Doctor Who_ Father Time - Lance Parkin [52]
Anderson had recommended that Sallak was fit for criminal trial. Sallak had pleaded guilty, denying anyone the chance to cross-examine him in court. It was a move that also minimised publicity. Sallak had earned a few tabloid headlines, but there weren’t any photos of him – the whole story was that there wasn’t a story. The newspapers drifted away, occasionally referring to him whenever they wanted to whip up some fervour for the return of the death penalty.
Anderson had stayed with the case, keen to find at least some answers. Sallak looked and acted like a soldier, but the police, army, MI5, MI6, Interpol, the United Nations, the CIA and God knew who else had no record of him. The best theory Anderson had heard was that this was an intelligence officer, abandoned by his government – of course no one would admit that they’d sent a spy to kill a civilian couple. Which government? He just didn’t look American, he didn’t seem to know any French, German or Russian. The British? Anderson doubted he would ever know.
Then there was the Doctor... or at least that’s what he called himself. For the first two years after Sallak’s arrest, the Doctor had been a thorn in the side of the authorities. He had been one of the witnesses to the murders, and he demanded to be allowed to question Sallak. The Doctor had been persistent, until Sallak’s lawyers put an injunction on him, one that prevented any contact between the Doctor and the people treating their client. Anderson hadn’t heard from the Doctor in three years.
He remembered the Doctor’s last words, as a security guard led him out of the building: ‘Test his blood. The Deputy’s not human. Just test him.’
After objections from the lawyers had been overruled, they had tested his blood, and it was perfectly normal. And Sallak... Sallak had looked shocked at the news, repulsed by the idea that he might be a human being.
None of this had solved any of the mystery surrounding the man.
And now John Sallak had walked out of a bolted cell, taking his cellmate with him.
‘How long has he been gone?’
‘No more than twenty minutes. We’ve alerted all ports and airports, set up roadblocks.’
‘He’ll get past them.’ Anderson hesitated. ‘I need to make a phone call.’
* * *
The Doctor handed over some money to the man who’d washed his windscreen while his car was stuck at traffic lights. Miranda had been a little worried that the vigorous sponging would be enough to push the Trabant’s windscreen in, but it had held.
The Doctor wound up his window. ‘Kind chap,’ he concluded. He turned to her, not looking as he set off from the lights. ‘So what do you make of Rex?’
‘I think Dinah would call him Yuppie scum. Then sleep with him.’
‘But you weren’t tempted?’
Miranda looked over at her father. He’d never asked about her love life before. There was nothing to tell, of course, but she was surprised he was asking. ‘No,’ she said.
The Doctor smiled. It was clearly the right answer.
She decided to try her luck. ‘Is it the thought of me having a sex life, or the thought of Rex in particular?’ she asked.
The telephone rang, and her father tapped the button for a hands-free call, grinning that he’d been saved by the bell. She switched the radio off and kept quiet while her dad went about his business. Some oil company wanted his expertise, by the sound of it. She’d never worked out exactly what her father did – the explanation from Rex had actually clarified a few things. He went into companies and, in the space of a week of tinkering and rallying cries, he’d overthrown the old ideas, revolutionised their business practice, set them on course for the future. Or sometimes there would be a specific problem that he’d sort out, or he’d arbitrate between companies that had a dispute.
The traffic in central London was notorious, and Miranda guessed her father had insisted on driving in only to make some obscure point to his City clients about status. The Trabant had been parked in a row of Porsches and BMWs, like an old drunk uncle at a wedding.
When her dad finished his call,