Doctor Who_ Interference_ Book One - Lawrence Miles [53]
Paul not phoned since Tuesday. Talking about new series for BBC 2, but all quiet at my end. Hard to concentrate with him hanging around at back of head. Must write memo and put on pin board: NO MENTION OF PAUL IN RESEARCH NOTES FROM NOW ON. Getting messy.
Be in central London tomorrow for meeting with DTI rep. Thinks I’m working for Iranians (ha ha). Pick up parts for K9 while there. Try getting latest components, see if he can do anything with them. Doctor’s instruction manual (BIG JOKE) says any parts should be adaptable. Maybe give him a mouse?
Maybe not. Mouse might talk.
* * *
19 August (11.30 a.m.)
It wasn’t a traditional English pub. That was why Coldicott liked it so much. English pubs had wood everywhere: wooden bars, wooden panelling, wooden furniture. As if the locals were ready to point at a piece of oak at a moment’s notice and go, ‘Aye, that be from the same tree where they ’anged of Dick Turpin, that be.’
This pub was a plastic pub, where everything was smooth, shiny and black. The bar staff wore waistcoats, and there were prints of thirties European movie posters on the walls. If you could ignore the other drinkers, with their cagoules and bad haircuts and conversations about Luton FC, you could almost believe you were somewhere on the Continent.
‘You’re still here, then,’ said a voice.
Coldicott’s lips had been paddling in a Mexican lager, so he spluttered a bit when the woman spoke. She was standing over his table, smiling in her usual self‐satisfied manner. Coldicott forced himself to ignore her stupid grinning face, and cast his eyes around the rest of the pub instead.
There was nobody here he knew. Nobody from work. Hardly surprising, seeing as he worked five and a half miles away.
Sarah sat down before he’d even finished scanning the place. ‘You said you were going to Geneva,’ she went on.
‘I said I was trying to get reassigned to Geneva,’ Coldicott scowled. ‘Anything to get out of this bloody country.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’re late. I don’t want to have to hang around here with you any longer than I have to.’
‘I’m not late. You always set your watch five minutes ahead. Everybody knows that.’
Coldicott hoped to God he didn’t look as startled as he thought he looked. ‘“Everybody”?’
‘Oh, you’re famous for being an obsessive. So. Do you want to talk?’
Don’t panic, thought Coldicott. Don’t look nervous. Take another sip of the lager, sit back, and make her think you’re relaxed. Ahh. Better.
‘What is it you want to know?’ he said. Good, good.
‘Your latest bunch of aliens. The Doctor’s involved, isn’t he?’
Coldicott felt the muscles go tense around his ribcage. It was a standard response for someone in UN intelligence, when the word ‘Doctor’ was used in casual conversation.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ Sarah added.
‘What, you want me to tell you everything about every top‐secret setup we’ve got going? There’s no clause that says I’m your private hotline into Enoch‐level files. You can blackmail me all you want.’
‘Oh, can I? Thanks. So, do you know what happened to the Doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
Coldicott slammed the glass back down on to the table, and quality Mexican lager splooshed over the art‐deco beermats. ‘He said he’d help us. He vanished before he bothered to do anything. He said he was going to try and get to the root of the problem, that’s all I know.’
‘Going to try to get to the root of the problem. Not and. Grammar.’
‘Bloody journalist.’
‘And what about Sam?’
‘Christ.’ Coldicott felt his hand tightening around the glass, and he started wondering what its tensile strength might be. ‘What about her?’
‘You’ve got files on her?’
‘We have now. Just because his friends don’t have clearance, that doesn’t mean we don’t care who they are. You know how big our files on you are?’
‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘Did you send her to COPEX?’
‘Sam Jones isn’t our problem,’ Coldicott growled. ‘She’s a free agent.’ That irritating smile got slightly worse. Then Sarah stood, as if getting ready to leave.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘That