Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [37]
Whistler scratched his chin. ‘I can see right through your elementary psychology, you know. Really, I thought we might have got past sticking prisoners in darkened rooms.’
There was a thoughtful pause then an anglepoise lamp was clicked on, throwing a harsh white disc of light directly into Whistler’s face. The old man laughed. ‘Now that’s even worse.’
Bliss swung the lamp round towards herself and the mechanism squealed in protest. The light shone on her pale, fat face and made her huge eyes glisten like raw meat. She winced slightly and swung the lamp away. Whistler noticed that there were dark smudges, like soot, below each of her eyes.
‘Oh,’ said Whistler with a small smile. ‘I thought as much.’
‘Your name is Alec Whistler,’ said Bliss evenly.
‘Bravo,’ grunted Whistler.
‘You were a soldier, I gather.’
Whistler bristled. ‘Royal Air Force, if you please. Do you want my rank and serial number? Your interrogation methods would seem to demand all the clichés.’
Bliss cocked her head to one side, plunging most of her face into shadow. ‘I’m not here to interrogate you, Wing Commander. You will provide me with the information I require, or I shall kill you. Right now.’
Despite himself, Whistler felt a cold pall of fear creep over him.
Max Bishop wasn’t used to running. He could feel a sticky patch of sweat spreading across the back of his shirt as he hurried across the village towards the police house and he regretted putting on his favourite lemon-coloured pullover.
Flustered, he ran his hand through his thinning hair and trotted across the road to the small, grey, nondescript building where Constable Trickett was always to be found.
A place the size of Culverton had no need for a fully fledged police station. Instead, the whole operation was run from Trickett’s house, a blue lamp – blazing now despite the collection of mummified moths within it – and a parish poster outside the only indicators of its true function. It was on nights such as this, thought Max, that the villagers could have done with a more impressive police presence.
The lawn in front of Trickett’s house was neatly manicured, but had browned somewhat in the summer heat. A winding, crazy-paved path led up to the door and Max was careful to follow it. It didn’t do to disobey ‘keep off the grass’
signs right under the nose of the constabulary, even in an emergency and under cover of darkness.
With two or three neat steps, he was outside the door and rang the buzzer urgently. There was no response. Usually, the constable’s wife would answer, or even Trickett himself who was most often to be found behind the frosted-glass screen at the front desk.
Max waited a moment longer and then buzzed again, shrinking from the loud noise and regretting the upset to the natural order of things which it represented. There was still no response. Not even the barking of Trickett’s Yorkshire terrier, a bad-tempered, yappy little thing which Max had always loathed.
He looked around, tugging anxiously at the tips of his bow tie, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was on the point of pressing the buzzer once more when he noticed that the front door was open a crack.
Max frowned.
For reasons of basic security, the door was never left ajar.
Trickett or his wife would respond to the buzzer. They couldn’t just pop out for a pint of milk and leave the door on the latch. Responsibility came with the job. Tentatively, and biting his lower lip, Max pushed open the door and went inside.
The darkness seemed absolute. Max put out a hand to steady himself, laying his palm flat against the cool green plaster of the wall. As the room began to take shape gradually, he peered ahead towards the desk, able to make out the chairs against the walls and the coat hook fastened to the door. There was a shadow behind the screen, a clear silhouette, its outline blurred by the frosted glass.
His hands slithering over the walls, Max tried to find the light switch. When his fingers finally fastened on the cold plastic he flicked the mechanism swiftly down.