andy clothes again. Leather jacket, wallet in back pocket, phone in jacket pocket, and that was that. Comfortable and unremarkable.
He attached the Torchwood earphone and tapped the small disk twice. “Ianto?”
“Andy, do you know what time it is?”
Andy glanced at his bedside phone. Four a.m. “About ten minutes later than I had to get up, so spare me the bid for sympathy, mate.”
Ianto snorted. “What's up?”
“Call from a friend on the force. Something weird happened up at Old Vicarage Close and the Chief Constable is playing mum.” He repeated the story Mairwen had told him. “I know that some of the high-ranking Catholics aren't too fond of the Bishop, but withholding information from the Episcopal Court is a sure way of getting all your chevrons torn off at high noon on the castle esplanade with the whole South Glamorgan police lined up to witness. You don't risk that for a home invasion case.”
“Agreed. I'll get Jack up and moving and meet you at the Hub. Tosh, too.”
“I'll swing by and get her if you want. It's on my way.”
“Yeah. See you in a while.”
Andy pressed the disk behind his ear for a three-count, released, and tapped three times. “Tosh? I'm sorry to wake you up, sweet, but we need to get to the Hub. Something nasty's stirring and we need your technomagic. All right, all right! I'll stop by the bakery and get us some goodies. Greedy minx.” Her tart comment on his ancestry made him hoot with laughter. “And you don't know the half of it, Tosh, me darling. See you in a few.”
He skipped down the staircase, patting the arses on the caryatids holding up candelabras at each landing. As he reached the entry hall, Munro came out of the baize door that led to the kitchens. He looked Andy up and down with the familiarity of an old retainer.
“Torchwood business, then.”
Andy gave him a cheeky grin. “It can't be all diplomacy and balls, Munro.”
“Yes it could, but it won't. Torchwood's in your blood, same as all your relatives. Off you go. I won't even try to get dinner on the table.”
“That's for the best, I think.” He grabbed his keys off the hall table. “See you when I see you.”
He got behind the wheel and set down the drive. After his mother died, his father had let the front lawns revert to a meadow, but her favorite lemon lilies still popped up in great big masses, scenting the air throughout the summer. Andy suspected that Cynog, the gardener, conspired with Munro to replant them every few years, especially if his father was expected to spend time in Cardiff.
The tall wrought-iron gates swung open as the car approached. He drove slowly down the lane – some people still had their milk delivered – and then sped up as he reached the main road. It was still quiet, and he made good time into Cardiff. The bakery Tosh liked was immediately to the right as he turned into the street leading to the parking garage. He double-parked in front of the door and ran in, leaving the engine on. The girl behind the counter waved at him, then loaded up a box and passed it over.
“I'll charge your card, then, Mr. Davidson?”
“Thanks, Annie.”
When he got to the parking garage he found Tosh waiting for him, leaning against the side of her small runabout. He presented her with the box in exaggerated courtly fashion. “Didn't you trust me?”
“Of course I did, Andy.” She grabbed the box by the old-fashioned string ties and hooked her other hand into his elbow. “But it never hurts to make sure, doesn't it?”
Andy kissed her temple and allowed himself to be led through the insconspicuous door marked cleaning supplies, staff only. Somehow, while Jack had been away, he had grown close to Tosh. Much to his amazement, it had been perfectly platonic, and now they treated each other like brother and sister. He had taken Tosh home and introduced her to Munro and his wife Bess, and she had spent a long weekend roaming the grounds, talking to the owls and the foxes. He rather liked having a sister.
“There you are,” Ianto was standing on the steps leading to the conference room. “Coffee's ready. Gwen and Owen are on the way too. After I did a quick scan through the most recent entries in the police logs, Jack had me call them in.”
“Andy provided breakfast.” Tosh handed over the box. “Let me do a little work myself. I should have something by the time they get here.”
Andy and Ianto left her at it and went upstairs. “Where's Jack?” Andy asked.
“Showering. He didn't get much sleep... and don't give me that look, Andrew Davidson. Unfortunately, it was nothing like that. He had to go up to Torchwood Scotland to deal with a problem over there. Nasty one. Just got back last night, maybe two hours before you called.”
Andy winced. “Ouch.”
A heavy hand descended on his shoulder, maybe a tad harder than it absolutely needed to. “Don't worry, Andy. I'll take it out of your hide sooner or later.” Jack said. “However, much will be forgiven if you remembered my banana-nut muffins.”
The sound of the cog door alarm stopped Andy from answering. Gwen and Owen came in, jostling each other and laughing. “Up here, you two,” Jack called out. “Tosh?”
“Coming!” Tosh answered as she moved her hands rapidly over the touch screen. One final swipe and she stood up, yawning and stretching. “Ianto, coffee?”
“Upstairs!”
They had barely sat down before they popped open the bakery box and dug in. Jack grinned at Andy over his muffin. Tosh sipped at her coffee as she activated the virtual terminal at her desk. Owen took a croissant, buttered it lightly and slid it towards her. She nodded her thanks absently.
“Don't bother, Owen,” Gwen giggled. “She's found something and is chasing it back to its lair.”
Tosh looked up, grinning. “Wrong tense. I have chased it back to its lair.”
She touched the keyboard and the large screen above the table lit up to show a candid snapshot of a couple, the man standing behind the woman. He was tall, blond, and muscular; she was chocolate-skinned and rather beautiful in an exotic sort of way. “Mike and Beth Halloran. Married five years ago at Temple Church in London. He was a barrister, Inner Temple, so he qualified. She is a graphics designer. All nice and above board. Except that Mike and Beth Halloran do not exist anywhere prior to that marriage. Well, they do, but all the documents are forgeries.”
Jack leaned forward. “What's that on his neck? Under the shirt?”
She zoomed in and tried to sharpen the image. “It looks like a... bar with three points at the end?”
“ A fleury cross.” Ianto said. “Templar symbol. A cross with the ends resembling flower petals. Vanity tattoo?”
“I don't think so,” Jack said slowly. “Look at the color and shape. Slightly raised, puffy edges, dark reddish-brown...”
“A brand,” Owen said. “Not a tattoo.”
“I think so.”
“Are you saying he's a Templar Knight?” Gwen asked. “I thought they were killed off centuries ago.”
“Everyone certainly thinks so,” Jack said. “Which would be very convenient for the survivors. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Anything on the other two bodies?”
Tosh tapped a rapid sequence, and the screen changed to show autopsy pictures of two men, head and shoulders. Even in death they seemed rather tight-lipped and sour. Both had goatees. “Alan Grandel and James Beauchamp. Business men from France. Absolutely clean and spotless records. And much like Mike and Beth, both living on forged documents. And there's this.” She touched the screen and the pictures rotated, showing the back of the heads. Both had a large, round patch shaved off at the crown.
“Tonsures.” Ianto set down his cup. “Monks.”
“Yes,” Tosh said. “Messieurs Grandel and Beauchamp arrived in Wales three weeks ago on the Holyhead ferry. They have been crisscrossing the country, making no particular effort to hide their tracks. Then two days ago, they checked out of their hotel, supposedly heading back home to Avignon.”
“Can we traced them back?” Gwen asked.
“I've already started,” Tosh said. “It'll take a while.”
“And it still begs the question,” Andy said, studying the two men on the screen. “What were two french monks doing travelling under false passports in Wales? And showing up dead in the house of a man with a Templar brand on his neck? And why were they under such strong geas that even death didn't release them?”