Doctor How and the Illegal Aliens

by Mark Speed

  The Doctor pulled a camera out of his jacket pocket and took a couple of pictures from different angles. "I imagine you must feel rather hard done-by."

  Grove laughed again. "Hard done-by don't even come into it, squire. Here, you'll want to see the underside of one of them cabs."

  They turned and walked back to the building. Adjacent to where they'd exited the office was a metal roller-shutter, which Grove banged on. "George!" A few seconds later there was the whine of an electric motor and the shutter clattered upwards into its cover to reveal another overweight middle-aged man next to the control pad. Once it reached the height of the Doctor's head, the shutter stopped with a rattle and they walked into the workshop. There were two hydraulic platforms side by side, but only one black cab was being serviced. It was four feet off the ground. The crashing sound they'd heard earlier was evidently a damaged side panel being removed.

  "Insurance," said Grove, jerking a thumb at the Doctor and Kevin. "Give her a couple more feet." He grabbed an electric light in a protective cage on the end of a cable and switched it on.

  George clicked a button on the wall and the cab rose high enough for the others to get in underneath. The Doctor had to duck his head slightly.

  "There you are. Clean cut. I don't know what does that. Biggest pair of pliers on God's green Earth, I should have thought." He tapped Kevin on the chest and then pointed along the fuel line. "You can see for yourself I'm going to have to replace the entire line. Yeah?"

  "Goes without saying," said Kevin, trying to sound like he understood.

  The Doctor took a couple more photographs and pocketed his camera. From the same pocket he brought out a glass phial with a bud sticking down into the container from the stopper at the top. "Has anyone touched this?"

  "George? Did you touch the tank yet?"

  "Nah. No spares for any of that. Had a side-panel in stock. Get through plenty of those. The other stuff is on order. Maybe later today."

  The Doctor pulled the stopper off the top of the phial and rubbed the bud against the surfaces of the cut.

  "What's that for?" asked Grove.

  "Looking for traces of whatever made the cut."

  "You're 'aving a giraffe, ain't you?"

  "Nothing humorous about modern forensic loss-adjustment," said the Doctor. "I'd certainly be interested in what kind of tool was used."

  "I'd be much happier if you could just get the readies to me. This is murder on my cash flow – not to mention damage to my reputation. Hang on...... are you implying that we might have used some of our own gear to do this?"

  "Not at all. What would be your motive?"

  "Well, exactly. Thank you."

  "If you don't mind, I'd like to examine that hole in the fence again."

  "I thought you was wanting to see more of the damage to the cabs?"

  "Eh? Oh, well we'd want to make sure the fence was secure to prevent a repeat. Otherwise you'd expect a jump in premiums, wouldn't you?"

  "Sure. Whatever. You do what you have to do. Some of us have to work for a living." Grove went back to his office and the Doctor ushered Kevin over to the hole in the fence.

  "Whatever did this was unbelievably strong," said the Doctor. He dabbed a second phial against the severed edges of the metal. "And where did it come from and go to?"

  "The bushes the other side have been crushed a bit," said Kevin. "Something's been in them."

  "Yes, I see that. Then further up the embankment it's all been cut back by the railway company so you can't see any traces of where whatever it was might have come from. Typical." He stepped underneath the gap and looked along the back of the fence, to where it ran into the back wall of the neighbouring business. "Bingo."

  "What?"

  "You should see this. The brambles have been crushed and ripped right along the back of these properties. There's a mound of fresh earth against the back wall over there. Come on, lad."

  Kevin followed him along the bottom of the embankment, stumbling a couple of times when his feet snagged on bramble stems. The Doctor seemed to have little difficulty, and the youth was out of breath when they reached the edge of the pile. He flapped the bottom of his hoodie to let fresh air in.

  "Smell that, Kevin?"

  "Diesel, innit?"

  "Exactly. See how earth has spread out against the wall? Whatever it was has burrowed into the side of the embankment, so the soil's scattered down and to the side slightly. Absolutely no sign that the police even bothered coming to look at this. Hopeless."

  He climbed up the embankment to just above the disturbed soil and stamped on it. "Sounds hollow. This mound of earth wasn't dumped here; it's a burrow." He stamped hard again nearer to the edge of the earth and a clod came away underfoot, causing him to lose his balance and teeter. Once he'd recovered he kicked the clod away to reveal the top of a hole leading into the side of the embankment. He made a face and then stepped onto the earth so that he could bend down and take a look inside. He sank up to his ankles.

  "Aren't you, like, scared, Doctor?"

  "This was done a couple of days ago. The amount of soil displaced would indicate that this is either a small hole dug as a temporary hiding place, or that the thing that dug it is moving through the ground."

  "I don't understand."

  "This amount of soil," the Doctor indicated the mound he was standing on, "we can probably assume is about the size of the thing that dug it out. If it had dug a temporary hole to hide in, then it probably would have done a better job of covering up the entrance. All I can see through here is the top of more soil. So the thing is just displacing an amount of soil equal to the volume of its body as it tunnels. That's my view, anyway." He gave a rare smile. "My professional opinion, as someone who has investigated plenty of seemingly inexplicable phenomena. Whatever did this has long gone."

  "Like where?"

  "I have no idea. Underground. The sewers, perhaps? Unlikely, since they are underneath the service roads for this estate, rather than to the rear. And it might be too big to fit in anything but a main sewer. You saw the size of the tailings from the first incident."

  "Tailings?"

  "You know: spoil. The right word for the stuff left over from mining activity. I think we can call this either tailings or spoil, since we've established that this is a burrow. Precision is key in these things, Kevin."

  "Whatever."

  "Oh, please don't be flippant. What else do you think we can deduce from this?"

  "Are you, like, seriously asking me?"

  "Of course. I want to teach you to think a little for yourself."

  Kevin sucked his teeth. "We know it's incredibly strong." The Doctor nodded. "It seems to like diesel. It burrows."

  "And?"

  "It can cut through metal."

  "Good. And what else?"

  "Uh... it hates black cabs?"

  "Exactly. It seems to have a little penchant for wrecking black cabs. Very good. Or it could be a 'they', rather than an 'it'. And every incident took place at night."

  "Yeah. So, uh, where does that leave us?"

  "Absolutely nowhere. I need to see the results of the samples I've taken. Come." The Doctor pulled his feet out of the pile of mud and shook the dirt from them. Every trace fell off, leaving behind perfectly clean black trousers and polished shoes. He started walking back through the mutilated undergrowth towards the hole in the fence.

  "That's like...amazing. Can I get some clothes made of that?"

  "Restricted technology," said the Doctor over his shoulder. "Sorry." His tone brightened a little, and he added, "Though your people are getting fairly close." He chuckled to himself. "It's funny. It was way before your time, and it's not played much on the TV these days – not that I think you watch old black-and-white films anyway – but there was a film called The Man in the White Suit. Came out in the early Fifties. Alec Guinness played the lead. You'd know him better as –"

  "Obi-Wan Kenobi in the original Star Wars!"

  "Oh, well rememb
ered."

  "Gimme a break, Doc. Like, how could I not know? How could I not know my man Obi-Wan?"

  "If you believe the press, most inner-city children don't know that milk comes from a cow, or potatoes from the ground."

  "Well, that's like, not important information, is it?"

  The Doctor stopped and twisted round to look at Kevin. "You what?"

  "Like, am I going to milk a cow in Tulse Hill, Doc? Or am I going to dig up some plant roots if I want fries? Nah, I'm just going to rock over to BK and get me some fries and a milkshake, innit? Milk comes from a bottle, or a machine if you want a shake. It's irrelevant. You get me? That information is, like, surplus to my requirements. I don't need to know that in order to survive in today's sophisticated urban environment, does I?"

  "Well, I suppose you're right on one thing: those milkshakes have probably never seen a cow either. I dread to think what I'd find if I did tests on one of those."

  "So get on with your story."

  The Doctor ducked under the bent fence and back into the yard. "Oh, just a recollection. It was only a few years after the end of the war. Things were still fresh in the folk memory. Science had taken leaps and bounds, and a few people had seen the seemingly impossible in the previous decade – aeroplanes without propellers, for example; the jet-powered fighter. So they wrote this satire about a man who had invented a miracle material which was incredibly hard-wearing and impervious to any kind of contamination. Since it couldn't be dyed, it was white. Hence The Man in the White Suit."

  "So what happened?"

  "The factory owners and the unions realised he was a threat to the entire business, so they tried to stop him, of course. He'd have ruined them all – destroyed the industry. In the end, the material turned out to be unstable, so the suit fell apart and all was well."

  "So you're afraid if you give us this cloth we'll not have a textile manufacturing industry?"

  "No, not at all. You're such a vain species you'll never tire of wasteful fashions. You'd probably end up with endless landfills full of perfectly good clothes you simply didn't like."

  "Thanks for yet another insult."

  "Not intended. Sorry."

  "Well, what's your point?"

  "No point, dear boy. No point. Just an amusing anecdote about our portrayal in popular culture."

  "You mean...?"

  "It's difficult to keep everything a complete secret. Things leak at the sides. One of the film's writers, Alexander Mackendrick, worked for the Ministry of Information during the war."

  "So what about Doctor Who the TV series?"

  "That was a step too far. I will talk no more on this matter for now. You will find out more in our further adventures." The Doctor opened the office door in the back of the building and Kevin followed him inside.

  Grove swivelled in his seat. "See all you wanted to see?"

  "Yes, thank you," said the Doctor. "Just one thing. Was the Transit van left here overnight?"

  "Yeah. The van was here. So was one of the other cabs."

  "Really?" said the Doctor.

  "Well, yeah. I did mention it in the original report."

  "I must have missed that. My apologies. And this other cab wasn't damaged at all?"

  "Not apart from the paint and the flat battery. A couple of scratches on the roof."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, these vandals had splashed this stuff over the back of it. Took the paint off. The police said it was like that gel they use to remove graffiti. Corroded the rubber around the rear window too. That'll have to be replaced. It's at the paint shop now getting a respray."

  "Was there anything different about this cab?"

  "Jesus, you said Swann was bad. I don't think much of your outfit either. Did you actually read the report?"

  "I can only apologise. They tend to send me into these things a bit blind – start from first principles and all that."

  "It was an older model. FX4. Rounder lines. You know the one. Superseded by the TX1 back in, let me see, ninety-seven I think it was. Problem with the FX4 was that you can leave the lights on after taking the key out. Can't do that in the later models."

  "Go on."

  "Well, the driver had left the internal lights on. Oh, and the Taxi sign."

  "The orange sign on the front that lights up when it's for hire?"

  "Yep."

  "Hmm. That's food for thought. Thank you." The Doctor raised the flap in the counter and held it open for Kevin. "I don't suppose you saw whether the police took any samples of that gunk?"

  "Nah, we washed it off."

  "I just need to see that. You can stay there if you like, Kevin."

  "Gordon Bennett," said Grove.

  The Doctor hurried out the back door and was directed to the spot where the older cab had been standing. "Where was the rear of the vehicle?"

  "Just there, mate."

  "About where this puddle is?"

  "Yeah."

  The Doctor took out another phial, dipped it into the muddy water and put the stopper back on. He held it up to the light.

  "Happy now?" asked Grove.

  "Oh, as I'll ever be." He walked back to the office door.

  "You sure you're not with the Old Bill?"

  "The police? No. As I say, we have to do these tests to try to see what caused the damage." He opened the door. "After you."

  Grove walked back into his office and eyed Kevin, who was leaning against the exit, playing with his phone. "Like I say, I feel like I'm under investigation here."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "Can I have your card? I'd like to keep in touch. You know, in case anything else turns up."

  Kevin perked up, looking ready to make a fast exit.

  "My card? Certainly." The Doctor reached into his left breast pocket and took out his wallet. He took out a card and presented it.

  "Michael Wallace, Loss Adjuster, Alperton Claims. Right enough then, Mr Wallace. I'll email you if I think of anything else."

  "I'm much obliged to you, Mr Grove," said the Doctor, and ushered Kevin outside.

  "That was impressive. I didn't realise you was a con artist too," said Kevin, as soon as they were round the corner.

  "Con artist? I didn't con Grove out of anything, and had no intention of doing so, either. I like to think of that role as being one of confidence trickster. One just needs the confidence and the props. I printed that card on an ordinary colour printer this morning. By the way, how far do you think we'd have got if we'd both been wearing hoodies?"

  "Alright, I take your point. Now, it's way past my lunch and I need to eat."

  "Very well, but no fried food. I need you to be fighting fit."

  "If you want to eat healthy, you're in the wrong place. This is Dagenham, Doc. Get real."

  Mr Grove had just settled down to eat his own lunch – two sausages and a fried egg in a white roll, heavy on the ketchup, from the catering van down the road – when the black saloon car pulled up outside, causing him to look up from his Racing Post. The swift and deliberate way in which its black-suited occupants exited the vehicle jolted a question into his head, namely: why had this morning's visitors arrived on foot? As the pair stepped forcefully into his office a second question offered itself: why did he never get to enjoy his lunch in peace? His hackles rose.

  "Mr Grove?" asked the shorter of the two suits. He had a mean demeanour, and wore thick glasses.

  "Who's asking?" growled Grove through a mouthful of food.

  "MI16," said the other suit, in a distinctly female voice. A voice that could cut glass. She was about five-feet ten inches tall, and athletic-looking. Her honey-blonde hair was straight and shoulder-length, parted in the middle, and her eyes a kind blue. She smiled. "Doctor Camilla Peterson."

  Her smile deflected Grove's irritation back to his two previous visitors. If it hadn't been for them and their stupid samples, he'd have had his lunch by now. He swallowed, rubbed his hands on a paper napkin, rose from his seat and offered out his right
hand to her. "Brian Grove. My outfit."

  Rather than finding a hand waiting to shake his, Grove found that Peterson was holding out an open leather wallet. On one side was a metal badge, and on the other an official-looking card on the kind of paper he recognised from his passport. He looked at it, confirming her name. "You're CID? Thought you might be back. The uniformed officers weren't that thorough the other day."

  "No, Mr Grove. We're not CID," said the man tartly. "As Miss Peterson said, we're MI16. I'm Thickett."

  "MI6?" said Grove. "Like the Secret Service?"

  "No," said Thickett, clearly irritated. "M-I Six-teen."

  "Sixteen?" parroted Grove. "Are you sure you don't mean MI Six?"

  "No. Six-teen. And we're not like the Secret Service. We are one of the secret services."

  "Never 'eard of you." Grove sat down and took another bite of his roll. A splodge of ketchup squirted out onto the upper one of his three chins. He deliberately fixed his attention on his Racing Post. "Come back after me dinner. We're closed."

  "Now look here –" began Thickett.

  "So sorry to interrupt your lunch, Mr Grove," said Peterson. "Mind if we take a look out the back?"

  "Look," said Grove, "I've had enough of this. The Old Bill was in two days ago. The insurance was in yesterday – useless bunch of muppets they was an' all. Then I had a couple of jokers from the loss-adjuster in this morning. Pissed me around taking samples of puddles and all sorts."

  Peterson looked at Thickett. "They took samples?" she said. "Which firm were they from?"

  "Here's the card," said Grove. As soon as Peterson had the card he continued eating.

  Peterson looked at the card and dialled the number on it. She held her phone to her ear and then said, "What's your address? Sorry, wrong number." She turned to address her colleague. "Indian restaurant in Brixton."

  Grove looked up. "You must have dialled it wrong."

  "No, Mr Grove," said Peterson. "Tell me, what did these two look like? You called them 'jokers'. Was that intentional, or just a turn of phrase?"

  "Odd couple. The gaffer was in a black suit and white shirt. Looked expensive. He was maybe early forties, well-groomed. Proper gent. Well-spoken. The other guy kept his mouth shut. Mixed race, bit shorter than you, Miss, but taller than him." Grove gestured towards Thickett. "Wearing what kids that age wear. You know – hoodie, jeans, trainers. Didn't look like he knew much about motors. No oil under his fingernails for one thing. Of course, he might be a desk-jockey with the insurance, but he's a bit young to have served his time as a mechanic or panel-beater if you ask me."