Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [8]
‘Yes, I’m still here. Who’ve I got?’
‘Well, that’s the thing. There isn’t a photographer in the place. They’re all on assignment.’
‘What? Clorinda! Don’t do this to me! I must have one!’
‘How is it, Sarah Jane dear, that it’s always “must” with you?’
The man outside rapped on the glass. ‘You laying eggs in there?’
She desperately waved him away. Whatever he wanted, it could never be as important as her story. ‘You’ve simply got to find somebody. I mean, if you can’t supply the backup, what’s the point of employing the finest investigative journalist in the business?’
‘Pause for hollow laughter,’ replied Clorinda.
‘Look, I’m in the driving seat on this one. I’ll be able to find out if these monsters of theirs are real. I mean if they’ve been killing people –’
‘Oh, be your age.’
‘Well, the UNIT lot seem to think it’s possible. Anyway, if they’re not real, I can get an exclusive on how the wretched things are worked. You can run a “Metropolitan reveals all” on it. But let’s face it, either way it’d be a bit naff without any pics. Come on!’ The phone started to beep at her to put in some more coins. ‘And I’ve run out of money!’ she added in something of a squeak.
Clorinda sighed. ‘Okay, you win. I’ll do my best. But I can’t – ’
Her voice was cut off.
‘About time too,’ said the waiting reporter as she opened the door.
Sarah looked at him. ‘Why didn’t I go in for shovelling horse manure like my dear papa wanted?’ she said.
Having been in Intelligence for many years, the Brigadier was quite accustomed to police-type questioning and the many different ways those questioned sought to deflect the questioner.
The man Grebber, for instance, he thought, with his one syllable answers. He didn’t give the impression of a man who was easily scared and yet... And as for the fellow Freeth, well, he was too helpful by half. He should have been more exasperated that they’d turned up at such an awkward time, with the press view starting at any moment.
Yet he’d welcomed them in, offered them a drink (which they’d refused), insisted on sending for this fellow Tragan
– a nasty piece of work, if ever he’d seen one – and had fallen over himself to answer everything that either he or the Doctor could think to ask.
‘You say that you and Mr Tragan arrived shortly after eleven o’clock. You’re quite sure of that?’
Before Freeth could answer, Tragan interrupted in a hectoring voice obviously intended to intimidate. ‘This is ridiculous!’ he said. ‘Badgering a man in Mr Freeth’s position in this way! We can vouch for each other. And there’s an end to it.’
The Doctor interposed a gentle enquiry. ‘Were you once a policeman, Mr Tragan?’
‘What of it?’ he answered belligerently.
‘I thought as much,’ continued the Doctor. ‘Similar characteristics the world over. One might almost say, universally?’
The Brigadier cocked an eye at the Doctor. Was there a particular emphasis on ‘universe’? At any rate, it seemed to have silenced Tragan – for the moment, at least.
Freeth came in smoothly. ‘Mr Tragan is now Vice-Chairman of the Corporation. He is the Head of the Entertainments Division.’
‘Quite a career change,’ said the Doctor. ‘Fascinating.’
Tragan turned from him, his face as inscrutable as ever.
His manner to the Brigadier hardly altered.
‘Now, listen to me, Brigadier Whatever-your-name-is, we’ve told you all we know, and that’s nothing at all.
Right?’
Cheeky blighter, thought the Brigadier. ‘Just routine,’
he said, in the time-honoured phrase. ‘And my name, as I told you, is Lethbridge-Stewart.’
‘Well, get to the point, man,’ snapped Tragan.
‘With pleasure. The point, Mr Freeth, is that according to the police,’ the Brigadier said, glancing at his notes.
‘your man was in the gatehouse having his supper, and therefore awake, from a quarter to eleven on. And Mr Kitson’s car was the last one to come through the gate.
How would you account for that?’
‘Oh, God!’
All the heads swung round. ‘What is it, Mr Grebber?’
asked the Doctor.
‘Nothing. Nothing,’ blurted Grebber.
The Brigadier