Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [38]
‘Yes,’ the Doctor agreed, tapping his chin with his umbrella handle. ‘I’d rather gathered that impression as well.’
The old woman’s eyes lit up. ‘You’ve seen it too. Now maybe someone’ll believe me.’
‘Sir,’ the young constable began. ‘I wouldn’t pay too much mind to Margaret 63
here. She’s. . . well, this isn’t the first time we’ve had her come around here telling her stories.’
‘I see,’ the Doctor said, solemnly.
Margaret’s face fell, the constable’s comments having robbed her of an audience for her story.
‘Let me get this straight, Constable,’ the Doctor said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Are you ignoring what this woman is saying because she is old, homeless, or because you think her mad?’
The constable reacted to the authority in the Doctor’s voice by attempting to impose his own. Ignoring the Doctor’s question, he said, ‘Sir, if you’ll just step out of the way. I must escort this person from the premises.’
Harris quickly interceded. ‘It’s all right son, the Doctor’s with me. He’s a pathologist from the Middlesex.’
The constable blushed a little beneath his acne. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know.’
The Doctor accepted the apology with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s all right, Constable,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘For all you knew I could have been an ordinary person taking an interest in the world.’
The constable blinked slowly, having to think hard about this remark. By the time he had worked out what the little man had meant, the Doctor was busy discussing other topics.
‘If I’m to track down this vehicle, Inspector Harris, I’ll need a staff car, one of your sergeants and –’ the Doctor patted his pockets some money.’
‘I see, Doctor,’ Harris began, having absolutely no idea what was going on.
‘Exactly how much money?’
‘Oh, just enough for three full English breakfasts.’
Harris dug his hands into his pockets and considered this request. ‘Very well, I’ll have Bridie drive the car round for you. He won’t have much to do while I’m with the chief super.’ Speaking of which, he was going to be late for morning prayers if he didn’t get a move on.
As the Doctor and the old woman made to leave Harris excused himself and threaded his way through the building towards the chief superintendent’s suite on the third floor. As he waited for the lift, two constables brought a tall, broad-shouldered blond man past him. The young man looked tired, his face and hair were smeared with soot. The rank taste of bitter smoke stung the back of the chief inspector’s throat. The blond-haired man must have been involved in the fire at the queer club last night.
The lift arrived, and Harris entered and pushed the button for the third floor. Through the gap in the closing doors he watched the three men make their way down the corridor – the two uniformed officers were completely dwarfed by the blond prisoner. Funny, he didn’t look like one of them, but then you could never tell.
64
The doors closed, blocking Harris’s view. Within a couple of moments, Harris had forgotten all about the blond-haired man.
Chris Cwej sat on the front steps of Charing Cross Police Station threading his shoelaces back into his shoes. He wasn’t wholly sure how he was going to find his way back to the TARDIS. The autumn morning was bright and clear; he squinted as his aching fingers struggled with his shoes. The cold morning wind bit through his thin shirt. He needed a bath. The smoke from the fire had left a greasy film on his skin. He wanted to change out of this costume and put some of his own clothes on. What he really felt like doing was climbing into his armour and charging his blaster.
An image of the Doctor’s disapproving face appeared in his mind. Chris found himself wondering where the Doctor was and what he was up to. Suddenly, Chris wanted to be in the company of his friend. Didn’t want to have to cope with another day in a strange place on his own.
A shadow fell across him. ‘Morning, baby,’ a female voice said. ‘Does little Christopher Robin need some help with his laces?’
It was Patsy. She was squinting at him in the sunlight,