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Isn't the charm in France?'

'likely, yes. But I haven't had any direct confirmation of that yet. And in this job, you don't know anything till you know it.'

They had come to the church. In front of it stood a large statue of a saint.

The Doctor read the name on the base. 'If this is the Church of Our Lady of Guadelupe, why is this statue of St Jude?'

'There's a shrine to him here Come on, I'll show you.'

Rust led the Doctor to the other side of the church and down a few steps into a little grotto moulded from cement. Filling a set of plain black metal shelves along one wall and spreading on to the brick floor, scores of candles burned in coloured glass jars embossed with crosses. A statue of the Virgin gazed down from a high window niche. The walls were covered with little plaques of stone or white-painted glass, most rectangular, some heart-shaped, inscribed Thank you, St Jude or simply Thanks. A few plaques thanked St Anthony. Many bore dates.

'I forget,' said the Doctor. 'St Jude is the patron of '

'Lost causes. The impossible. The hopeless.'

The Doctor looked around, smiling. 'If you were going to be a saint, that's who you'd want to be, isn't it? The one who restores hope.'

"The one who solves the unsolvable puzzle. He's not the cop's saint, but he should be.'

'A personal favourite of yours?'

Rust didn't smile. 'The only one I really take seriously.'

Both Fitz and Anji were still asleep when the Doctor went by their hotel, so he returned to Owl. His bed, which he had left in twisted disarray, was smoothly made up - Laura had been in to do the housekeeping.

Embarrassed at having left a mess for her, he gave the corners of the spread an extra and totally unnecessary straightening tug. As he was doing this, a knock came at the door. He opened it to Laura carrying a couple of ceramic mugs.

Tea?'

'Yes,' he said, standing aside. "Thank you.'

'It's herbal.'

'That's fine.'

She sat on the bed. 'So - you weren't kidding about the bad dreams.'

'Oh. The sheets. I'm sorry about that. I'm a restless sleeper.' He tasted his tea. Blackcurrant. 'This is very nice.' She regarded him patiently, waiting.

'Ah You heard me, did you?'

'You want to sit down? You look like you're poised to scoot out the door if I ask you a difficult question.'

'I don't "scoot",' he said, a shade stiffly.

She giggled. 'Actually, it is kind of hard to imagine.'

He crossed with dignity to the wicker armchair. 'I scramble. I shoot. On occasion, I scurry' He sat down and smiled at her.'But I never scoot.

Appearances must be preserved.'

'I agree completely,' she said. 'You're talking to a Southerner, you know.

Like the English, we are masters at keeping up appearances.' He continued to smile, politely, not picking up on the English reference.Well, she thought, plunge ahead. 'Is it always die same dream?'

'Similar.'

'A recurring nightmare.'

'Well, it recurs, and it's certainly a nightmare.' He sipped his tea.

'Have you been having it long?'

'No,' he said thoughtfully. 'Ordinarily, I don't dream. I don't really sleep much as a rule.'

'Insomnia?'

'No, I just don't need much sleep.'

'Maybe you're sleeping more because you need to have this particular dream.'

Maybe, he thought. That was an unpleasant idea, but there was probably something in it.

She took a long swallow of tea, then a deep breath, and said, 'Care to tell me about it?'

'Not at all, frankly. I don't mean to be rude. I realise the nightmare intruded on your sleep as well, but -'

'It's OK,' she said quickly. 'I have a backup nosiness plan.'

'I didn't mean to accuse you of being nosy -'

She pulled a pack of tarot cards from the pocket of her jumper. 'Let me give you a reading.' He hesitated. 'You don't have to give me any details. It might be useful.'

She fanned out the cards. The Doctor recognised them as a variation on the old Marseilles pack, the figures brightly coloured and a little crude. 'All right,' he said after a beat.