way.’
‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.’
Gwen thought for a moment. ‘See, but not touch or take.’
He nodded. ‘I just need to make sure it’s not something we need to worry about – drugs, guns or stuff.’
‘It’s not. But I’ll bring it anyway. That café round the corner – the one that does the espresso strong enough to stand your spoon up in? Three o’clock?’
Mitch’s face relaxed slightly. ‘Look, kid – I know you’ve done good for yourself. Whatever Torchwood is, it’s got high-level cover. You people must be doing a phenomenal job. Whatever you hear, whatever we say, it’s not personal, OK? It’s just…’ He paused, groping for the right word. ‘It’s just jealousy, I guess. You turn up in your fancy car, with your fancy clothes, and you waltz into our crime scenes like you’re better than us.’
‘But isn’t that the same way you treat the Police Support Officers?’ Gwen asked.
‘Yeah, but we are better than them. What’s your point?’
‘No point. Can I have that DVD now?’
‘I thought we agreed on three o’clock!’
‘That was for the thing we took out of the club. I may as well take the DVD now, as I’m here.’
‘You don’t change, do you? You’re still a chancer. Wait here.’
He was gone for ten minutes, and while she waited Gwen read through the various Health and Safety bulletins that were pinned to the dividing boards. When Mitch returned, he was empty-handed.
‘I’ve set it up in the audio-visual suite. You can watch through it once, then take a copy with you. And you’ll have to sign for it.’
‘OK.’ The AV suite in the police station was high-quality: she would be able to zoom in on images, enhance details, and do most of the tricks that she could do back at Torchwood, with the added benefits that she’d get a little privacy – which was sorely lacking in the Hub – and foster a little more trust between her and her former colleagues in the police.
The AV suite was just a darkened office with a widescreen LCD TV and a rack containing various bits of video equipment: a region-free DVD player, VHS, Betamax and U-matic recorders, a tape recorder and a CD deck, and even a laserdisc player for some bizarre reason. The lads probably thought it took LPs. The idea was that it should be able to replay any recordable media the police took in as evidence, although Gwen remembered them once being foxed by an archive of illegal phone intercepts made, for reasons known only to the suspect, on 8-track tape.
The DVD was sitting on top of the rack, a silver disc in an unlabelled black box. She slipped it into the machine and called up thumbnails of the eight chapters it contained. The disc had been pre-edited by Mitch or his boys: one chapter for the pictures from each camera that had caught the incident as it swung back or forth. It took her forty minutes to go through every chapter twice, at the end of which she knew three things.
It was Craig Sutherland who had brought the device along to the club.
He was demonstrating it to his friend Rick by pointing it at something or someone out of the camera’s field of view.
And, seconds after Craig had demonstrated it, Rick had smashed a beer bottle on the nearest table and lashed out at a passing youth, slicing his face from eye to chin, leaving a gaping, bloody gash, horrifying even on the grainy video footage.
The rest was tragic and inevitable. The youth’s friends weighed in, arms rose and fell, blood spattered the nearby tables and walls. Gwen timed the action: from beginning to end, it took twenty-three seconds. It was a Grand Guignol of unimaginable savagery from kids, just kids, who had been talking and drinking peacefully just a few moments before.
It wasn’t her job. Not technically. It was up to the police to investigate the deaths, ascribe guilt and innocence and close the case. She didn’t live in that world any more.
But it was clear from the video footage that nobody else was
‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.’
Gwen thought for a moment. ‘See, but not touch or take.’
He nodded. ‘I just need to make sure it’s not something we need to worry about – drugs, guns or stuff.’
‘It’s not. But I’ll bring it anyway. That café round the corner – the one that does the espresso strong enough to stand your spoon up in? Three o’clock?’
Mitch’s face relaxed slightly. ‘Look, kid – I know you’ve done good for yourself. Whatever Torchwood is, it’s got high-level cover. You people must be doing a phenomenal job. Whatever you hear, whatever we say, it’s not personal, OK? It’s just…’ He paused, groping for the right word. ‘It’s just jealousy, I guess. You turn up in your fancy car, with your fancy clothes, and you waltz into our crime scenes like you’re better than us.’
‘But isn’t that the same way you treat the Police Support Officers?’ Gwen asked.
‘Yeah, but we are better than them. What’s your point?’
‘No point. Can I have that DVD now?’
‘I thought we agreed on three o’clock!’
‘That was for the thing we took out of the club. I may as well take the DVD now, as I’m here.’
‘You don’t change, do you? You’re still a chancer. Wait here.’
He was gone for ten minutes, and while she waited Gwen read through the various Health and Safety bulletins that were pinned to the dividing boards. When Mitch returned, he was empty-handed.
‘I’ve set it up in the audio-visual suite. You can watch through it once, then take a copy with you. And you’ll have to sign for it.’
‘OK.’ The AV suite in the police station was high-quality: she would be able to zoom in on images, enhance details, and do most of the tricks that she could do back at Torchwood, with the added benefits that she’d get a little privacy – which was sorely lacking in the Hub – and foster a little more trust between her and her former colleagues in the police.
The AV suite was just a darkened office with a widescreen LCD TV and a rack containing various bits of video equipment: a region-free DVD player, VHS, Betamax and U-matic recorders, a tape recorder and a CD deck, and even a laserdisc player for some bizarre reason. The lads probably thought it took LPs. The idea was that it should be able to replay any recordable media the police took in as evidence, although Gwen remembered them once being foxed by an archive of illegal phone intercepts made, for reasons known only to the suspect, on 8-track tape.
The DVD was sitting on top of the rack, a silver disc in an unlabelled black box. She slipped it into the machine and called up thumbnails of the eight chapters it contained. The disc had been pre-edited by Mitch or his boys: one chapter for the pictures from each camera that had caught the incident as it swung back or forth. It took her forty minutes to go through every chapter twice, at the end of which she knew three things.
It was Craig Sutherland who had brought the device along to the club.
He was demonstrating it to his friend Rick by pointing it at something or someone out of the camera’s field of view.
And, seconds after Craig had demonstrated it, Rick had smashed a beer bottle on the nearest table and lashed out at a passing youth, slicing his face from eye to chin, leaving a gaping, bloody gash, horrifying even on the grainy video footage.
The rest was tragic and inevitable. The youth’s friends weighed in, arms rose and fell, blood spattered the nearby tables and walls. Gwen timed the action: from beginning to end, it took twenty-three seconds. It was a Grand Guignol of unimaginable savagery from kids, just kids, who had been talking and drinking peacefully just a few moments before.
It wasn’t her job. Not technically. It was up to the police to investigate the deaths, ascribe guilt and innocence and close the case. She didn’t live in that world any more.
But it was clear from the video footage that nobody else was
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