Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [66]
‘His way of saying, You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. He wants something.’ Laska threw down the magazine she was pretending to read. ‘Honestly, it was bad enough with Dr Smith sniffing around!’
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‘Mike Thomson and I have chatted about Oldfield,’ said James. ‘It’s obvious that Oldfield thinks he should have been promoted into Liz’s job. But Mike reckons Oldfield is looking for some dirt in Liz’s past, some big secret she’s covering up.’
‘If there is. . . then perhaps Liz’s days are numbered.’ Laska shuddered – it wasn’t like Liz had a happy home life to fall back on.
James sighed. ‘If Oldfield ends up in charge of this place. . . Well, let me put it this way, I’ll be at the front of the queue to resign!’
James left Laska staring into space. She’d wanted his company, briefly, but now it was clear she needed time and space to think. James still wasn’t quite sure what Dr Oldfield sought from Laska – or if, indeed, she had anything worth giving him – but he realised, ultimately, it wasn’t his concern. He had problems enough of his own: there were security guards everywhere, nursing shifts had been doubled-up, and his arms ached after a lengthy session in the gym the night before.
All right, he realised that a little physical discomfort and occupational has-sle barely compared to the death of the guard and all the implications that followed from that – but all these irritations came together and strengthened his desire just to get through the day as swiftly as possible, and go home.
His pager buzzed in his pocket. He needed to dig out some notes, sort out Mrs Bradfield’s medication, and now he was being reminded about some paperwork he’d left to gather dust on his desk.
He hurried down the corridor. At the far end, pushing his way through huge double doors of dark oak, he could see the crumple-suited form of Dr Thomson.
‘Oi, Mike!’ he called out, but Thomson seemed not to hear. The door slammed shut behind him.
James walked over to a small window of imperfect glass, set next to the door, and peered through. He could just make out Mike Thomson, head down, moving at speed over the dark grass and away from the Retreat.
Intrigued, James pushed open the doors and followed the older man out into the grounds. After the unearthly calm that followed the storm the wind had picked up again; it lashed it into James’s face and eyes. Blinking furiously, he set off after Thomson, who’d veered off to the left and was now climbing the gentle rise towards the folly.
James tried calling after Thomson, but either Thomson was ignoring him, or simply hadn’t heard him. The suited figure was some way up the rise now, seemingly heading straight for the dark folly with its fringe of desultory trees and brambles. James was sure Mike Thomson never came up here as a matter 114
of course: like the others, he knew that the de facto place for a ciggy was round the back of the house.
Thomson paused for a moment, looking around as if to see if he was being observed. Without thinking, James ducked down behind the bough of a fallen tree, only gradually emerging from cover. He was intrigued, almost disturbed, by Thomson’s behaviour; he felt compelled to follow.
Keeping his distance, James watched as Thomson finally came up to the folly. There was an arched doorway of sorts that faced the main building of the Retreat; over the space a number of boards had now been nailed into place. It looked as if there had once been a notice, advising people to keep out for their own safety; successive layers of graffiti rendered this illegible. The writing formed a lurid splash of colour against the rainwater-grey building.
Thomson seemed to tug at the boards, alternately bending down to examine them, then running his hand along the edges, where, doubtless, crude nails held them in place. From James’s distance, it was impossible to tell if he was checking to see that they were firmly attached – or if he was trying to tear