Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [43]
So he’d hocked some junk and got himself over here, leaving a number of projects half‐finished: tracking down that sorcerer in Liverpool; trying to catch the Skeptics making Mandelbrot‐shaped crop circles in Yorkshire.
He looked over the top of the newspaper as the police chief appeared, grasping the envelope of goodies he’d sent in to tempt the man out. El Jefe was looking worried. Good. He had every reason to be.
In his office, the police chief spread out the fragments of paper on the table. A note scribbled in Macbeth’s angular handwriting; a couple of newspaper clippings; a forged UNIT pass.
Macbeth turned the chair around as he sat down, leaning his bony elbows on the back. The effect was that he loomed over el Jefe, a short man with rounded features. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Am I right?’
The Mexican eyed him with open suspicion. ‘I don’t understand how you know so much,’ he said, ‘but there’s one incident…’
‘Tell me about it,’ smiled the Scot.
The Chief pulled out a manila folder and passed it across to the researcher. ‘I have to warn you, that material’s confidential,’ he said, as Macbeth turned the folder around. ‘Anything in that file mustn’t go beyond this room.’
There were typed reports, photos of evidence – and another photo that made the blood in Macbeth’s ears pound like heavy industry. ‘Where is she now?’ he managed, turning the snapshot around so that el Jefe could see it.
‘In hospital,’ said the chief. ‘She’s being watched. We haven’t decided whether to charge her yet.’
‘Let her go,’ said Macbeth.
The chief raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Let her go, but let me follow her. We’ll see what she’s up to, eh?’
‘I don’t think I can do that.’
Macbeth reached out a long arm and picked up his UNIT pass. ‘I think you can. And I can guarantee you – UNIT’s the only hope you’ve got of sorting this mess out. Let me have it, Chief. Give me all your problems. I’ll solve them for you. Starting with her.’
The chief stared at the photo of Bernice. ‘Lieutenant Macbeth,’ he said. ‘Exactly what is it you want from us?’
* * *
At the Institute, the doors were locked.
They tried phoning. When Bernice said who she was, they hung up.
They tried ringing up the universities to get a visitor’s pass.
They tried calling the journalists at Cristián’s paper to see if one of them could get in.
‘This is not good,’ said Bernice, curled up on Cristián’s sofa. ‘None of this is good. They’ve built a wall around the place. The lights are on but nobody’s home.’
Cristián sat on the floor and looked glum. ‘They are very organized, whoever they are,’ he said. ‘An academic institution like that should always be accessible in one way or another.’
‘We can try some of the historians at the universities, then,’ said Bernice. ‘Or perhaps we’ll just wait until all the excitement dies down.’
‘Sí. I still don’t understand why the police didn’t give us more trouble.’
‘Do you know, when you speak English, you have a London accent.’
Cristián said, ‘I lived in St John’s Wood for six months. That’s when the photo was taken. I studied English at university, but I learnt how to speak it in London.’
‘What were you doing in England?’
‘Seeing the world.’ Cristián’s smile drained off his face. ‘What are we going to do if the Doctor doesn’t come back?’
Benny shrugged in irritation. ‘He’ll come back. He always comes back.’
* * *
The Doctor opened his eyes and stretched. It was morning; pale yellow light leaked into the room from the courtyard, colouring the shadows.
Ace was lying near him on the cool floor of Ce Xochitl’s house, her duffle bag stuffed under her head, her body curved into a comma. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ he said cheerfully.
She sat bolt upright, her hand moving automatically to a holster that wasn’t there. She pressed her palms flat against the floor and stared at him.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ she said.
Slowly his face went blank.
‘Where’s Achtli?’ he