Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [37]
There was an awkward pause; the Doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away for a moment. Harris wasn’t sure what had happened to break the jovial atmosphere between them. Perhaps the Doctor was feeling guilty about taking time away from his hospital duties to assist with the case?
Harris decided not to mention the Middlesex Hospital again.
‘Was the book really that bad?’ he asked, trying to change the subject as they walked into the station.
‘Dreadful. It professed to be a serious history of criminal activity in London in the twentieth century but I suspect that the newspaper gossip columns formed the author’s primary research source. Tell me, Chief Inspector, what do you know about the Scraton brothers?’
Harris was surprised to hear the name. Little had been heard from the Scratons since Albert, the oldest brother and leader of the firm, had died earlier that year, leaving his younger brother, Gordon, head of the firm. He told the Doctor what he knew of the Scratons’ record. They were strictly small-time, gambling mostly. ‘To be honest, Gordy Scraton is a spineless young man, Doctor. I can’t imagine him being much of a threat to anyone.’
The Doctor considered this for a moment. ‘What about the younger brother.
Carl, isn’t it? I understand that he’s quite dangerous?’
‘Carl Scraton?’ Harris repeated. ‘I didn’t know that there were three of them.’
As they waited for the desk-sergeant to prepare the Doctor a visitor’s pass, the first of last night’s ‘guests’ were brought up from the cells. Harris watched as the usual collection of drunkards and tramps were released. It was station policy to empty the cells before the day’s business began in earnest. The last 62
thing you wanted was respectable people trying to report a burglary whilst a drunkard still covered in his own vomit was pushed back out on to the street.
Of course, they’d be back in the cells the following night more likely than not.
It was a depressing cycle. Sometimes Harris thought that all they were doing was running a hotel for down and outs.
Harris watched as an old girl was gently coaxed out of the station by a young constable. She looked in her late sixties, but she was probably younger than that – life on the streets ate up the signs of youthfulness and spat out old age.
Her round face was wrinkled and decorated with a maze of broken capillaries.
Her nose was purple from gin or meths and her ankles were painfully swollen above her disintegrating shoes. She was babbling incoherently at the young constable, who was doing his best to humour her whilst trying, unsuccessfully, to lead her to the door. She appeared to be trying to convince the lad of the existence of monstrous cars that were scouring through London eating up the unwary.
Typical.
Harris had caught the young constable’s eye – a spotty lad, who looked like he’d passed his eleven-plus yesterday – and was shaking his head in sympathy when he became aware that the Doctor had left his side and was marching over towards the pair. The little man doffed his battered hat and, ignoring the young policeman entirely, addressed the old woman.
‘Good morning, Madam, I’m the Doctor. If I could have a minute of your time.’
‘Eh?’ the woman started, recoiling from his politeness. The constable opened his mouth and then closed it again, unsure of the status of the little man. Harris started to walk over, but then stopped, suddenly unwilling to implicate himself in the scene.
The Doctor closed both of his hands around one of the woman’s, and leant forward to communicate that she had his full attention. He reminded Harris of a country vicar.
‘Tell me,’ the Doctor started, softly, ‘this vehicle that ate someone whole.
Can you remember what sort of vehicle it was? Even the colour might be useful?’
‘Black cab, wasn’t it?’ the woman spluttered. She was so pleased to have an audience that she tripped over her words in her enthusiasm to get them out.
‘Came out of the dark, it did. Drove through it like it could