Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [80]
‘That word again,’ said Smith. ‘I don’t like coincidences. Do you?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it,’ said Laska. She watched as Smith returned to the diaries, then began rooting through the suitcase.
‘And you said your father had other documents?’ he asked without looking up.
‘There’s more at home,’ said Laska, shaking her head. ‘I was in a bit of a rush before I came here,’ she added defensively.
‘Of course,’ said Smith, holding up a scrap of vellum to the light. ‘I should very much like to see everything else – if that’s all right with you.’
‘No problem,’ said Laska. ‘If someone could drive me into town. . . , Smith, suddenly invigorated, leaped to his feet, stuffing the two diaries into his pocket and slamming the suitcase shut. ‘I’m sure Fitz can sort that out for you,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, Trix and I need to talk to Dr Bartholomew.’ He paused, just for a moment, shaking his head. ‘I now know where we are in the rough chronology of things,’ he said. ‘But events are more advanced than I had thought possible. Sometimes ignorance is bliss!’
‘You wish I hadn’t come to you with this stuff?’ asked Laska cautiously.
‘No,’ said Smith, holding her arms tightly. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve told me about these diaries. Every scrap of information I can gain is critical.’
145
‘Look, Dr Smith. . . ’
‘Hmm?’
‘This honesty. . . It goes two ways, right?’
‘But of course.’
‘So. . . you said you’d tell me what’s going on. Who are you, and what are you doing here? Truthfully. No more of this “I’m a superhero” guff, no more trite clichés. . . ’
‘You should have come to me,’ said Trix, who suddenly appeared in Laska’s doorway. ‘I know all there is to know about the Doctor – and more.’
‘That’s a slight exaggeration,’ said Smith. He turned to Trix. ‘I need Fitz to drive Laska into town to get the rest of these documents – but what Laska’s already shared with me has been vital.’
Trix seemed pleased to hear that Laska was now ‘on their side’, though she said nothing, merely fixing Laska with a smug, knowing smile.
‘Right, I must have a word with Dr Bartholomew.’ With a flash of a grin, Smith disappeared down the corridor like the Cheshire Cat, leaving Trix and Laska together.
‘I’m delighted that you’ve been such a good girl,’ said Trix. ‘I’ll go and get Fitz – I’ll ask him to tell you anything you want to know.’ She smiled. ‘And I mean anything.’
Elizabeth Bartholomew stared unblinkingly at Dr Oldfield. Both were on their feet, faces flushed, hands balled into angry fists. ‘With the greatest of respect. . . I don’t think now is the right moment to worry about my management of the Retreat.’
‘Really?’ said Oldfield. ‘In a few short hours we’ve had a suicide and a murder. Both speak of a shocking lack of security. I can scarcely imagine any circumstances under which a thorough discussion of management style is more warranted.’
‘“Management style”?’ Liz could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘In the light of current events, such academic discussion. . . ’
‘But it’s not academic,’ persisted Oldfield. ‘It’s relevant, to today, to the running of this place. The problems created by your laissez-faire management are just coming home to roost!’
‘My concern right now is the non-appearance of the police and the investigation that may follow,’ said Liz. ‘If I’m still here at the end of all that, if running the Retreat means so much to you. . . You can have the stinking job!’
Liz wasn’t sure if she meant that, but it didn’t half feel good to say it – to imagine, even for a split second, life beyond the Retreat, without its heavy organisational burdens forever on her back.
146
Oldfield’s eyes lit up, a child suddenly offered the freedom of the sweet shop. Then, clearing his throat, he steadied himself. ‘Management of the Retreat might not be yours to give, Dr Bartholomew.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is vital, is it not, that when we apply for jobs, especially a sensitive one such as this, we make known anything that might be considered relevant.
Anything.