Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [91]
hope of continuing his career in law enforcement to the wind. The Doctor had said that he knew the killer’s identity. Harris wasn’t at all sure that he could bear to live with the knowledge that he had passed up the opportunity to solve the case which had tormented him over the last few months.
And despite the lies the Doctor had told, Harris couldn’t shake the impression that the Doctor was essentially a good man. When the boy, Bartlett, had been sucked into that terrible car, the Doctor had risked his own life to save the lad. And where had the monstrous vehicle taken them? What had they seen?
Another voice in his head was telling him – yelling at him in fact – that he was utterly crazy even to consider trusting the Doctor again. The mysterious little man had lied to him, he’d stolen police property, and, according to Bridie at least, was caught up with one of the West End firms. Harris had to admit that he would feel a lot more confident about the Doctor if he didn’t keep the company of drunkards, criminals and deviants.
Harris pulled his warrant card out of his jacket pocket. He took a long look at it and then tucked it away in his desk. Ceremoniously, he poured the glass of whisky back into the bottle and screwed down the lid.
‘Sorry Olive,’ he muttered, ‘looks like I might be late for tea again,’ and then he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
‘I’ll lose my job over this, Doctor, but I don’t belong here anymore.’
The Doctor hurried over from where he had been tending his elderly cell-mate. The little man was grinning like a seven-year-old. ‘Chief Inspector Harris, I could kiss you.’
Harris took a step backward. ‘I may be under a suspension, but I’d remind you, Doctor, that I am still an officer of the law.’ Harris was relieved when the Doctor contented himself by patting him on the arm.
‘My friends are in danger. Are you prepared to come with me, Chief Inspector?’
‘Where to?’
‘To the creature’s lair, Chief Inspector. To the madhouse.’
‘Bugger off! We’re closed.’
Harris and the Doctor exchanged glances.
‘Are you sure we need this
woman’s help, Doctor?’ the policeman whispered.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ the Doctor said confidently, and adjusted his battered fedora. The Doctor had insisted on stopping off in Soho in order to change.
Now back in his tweeds, Harris thought the little man seemed more relaxed.
He rapped loudly on the door for the second time. ‘Open up, I’ve a message for one Tilda Jupp. From an old friend. A military friend.’
155
There was a short pause. Harris glanced down the wrought iron fire escape. What was he doing here? He knew about Soho’s drinking clubs, of course. They were just one of the many illegalities in the area which the police tolerated, just as long as they didn’t thrive. Their patrons were mostly theatre people. The clubs had started to meet the demand of actors looking for somewhere to drink after the curtain had fallen on the evening performance.
Compared to blackmail, prostitution and unlicensed gambling, the odd bit of late-night drinking was low on the list of policing priorities. Still, that didn’t mean that it was acceptable for an officer of the law to patronize one of the bars. Harris was about to suggest that they retire to a café for a rethink when the battered door of the club opened and a woman’s head appeared. She was squinting to avoid the smoke from a cigarette which dangled from the corner of her mouth. Her beady eyes glared intently at the Doctor.
‘Well look who it is, the mysterious Doctor,’ she barked and clapped her hands together in delight. However, when she caught sight of Harris, her face fell, as did the cigarette. ‘Busted!’ she cried. ‘At ten in the morning, now that’s just not playing fair! Little Miss Doctor’s a snoop and she’s brought the law down on me.’ Tilda tried to slam the door, but the