Doctor Who_ Trading Futures - Lance Parkin [13]
Fitz kept his eye on them. The men hadn’t seen them. ‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t know. What I do know is that I killed them last night. Blew the arm off the one on the left.’
‘Then, er, the obvious question is…’ he turned back to Malady.
She wasn’t there.
A couple of seconds later, it occurred to Fitz that vanishing into thin air was a pretty good idea.
* * *
The police station was little more than a small hut, just off the beach.
The Doctor entered, smiled at the duty sergeant. There was another officer, filing some screenwork. He didn’t look Mediterranean. He looked more like a soldier than a policeman.
‘There was something on television about a briefcase?’
The duty sergeant and the soldier made an effort not to look at each other.
The Doctor plonked the silver briefcase on the counter.
‘There was a reward, wasn’t there? The television said something about 10,000 Euros? What’s that in pounds, please?’
The soldier stood. ‘You’re English?’
‘Not exactly,’ the Doctor replied, carefully.
‘We’re all Europeans now,’ the policeman reminded his colleague.
The Doctor kept quiet.
The soldier was running some sort of scanner over the case.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘I was on the beach with some friends, it just washed up.’
‘It doesn’t look dirty.’
‘Well, it’s just been in the sea.’
‘It doesn’t look particularly wet.’
‘It was when we found it. It must have dried off in the sun.’
‘You’re in the habit of picking up strange briefcases?’
‘If there’s a reward.’
The soldier had put his scanner away and was taking out a wallet. ‘We’ll need a name and ID.’
The Doctor handed over his passport. Well, a passport.
The soldier had lost interest in him, now. The policeman gave the picture something that barely qualified as a glance, then handed it back.
‘Thank you,’ the soldier said, although he clearly meant to tell him to get lost.
The Doctor was happy to do so.
* * *
Chapter Four
Never Say Neverland Again
Two hours later, the briefcase had arrived in London. An hour after that, the forensics people handed Cosgrove back his case and told him there wasn’t any evidence that it had been tampered with. That might have sounded reassuring, but it only meant what it said. The case could very well have been opened, by someone expert enough to leave no trace that he’d done so. Another team of experts told him that as the arrowhead was metal, it was impossible to carbon date it, but it was consistent with an eleventh‐century Scottish design.
Still, he had his case back now.
Cosgrove took it back to his office, laid it on the desk and opened it, with some difficulty. His left arm was still badly bruised.
He reached for the bottle of painkillers in his jacket pocket.
The plan was to take a scientist along for the next meeting with Baskerville. There weren’t exactly many people who specialised in the necessary field. He needed someone broad‐minded.
He smiled. Professor Lik. Penelope Lik, the daughter of Korean immigrants, who’d joined the Service straight after completing her thesis. An imaginative young woman, and quite a travelling companion. But where were they travelling to?
He checked the case. The arrowhead was there, along with a handwritten invitation – GPS co‐ordinates and a time to be there. He checked the co‐ordinates in the atlas he kept on his desk. Even here, he couldn’t be sure that his computers weren’t being monitored or hacked. The atlas, complete with its sigil on the cover, was more secure than any piece of electronic equipment on the planet.
The leather‐bound book was an anachronism. Books weren’t, of course – in this day and age, the printed word was the only form of entertainment that wasn’t easily pirated. Even theatre productions and operas could be covertly recorded and turned into vrooms. The entertainment corporations either factored piracy into their costings, or paid for a pinpoint smart missile strike on known pirate factories. Books and comics thrived. Magazines, of course, were ractive now.
No, the atlas was an anachronism because of its contents. All the countries,