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‘So, you’re a doctor, are you? Ace has been telling me you’re thinking of going to Graystairs. ‘Work or, urn, pleasure?’

The Doctor threw Ace a look – half suspicion, half panic: obviously in denial, Claire thought, wishing she’d got further than chapter three. These two would make a great case-study.

The Doctor nodded knowingly. ‘I wouldn’t take any notice of Ace,’ he said sotto voce. ‘Especially after a pint of lager.’ He leaned closer to Claire and whispered theatrically, ‘She gets confused, you know.’

Claire glanced sidelong at Ace with a slightly awkward laugh, as though they shared a secret, and nodded at the Doctor as if to say ‘Of course she does.’

Ace jumped in again, almost knocking the remains of her pint over in the process. ‘I was telling Claire about Graystairs,’

she said. The Doctor frowned at her. ‘About how we’re going up there to have a look round. Grandad.’

‘Ahh, yes. Graystairs.’ The Doctor paused suddenly, his bemused expression giving the impression that he was catching up, mentally juggling the strands of conversation. A classic case, Claire thought. ‘Ace here is very kindly taking me to have my head sorted,’ he said. ‘Apparently, she thinks something’s come loose inside.’

‘Don’t worry, Grandad,’ Ace said with a cheery smile, patting his arm. ‘We’ll get you sorted. We don’t want you going for any more walks and having to be brought back from Dixons by the police with your pockets full of shoplifted radios.’

‘No,’ the Doctor replied, narrowing his eyes.

‘And I’m not sure Mrs, er, Gale will be so understanding next time she finds you wandering in her back garden at two in the morning in your underpants.’

‘I’m sure she won’t.’ The Doctor’s eyes were tight little slits now – almost as tight as his mouth.

‘Well, you seem fine to me,’ Claire said heartily – although she wasn’t at all sure that she’d sounded convincing.

‘Anyway, Grandad. Claire says that Graystairs has got quite a reputation, apparently.’

And Ace proceeded to tell the Doctor everything that Claire had told her – including the alleged drinking habits of the residents. The Doctor raised a dubious eyebrow. Claire felt she had to step in, just to make it clear that this was nothing more than third-or fourth-hand gossip.

‘Don’t worry,’ Ace said breezily. ‘It’s his favourite!’

Claire went off to serve someone at the other end of the bar and the Doctor leaned in to Ace: ‘And don’t you even think of calling me “Grandad” once we get back to the TARDIS –

“Professor” is bad enough. Anyway, have you found out anything about Joyce or Graystairs – other than whatever twaddle your friend’s been feeding you?’

‘Not really – I spoke to one of the staff, a girl called Claudette. She thinks the place is a bit weird, too: told me that some bloke called Sooal – who apparently owns the place – was crying in his room, listening to classical music.’

‘It has that effect sometimes. I remember when Puccini had that terrible cold –’

‘Yeah, yeah. Well anyway, Claudette hasn’t been on duty since Thursday, so she hasn’t seen Joyce, but this Sooal bloke sounds seriously creepy.’

The Doctor looked disapproving – or maybe just miffed because he hadn’t had the chance to finish another of his dubious name-dropping anecdotes. ‘Just because he cries to classical music? Ace, really.’

‘No, because Claudette made him sound seriously creepy: thin, bald, like some kind of albino goblin. She said she heard him smashing things up in his room before he started crying.

D’you reckon he could be an alien?’

‘Ace,’ he admonished gently. ‘Mankind is quite capable of being “creepy” – as you so sensitively put it – without needing extraterrestrials to do it for them. And anyway,’ he added, ‘if he is, that makes two of them.’

‘You’ve seen an alien?’

‘I could be wrong,’ he said, ‘but if I remember my irises correctly, yes.’

‘Flowers? What have flowers got to do with it?’

He sighed, leaned forward, and brought his finger sharply up to his own eye, halting it just a couple of millimetres from its surface. Or at least that’s what she assumed: knowing