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When he reached number 73, he found it to be a huge old warehouse. A quick circumnavigation confirmed that the place was deserted. Puzzled, but knowing that he had little choice but to follow the trail he had been given, the Brigadier returned to the car and settled down to see if anyone would turn up. It could be a long wait.

Thomas Bruce knew he wouldn't get far in the stolen MG -

even the pinheads were capable of organising roadblocks.

The obvious route, south towards the Channel ports, would be swarming with cops and soldiers, so Bruce drove into Bedfordshire, keeping to the narrow country lanes. After thirty miles he passed a farmhouse. The sun was just rising over the horizon as Bruce pulled off the road and into a clump of bushes about half a mile from the farm entrance.

Quickly he changed out of the technician's clothes and into a pair of jeans and a thick navy-style woollen sweater.

Even in these surroundings he looked like a walking advert for Mainly for Men. He shaved, using the car wing mirror, and then removed a bottle of Chanel aftershave from his toiletries bag. There was no need, he thought, even in this uncivilised part of the world, to look and smell like a barbarian.

The farmhouse appeared to be deserted. Bruce banged on the door several times but, clearly, the farmer was in the pastures tilling the land, or whatever the hell he did. He turned, about to leave, but then saw a man striding across the yard from the milking sheds.

'Morning,' said the man.

'Hi.' said Bruce in a flat New York accent. 'I'm sorry to trouble you, but I appear to be having some difficulties with my car. Can't get the darn thing to go.'

'Well.' said the farmer brightly, walking towards his Land Rover, 'Let's see if we can sort the blighter out.'

During the short trip back to the MG, the man told Bruce his life story. Bruce feigned interest in his cautionary tale of being corrupted by life in the city and finding true happiness on the farm. It's a wonderful life.' said the man as they approached the MG, and Bruce had a sudden vision of himself stuck in a Frank Kapra movie. Thankfully Bruce was able to curb his overwhelming urge to resort to violence as much of the man's tale was lost in an impenetrable accent.

'Ah, right.' said the farmer as they came to a halt. 'A sports car. You don't want to be driving one of them.' you want to get yourself a nice Ford Escort. Very practical.'

Bruce breathed in slowly and then pointed to the car. 'I think it's the engine. Or Something.'

'Righto, soon have her back on the road for you,' said the farmer, pulling open the bonnet. 'Now, if you could just try starting her up for me, then we'll -'

Bruce smashed the bonnet down on to the farmer's head, knocking him unconscious. He stood over the man and drew his Colt .45 from inside his trousers, pointing it squarely at the man's head. Then he had second thoughts. 'No, friend.'

he said to the prone figure, 'you and life deserve each other.'

He bundled the farmer into the boot of the MG, then got into the Land Rover and drove off.

Within half an hour he had reached the motorway and, almost immediately, faced a lengthy tailback at a police roadblock.

'What's the problem?' he asked in a thick Irish accent when he finally reached the front of the queue.

'Escaped prisoner, mate.' said the young policeman, checking something on a clipboard. 'Keep your eyes open for this bloke.' He turned the clipboard around, showing Bruce the photo of the technician he had killed earlier.

'B'Jesus, but he's a right evil-looking beast, and no mistake,' said Bruce. 'It's in the eyes, you know. You can always tell. What'd he do? Murder? Rape?'

'Dunno, Patrick,' said the policeman hurriedly, eager to get to the next car. 'Just don't you go offering him lifts, all right?' He waved the Land Rover through the roadblock.

'Right you are then, sir,' said Davis. As he pulled away from the roadblock he couldn't help but laugh.

Liz checked the Doctor's vital signs for the second time that minute. Still no change. It seemed that the Doctor was in a