Doctor Who_ Illegal Alien - Mike Tucker [10]
Ace hated it when he began to talk about the Daleks. His voice acquired an edge, a viciousness that didn't suit him.
She quickly changed the subject.
'Why are we going back to McBride's?' 'Because our friendly private detective is going to be very useful in getting me to see Dr Peddler and that sphere.' Ace was puzzled.
'How does getting to see this Peddler bloke help you track down the sphere?' 'I want to know what he was doing at that bomb site. Rich industrialists and company directors don't usually go stumbling around craters in their business suits.
I'm curious.' 'Do you know who the sphere belongs to?' The Doctor stopped and picked up the pieces of a broken doll and a wireless set from the street. 'No, not yet. But I've got some very nasty suspicions.'
McBride was on the phone when the Doctor and Ace arrived at his office. He gestured at them to keep quiet and continued to talk to his mysterious caller in hushed tones.
Ace wandered to the window to look out over London again, while the Doctor began to play idly with the dial on the safe.
McBride slammed the phone down and leapt to his feet, pulling on his trench coat. 'That was one of my stoolies. My informers. A case. A decent case at last! Now, if I can just get one jump ahead of the cops.'
The Doctor didn't look up. 'I'm pleased that you've finally got something to pit your considerable talents against, Mr McBride, but we do have some other, more pressing business.' He gave the dial a final twist and the safe door swung open to reveal its meagre contents. McBride made a mental note to get himself a new safe, and to keep his whisky somewhere more secure.
The Doctor stood up, looking smug, and dusted his hands off. 'I've remembered who that man in the newspaper photograph is. A Dr Peddler. It's imperative that we get to see him as soon as possible.' This time it was McBride's turn to look smug. 'Then tag along, Doc. I'm off to his factory.
Peddler's been murdered.'
Chief Inspector Mullen took a long drag on his cigarette, ignoring the pointed look that the forensic officer gave him.
This was the last thing that he needed. His runin with McBride had put him in a foul mood, and given him a headache. He had got home to a dinner of swede and liver (which he hated), and a row with his wife. The row had been in full swing when the sirens had started up, and he'd been forced to spend the night in a tiny Anderson shelter at his motherinlaw's. The night had been passed with her constant snoring and his wife's whispered accusations about how he never spent any time with them.
He'd left the shelter as soon as dawn had broken, not even going home. He'd slipped out through the alleyway behind the house and gone straight to the station. He'd just brewed himself a cup of strong tea when he had received the call about the Peddler death. Looking down at the body now, he knew that there was no way that this could become anything other than a murder inquiry.
The police photographer shouldered his way past him and began to take endless photographs of the body. The flashing made Mullen's head throb and he turned away, finishing his cigarette and looking for somewhere to flick the stub. Aware that the man from forensics was watching him like a hawk, he called to the young policeman at the door, beckoning him over and handing him the remains of the cigarette. 'Get rid of this outside, would you, Dixon.' The policeman was just heading out of the door when McBride appeared, a strange little man and a teenage girl close behind him. Mullen groaned.
'McBride, go away. I've seen enough of you in the last twentyfour hours, and I dare say you have of me, too. Go and find another bomb. One that works this time.'
McBride ignored the gibe, taking in as much of the crime scene as he could. The body was hidden from view, behind the desk. He craned his neck, trying to get a better look. So, uh, what happened here?'
'Oh, I'm sorry.' Mullen held up his arms,