Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [42]
Patsy raised an eyebrow. ‘People rarely thank you for reading their mind.’
Chris thought of Roz. Change the subject, Chris. ‘So, tell me about your race.’
Patsy shrugged. ‘OK. We’re not really telepathic. Our true abilities are in empathy – our ability to sense other’s moods and respond accordingly. At. . .
On Petruska, we’ve traditionally been employed as companions for wealthy people who want to. . . ’ Patsy paused and then said with great bitterness, ‘get in touch with their feelings. Their inner selves. You know.’
The emotion in her voice surprised Chris. ‘You’re like a sort of therapist?’
he asked.
‘More like a slave, actually.’
There was an awkward pause. ‘So how did you come to be on Earth?’
‘Oh, we had support on our world. People who didn’t believe we should be treated as second-class citizens. Do-gooders, you know. Our world is far more advanced than this one. When the campaign for equality failed, our friends provided the technology to allow us to flee. We’ve been trying to live secretly in London.’ She shrugged. ‘Places like Soho attract bohemians and eccentrics –’ she looked directly at him ‘– and we’re not so very different from you. We thought we’d be safe.’
‘And after last night, you’re not so sure?’
‘Not just last night. Some of my people in London have been killed. Murdered. I suppose it could be coincidence, but Tilda’s worried that our oppres-sors have followed our trail here.’
The train had left the grey buildings of London behind. The view from the window had changed into a blur of green and blue. Countryside. Chris had been brought up in a world of concrete and plastic; he always felt a simple thrill every time the TARDIS brought him somewhere relatively unspoilt. It 70
suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know their exact destination. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To collect some new arrivals. More of my people who’ve managed to escape.’
‘I know that. But where are they? You’ve only said that they’re in Essex.’
‘I’ve been given the name of one of the Major’s contacts on the East coast.
It’s a place on the Thames Estuary called Healey. Have you heard of it?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Should I have?’
‘I don’t know; it’s your planet.’
‘Not for another century or three, it’s not.’
‘According to Mother, Healey is a. . . a village,’ Patsy pronounced the word carefully, as if this were the first time she’d spoken it out loud. ‘I’ve never been to a village. Mother says they’re ghastly places; no wine bars or restaurants at all.’
Her indignation was endearing. ‘How shocking!’ Chris laughed.
‘Too right!’ She grinned. ‘More champagne?’
The chief inspector was contemplating slipping out for lunch, when the Doctor popped his head around the door of his cubby-hole of an office. The little man appeared a little distracted, unsettled even.
The Doctor plonked himself down in front of the chief inspector’s desk and sighed heavily. He leant on an elbow, his cheek wrinkling beneath his hand.
‘Chief Inspector, I’ve lost my friend.’
Harris considered this for a moment. Did he mean the bag lady he’d spoken to that morning? ‘Do you want to make a missing persons report?’
The Doctor’s face creased into a frown. ‘I don’t think it’s that serious.’ His eyes opened expressively. ‘At least, I hope not.’
Harris wanted to ask the Doctor about this business with the taxi. The description of the morning’s events recounted by Bridie had been bizarre in the extreme. Apparently, the Doctor had led the young sergeant to a small side street where the old woman had claimed to see a taxi swallow a young woman whole. Bridie had been furious at being sent on such a fool’s errand.
And frankly, Harris couldn’t blame him.
However, before he had the opportunity to ask the Doctor what the hell he’d been up to, the little man’s attention had been arrested by the photos which were scattered across Harris’s desk. His eyes were eagerly scanning the photographs taken at the various crime scenes.
Glancing up at Harris for a moment the Doctor muttered, ‘These are from our case?’
Harris nodded.