by Mark Speed
“Totally.”
The Doctor pointed his Ultraknife at the small flowerpot and made a tiny movement with his hand. A cut appeared in the plastic. He turned the pot through ninety degrees and made another incision, then two more to form a square incision. He picked the plastic out from the middle to reveal the inside. “And cousin When doesn’t believe this is a precision instrument,” said the Doctor, shaking his head. He lifted the toy up and looked inside. “Pretty basic stuff. In China a white flower would symbolise death. I wonder if that was deliberate.”
“Are we going to have to, like, travel to China?”
The Doctor regarded his assistant with some amusement. “Desperate to travel, aren’t you? All in good time, lad. All in good time.” He put the toy down and trained his Ultraknife on it. Again, without the Doctor saying anything the ambient light changed slowly, moving up the spectrum to orange. Still the leaves and flower remained static. Orange became yellow, which then changed to green. It had just changed to blue when suddenly there was an almost imperceptible twitch in the leaves, and the flower moved. “Gotcha,” said the Doctor.
“What? Got what?”
“Every photovoltaic surface has a signature trigger frequency. We have ours. This is a genuine piece of tat from China. Cheap rubbish.”
“Cheap rubbish? Like, I cannot believe you are saying that, Doc. You said these guys have managed to produce some kinda time-interrupting device.”
“No, no. What I mean is that the basis of this is cheap rubbish – the solar cells are rock-bottom cheap. Only responded as we approached the blue end of the spectrum. This is mass-produced tat. Whoever is behind this has co-opted a factory in China to do their distribution for them. You know how all these virus and spam bots work – the software takes over computers and replicates itself. Same sort of thing.”
“So we’re going to blow up this plant in China, yeah?”
“Good grief. I’d like to find out who’s behind this first. Something tells me it’s the same people who gave us the giant explosive beetles. The good news is that they’ve only managed to infiltrate a factory – they don’t have the capability to manufacture here on Earth.”
“Hallelujah.”
“Well, quite. I just wish I had my Spectrel so that I could conduct a more detailed analysis. Of course, I’d have to lower the frequency of the light just a touch so that this perfidious piece of plastic doesn’t interfere with her.” The Doctor gave Kevin an enigmatic smile, the light went back to green and Trinity gave a garbled feline noise from the back of her throat. Where’s Spectrel moved to the corner of the basement room.
Kevin looked at the Doctor. “What’s…?”
Doctor How’s Spectrel appeared in the middle of the room; a gleaming deep red telephone box. There was the faintest puff on Kevin’s face from the air she displaced.
“Ah, welcome home!” said Doctor How. He got to his feet and reached up to touch the golden crown above the door. Trinity let out a joyful yowl and brushed up against the side.
“Uh, good to see you,” said Kevin, feeling awkward at greeting a telephone box. “Like, we missed you really badly.”
The red telephone box stood, inanimate, the light shining brightly inside, and from her illuminated telephone signs on three sides.
“You knew she was coming back, Doc. Like, she has free will and stuff. So how?”
The Doctor was glowing with joy. “How indeed,” he chuckled. “How would you entice our darling Trinity if she were missing?”
“Easy. No disrespect to Trin, but a slab of fresh meat – maybe even some live game.”
The Doctor chuckled. “And it’s no different for my Spectrel. I gave her one of these toys to look at. As irresistible to her as a slab of fresh meat to Trinity. She’s desperate to know more. Someone’s treading on her territory, and she’s not happy.”
“But, like, where’s Dave?”
“I think we’re about to find out.” The Doctor opened the door, stepped into the Spectrel and disappeared. The door remained open.
Trinity nudged Kevin with her head before running ahead of him and vanishing. He stepped forward and was gone.
“Ah, Commander Bunce,” said Sir Adrian, standing to meet her. She supposed that the emphasis on her surname was some kind of exertion of his authority and status over her. She might be a commander in the Met, but she was still merely someone with a job title prefixing a surname. He, on the other hand, was a knight – someone with an honorary prefix and a first name.
When she’d worked in counter-terrorism she’d worked with officers from MI5, MI6’s sister organisation. They seemed to view the police service as something a little above nightclub bouncers and street-cleaners – someone to do the dirty work. She viewed them as pen-pushing desk-jockeys who enjoyed nothing better than to pontificate over hypotheticals.
“Sir Adrian,” she said with a rigid smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Do please take the weight off your feet,” he said, motioning her to a chair. “Shame about the circumstances. Can’t be fun being you right now,” he said, with a jovial grin. “Took a look in the toilet cubicles myself. Gruesome way to go. The world’s in a terrible state if a chap can’t even take a number two in peace, don’t you think?”
“Well, quite, Sir Adrian.”
“Similar-ish thing happened to me when I was a lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps. We were somewhere hot and Middle-Eastern where Her Majesty’s Government had specifically said we most definitely were not, doing something utterly deniable with a bunch of people we really should not have been doing it with. And we most definitely were not, even to this day, if you catch my drift. Told you too much already, in fact. Forget that bit of background colour if you would. Anyway, there I was in a canvas karzi, having my five minutes after breakfast, when there was the most almighty bang – more of a whoosh really – and the tent was blown off by a bomb blast. There’s me with my trousers around my ankles in the middle of the camp looking like something out of a Monty Python sketch. Lucky to be alive, frankly. Two pieces of shrapnel embedded in my flak jacket and one bounced off my helmet. Want to know what saved me?”
“You mean it wasn’t the flak jacket and helmet?” said Commander Bunce. She found herself warming to him. He wasn’t the civil servant type at all.
“No. It was fear. A lot of the chaps used to take their body armour off when they were on the can. I was so bloody scared I even used to shower with my flak jacket and helmet next to me. I don’t mind admitting that. Fear is just a way of your brain looking out for you. But a man – or a woman – shouldn’t have to fear going to the loo in this country, Commander. Should he? Or she?” The steel-eyed look he gave her was in total contrast to the friendly voice and the amusing story.
“Of course not.”
“Just as an army marches on its stomach, it won’t get very far if it’s unable to relieve itself. I can’t very well close the building because the toilets are out of order. We’re now in this ridiculous state where we have armed guards in the loos, and no one is allowed to shut the cubicle doors. Armed guards in the toilets, Commander Bunce. And we don’t even know who the enemy is!”
“I think we have some idea, Sir Adrian.”
“Really? I’d love to hear your theory, Commander. Or may I call you Jane?”
“Yes, Sir. I mean, yes, you may call me Jane, Sir Adrian. As for my theory, I have to say it sounds a little far-fetched. But there’s nothing else any of us can think that fits the facts.”
“I’m all ears,” said Sir Adrian.
He listened intently as she told him. After she had finished he stood up, went to the window and looked downriver, towards the Houses of Parliament and the City.
“I don’t think either of us can go and tell the world there’s a carnivorous beast on the loose in the sewers of London,” he said. “This is a big enough stink as it is.”
“Unfortunately, it’s already public knowledge that people have been killed in the sewers. Clapham and B
rixton. Particularly the latter.”
“Yes, but not the fact that it’s some carnivorous beast that can rip a man apart. Oh, and do you think by any chance that it’s significant that it’s only men who have been attacked so far?” He was still addressing the cityscape in front of him.
“They don’t know it’s not something human, that’s true – though the rumour-mill has been working overtime. The lack of a body from Clapham doesn’t help either. And, no, I don’t think there’s any significance that it’s only men who have been attacked. Men are just…”
“More bloody stupid. Dangerous jobs and taking idiotic trips down the sewers. As for my two, I think that was just sheer bad luck.” He paused. “The fact that it – they – can come up the actual U-bend. Good grief. Have you any idea how many toilets there are out there?” He waved a hand at the view. “Millions. And we can’t guard them all with assault rifles. You can’t tell the general public not to poo.”
He turned back to face her, fixing her again with his eyes. “We had some giant cockroaches – or something like that – last week.”
“Sir?”
“Giant cockroaches. Big as a London cab.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. At least, that’s what I’m told. And they were combustible. One of them blew up a bunker under Holborn. One of the bunkers that doesn’t exist, if you understand me. Now I know there’s such a thing as a bombardier beetle, but they’re little fellows. And they essentially just squirt steam.”
Commander Bunce stifled a smile. This was going far, far better than she’d dared hope. “Was that connected to the fracking in Essex and the radar interference caused by the London Array?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t at any time feel the need to contact the Met for help?”
“Quite honestly, no. We can – and do – deal with these things ourselves. Can’t be causing public panic. All brought under control – or at least that’s what I’d thought.”
“Well clearly it’s not under control. Far be it from me to lecture you about security, Sir Adrian, but you can’t keep this sort of thing from the police service.”
“The important thing is that the information side of it is under control, Jane. As with the giant cockroach things, we can keep it all under wraps. I’m sure you appreciate that anything can be explained in a rational way.”
“How are you going to explain the deaths of your two operatives?”
“Death in service. Not a problem. Happens all the time.”
“Well, what on earth will the death certificates say?”
“Death by misadventure, most likely. Or accidental death. Take your pick.” He fixed her again with a stare. “May I ask how you’re dealing with them?”
“It’s a civil matter, Sir Adrian. Autopsies and then coroner’s inquiry.”
“I’d put money on the same conclusion,” he said. “Official Secrets Act is rather handy. We’ll not be wasting money from the public purse. Or the time. Aside from that, you haven’t actually got a body from the Clapham incident, unless I’m mistaken.”
“True, there is that. Just… just scraps of bloody clothing. Enough to infer that he met with the same fate as the Brixton two.”
“So, missing in action? We used it in the military. Thousands of them in wars, you know. Nothing left is what it means. Blown to pieces. May I ask what you’ve said to the relatives of the missing man?”
“We’ve not managed to trace them yet. Eastern Europe somewhere. Poland, we believe.”
Sir Adrian looked at her, and she knew she didn’t have the answers. Neither of them did. He unlocked his eyes.
“As for the situation itself with the giant cockroach business, we have some of our people attached to it. Well, they attached themselves to it. And they’re not, strictly speaking, our people either, though they do answer to me. Apparently. MI16. All two of them.”
“Sixteen?”
“No, as I said, there are just the two of them.”
“No, I meant MI Sixteen.”
“Ah, of course. Yes. Who knew they still existed? Formed after the Second World War. Budget kept getting signed off somewhere. Technology people. He’s a bit of a loon if you ask me, but she – his assistant – is terribly brainy. Reins him in. Takes care of the important stuff. Camilla Peterson. Astrophysicist. Doctorate from Imperial. Good sort. We recruited her into Six, and then somehow she seems to have been transferred to Sixteen. Not sure whether it was a clerical error. Stroke of luck for us, I think – heaven only knows what Thickwit would have done left to his own devices. Anyway, I thought you might like to meet them. Excuse me.” He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Could you send MI16 in, please,” he said, with a wink at Commander Bunce.
Seconds later, the door flew open and Thickett rushed in. “Thank you for seeing me. Us. Sir Adrian,” he gabbled. “I know exactly who’s responsible for all this. It’s those interfering Time Lords.”
“Responsible for what?” demanded Commander Bunce, her years of training kicking in, taking command of the situation.
Thickett took stock of her presence and obvious status. “These!” Thickett took out his smartphone and pressed. “See?” Commander Bunce and Sir Adrian gathered closer to look.
There were the pictures of Trinity and Tim in the sewers.
Commander Bunce snatched the phone from his hands. “No one knows about these.”
“Well, clearly they do, Commander,” said Sir Adrian.
“Where did you get them?” demanded Bunce.
“The internet,” said Peterson. Her interjection brought a calmness to the situation. “My initial analysis shows they were uploaded simultaneously at several thousand points, suggesting that it was orchestrated. Perfectly.”
“Since you’re giving me no more information, Camilla, I’m assuming they’re not traceable in any way?”
“Correct, Sir Adrian.”
“She’s terribly thorough,” said Sir Adrian to Commander Bunce. “Thickwit, what makes you think this is the work of these,” he gave Commander Bunce a conspiratorial sideways glance, “Time Lords?”
“It’s Thickett. Only Who or How could have done it!” said Thickett.
“I thought I was asking the questions, Thickwit.”
“No, I mean Doctor Who or Doctor How. The Time Lords!”
Commander Bunce smiled to herself and raised herself up on her toes a couple of times. She had found the perfect candidate to pin everything on. Standing before her was the one man who was always going to be worse off than her. Doctor Who and the Time Lords? She’d heard it all now. She just hoped this lunatic could keep himself out of the asylum long enough for her to stitch him up.
“And what makes you think it was the Time Lords?” asked Bunce.
“They were responsible for last week’s episode with the giant beetles,” said Thickett.
“Did you say episode?” asked Commander Bunce.
“Yes,” said Thickett. “Episode, as in an incident in the course of events. What did you think I meant?”
“Of course,” said Bunce. “I misunderstood you. Please continue.”
“Well,” said Thickett, “I believe Doctor How has a pet – more like an assistant – which takes the form of a giant spider like this one.”
“I see,” said Sir Adrian. “Go on.”
“What about the… the human-like thing in the other image?” asked Bunce.
“Well it’s definitely not How, and I don’t think it’s Who. And it’s not Where.”
“It’s not where?” asked Bunce.
“No. Too small.”
“I thought you knew where?” asked Bunce.
“Yes, which is why I can state with some certainty that it isn’t.”
“What?”
“Could be. Just guessing now, mind. We don’t know What, When or Why. But I have a feeling we’ll find out soon enough.” Thickett gave her a knowing nod.
“But I thought you said this was Clapham.”
<
br /> “Oh, it is. But I don’t know Where.”
“It’s Clapham, man. Get a grip,” Bunce was losing her cool. “It’s the sewer in Clapham.”
“Yes,” said Thickett. “But I’m telling you we don’t know Where. Or What, When or Why, for that matter. We have a rough idea of Who.”
“Well for God’s sake tell us,” Bunce half-shouted. “If you know who it is and you don’t give me the information I can – and will – have you arrested for obstructing a police officer in the course of their enquiries.”
“Really, Thickwit,” said Sir Adrian. “Commander Bunce is right. We all know where it is. If you’re sitting on some important information as to the identity of the person in the photograph you have to tell us.”
“If I may interject,” said Peterson. “You’ve heard the old Kipling rhyme from The Elephant’s Child? More commonly known as Six Serving-Men.”
“Ah,” said Sir Adrian. “What and Why and When, and How and Where and Who.”
“Exactly,” said Thickett, a note of triumph in his voice.
“The legend is,” said Peterson, “that there are six of these Time Keepers, one by each name.”
“Legend?” said Bunce.
“War archives,” said Sir Adrian. “A lot happens in wars. Facts get confused with fiction. Confabulation, it’s called. These chaps were thought to have fought with us during World War Two. Possibly further back than that. Records are sketchy, at best.”
“And you think it’s one of these Time Keepers doing this?” asked Bunce.
“I don’t just think it, I know it.”
“But why would an ally turn into a foe and start instigating hideous crimes like this? And wouldn’t they all be old men by now? And probably long dead?”
“I don’t know what their agenda is,” said Thickett. “I just know that they have technological capabilities far greater than ours. And it’s my job to get it for Her Majesty’s Government.”
“So you know absolutely nothing at all about these killings?” said Bunce.
“She was there,” said Thickett, pointing to Peterson. “Last week. She saw what happened.”