Doctor Who: Bad Therapy (11 page)

The shuttle had whipped up the dust on the mountainside where it had landed.

Gilliam waited until stinging clouds settled before jamming her favourite brown suede hat on to her head and moving off.

The Palace of the First Queen of Kr’on Tep had been one of the grandest structures on the planet in its day. But its day was long gone and now it was only a series of cracked and broken slabs of granite-like rock littered across the hillside. Only the centre of the palace remained standing, a cluster of buildings which had once been the royal apartments. It was for this that Gilliam had abandoned her royal duties. As she slipped out of the heat of the day and into the cool shadows of the ancient palace, she prayed that what she hoped to discover was going to be worth it.

Gilliam set up camp in the Chamber of the First Queen. The room was large, and still almost completely intact. The desert sun forced itself into the room through long cracks in the ceiling, casting streaks of light across the jagged and uneven floor. It took a few minutes to erect her thermo-tent in one of the corners of the room. Gilliam unfolded the heavy canvas sheets with care; maintaining the tent’s integrity was vital. The palace was close to the planet’s equator, and the temperature fluctuated wildly between day and night. The hot desert outside would cool quickly once night came – she would need the protection of the tent’s regulated environment if she were going to survive the night. Only when she was certain that the tent was functioning did she allow herself to begin her investigation in earnest.

According to her research, the palace had been a wedding gift to the first queen of Kr’on Tep, a woman scientist named Petruska. She was the bride of the first and most famous of all the kings in Kr’on Tep’s history: the man-god, Moriah. Several thousand years before, Moriah had arrived from the depths of space to conquer Kr’on Tep and turn it into one of the most powerful civilizations in this part of space. According to the ancient history of the planet, Petruska had been unfaithful to Moriah and, in his anger, he had killed her and then fled Kr’on Tep, never to return.

At least that was the official version of the story. Gilliam cracked open a small flask of wine, and took a long swig from the bottle. She had long suspected that there was more to the story of the first royal couple than this legend of betrayal and murder. And so she had decided to abandon her royal duties and engage in a little bit of historical detective work. Her suspicions centred around the small symbols which had been neatly inscribed into the walls of the chamber.

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The palace was famous for its song. Petruska had decorated the walls of her bedchamber with unique symbols which could be translated into a beautiful piece of music: a song of love for her husband, Moriah. Or so the archeologists said. The music was now one of the best known pieces in their society; indeed it had been played at Gilliam’s own wedding. It was a quiet, simple melody.

And it had always struck Gilliam as being more a torch song, mourning what had been lost, than a declaration of passion and love.

Its sadness had always intrigued Gilliam. She had first heard the aching melody as she walked down the aisle on her wedding day. It had accompanied her uncertain steps towards a future with a man she didn’t love, and her angry steps away from the man who had abandoned her.

She brushed away the resentful feelings which still haunted her and unpacked her equipment. She dug out the sheaf of research notes she had made on the musical symbols. Gilliam had first begun to suspect that the symbols might be more than just the notes to a song when she had made a study of Petruska’s life before she had been crowned queen. During this period of Kr’on Tep’s history, before Moriah had invaded, a curious sexual division of labour had been in place which allowed women access to the arts and sciences but forbade them involvement in political life. Gilliam had heard of proto-feminist writing hidden in the musical notation of the period. These women had been communicating to each other in a language secreted in musical phrasing.

Using a small handheld recorder, Gilliam took an electronic impression of the carvings on part of one of the walls, a sort of sonic brass rubbing. Using the snatches of earlier writing as a code breaker, Gilliam fed the results of the scan into her portable terminal and waited. If there was a message hidden in Petruska’s song, the terminal would decode it, and offer a translation. She was so absorbed in the small hieroglyphs flickering across the screen as the computer searched for matches, that she wasn’t aware of the man’s presence in the chamber until he was right beside her.

‘Good evening, Highness.’

Gilliam almost knocked her terminal over as she whirled to face the newcomer. Her immediate reaction was to hide her work guiltily but she forced herself to leave the computer to finish its operation. ‘Ala’dan! I have to say I’m glad it’s you that’s come for me and not the –’ She just managed to stop herself as she realized what she had been about to say.

The king’s chancellor bowed. He was an old man, his angular face tanned and etched with thousands of wrinkles from a long life spent in the desert.

Ala’ dan had always been quietly supportive of her, and Gilliam was terribly fond of him.

‘It is good to see your Highness. When I heard of your disappearance I was concerned that perhaps the Thordon ambassador had kidnapped you. I must 59

say that I am surprised that you chose this place as your bolt-hole.’

‘I suppose that I’ve you to thank that the king didn’t send his personal guard to drag me back by my hair?’

Ala’dan had the good grace to frown at this insult to his king, but Gilliam could see the smile hovering on the edge of his face. ‘You underestimate the king, Highness,’ he said. ‘You’re not the first royal wife to flee the Kr’on Tep court. The king has asked only that you are back for the state banquet this evening.’

‘I won’t go,’ Gilliam said, immediately aware of how childish this sounded.

Ala’dan gestured around the empty room. ‘You have something more important to do here?’

Her terminal chose that moment to buzz satisfactorily, indicating that it had finished its task. It had decoded the first section of the wall carvings.

‘Actually yes. I think I do have something better to do.’

A single sentence of translation sat on the screen. The translation software had marked the sections of the text that were its own best guesses. The sentence appeared to be part of a personal statement or journal.

My name is Petruska, First Queen of Kr’on Tep, Ruler of the Seven Systems,
and I am a prisoner in this place. . .

60

5

Something Beneath The Skin

Chief Inspector Harris was shaving when the telephone rang. I’ll get it, love,’

he called out to his wife, wiping the last few smears of soap from his cheeks.

It was one of the sergeants from the station. Someone had burnt down one of the queer clubs last night. No one had been hurt, but it reflected badly on the policing of Soho. The chief superintendent was rousing his inspectors early for morning prayers – the daily planning meeting for all senior staff at the station. Apparently the chief inspector wanted a strategy for dealing with the extortion gangs by lunchtime.

Harris blew the air out of his cheeks as he pulled his starched shirt over his vest. It was a wasted effort as far as he was concerned. He could predict the result of the meeting. It would be decided to police Soho hard for a few weeks; arrange a couple of raids, pull in the familiar faces, make a few unnecessary and unproductive arrests and a good few more threats. In fact, generally make their presence felt to quieten down activity in the area. But it wouldn’t last. Give it a month or two and then it would all start up again just the same as before. The racketeers would crawl out of their holes to begin their rounds and the blackmailers would dip their quills in their murky ink, ready to put the squeeze on another pathetic victim. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Harris couldn’t see an end to it.

He glanced at his watch. He’d better get a move on if he was going to be on time for the chief super. His wife appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, a look of disapproval on her face.

‘Have your breakfast at least, dear? The things they make you do to your stomach. I ought to give you a packed lunch.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’ll have one of the lads run out for a roll.’

‘You can’t live on a roll,’ she scolded. ‘What about dinner?’

‘Tell you what – cook it and keep your fingers crossed.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t move into that office.’

‘You’d never believe I was there.’ The conversation was a ritual. He spoke his lines without thinking.

‘What makes you think I do now?’

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Harris smiled apologetically, kissed his wife gently on the cheek and headed for the front door. As it closed behind him, Harris found himself wondering when they had stopped kissing on the lips.

Harris was surprised to find the Doctor sitting cross-legged on the top step of Charing Cross Police Station. He was engrossed in a tatty paperback and chewing on an apple. On catching sight of the chief inspector, the Doctor leapt to his feet and hurried over, stopping only to throw the book into a nearby dustbin and tuck the apple core carefully away in his pocket. Harris could only laugh as the gnomic figure bounded up to him.

‘I do hope that wasn’t a library book, Doctor. I should have to run you in.’

‘How could you think such a thing of me, Chief Inspector? I’m a law-abiding citizen.’

‘I should hope so too, a man in your position.’

The Doctor frowned for a moment, as if unsure to what the policeman was referring. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, after a moment, ‘of course.’

There was an awkward pause; the Doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away for a moment. Harris wasn’t sure what had happened to break the jovial atmosphere between them. Perhaps the Doctor was feeling guilty about taking time away from his hospital duties to assist with the case?

Harris decided not to mention the Middlesex Hospital again.

‘Was the book really that bad?’ he asked, trying to change the subject as they walked into the station.

‘Dreadful. It professed to be a serious history of criminal activity in London in the twentieth century but I suspect that the newspaper gossip columns formed the author’s primary research source. Tell me, Chief Inspector, what do you know about the Scraton brothers?’

Harris was surprised to hear the name. Little had been heard from the Scratons since Albert, the oldest brother and leader of the firm, had died earlier that year, leaving his younger brother, Gordon, head of the firm. He told the Doctor what he knew of the Scratons’ record. They were strictly small-time, gambling mostly. ‘To be honest, Gordy Scraton is a spineless young man, Doctor. I can’t imagine him being much of a threat to anyone.’

The Doctor considered this for a moment. ‘What about the younger brother.

Carl, isn’t it? I understand that he’s quite dangerous?’

‘Carl Scraton?’ Harris repeated. ‘I didn’t know that there were three of them.’

As they waited for the desk-sergeant to prepare the Doctor a visitor’s pass, the first of last night’s ‘guests’ were brought up from the cells. Harris watched as the usual collection of drunkards and tramps were released. It was station policy to empty the cells before the day’s business began in earnest. The last 62

thing you wanted was respectable people trying to report a burglary whilst a drunkard still covered in his own vomit was pushed back out on to the street.

Of course, they’d be back in the cells the following night more likely than not.

It was a depressing cycle. Sometimes Harris thought that all they were doing was running a hotel for down and outs.

Harris watched as an old girl was gently coaxed out of the station by a young constable. She looked in her late sixties, but she was probably younger than that – life on the streets ate up the signs of youthfulness and spat out old age.

Her round face was wrinkled and decorated with a maze of broken capillaries.

Her nose was purple from gin or meths and her ankles were painfully swollen above her disintegrating shoes. She was babbling incoherently at the young constable, who was doing his best to humour her whilst trying, unsuccessfully, to lead her to the door. She appeared to be trying to convince the lad of the existence of monstrous cars that were scouring through London eating up the unwary.

Typical.

Harris had caught the young constable’s eye – a spotty lad, who looked like he’d passed his eleven-plus yesterday – and was shaking his head in sympathy when he became aware that the Doctor had left his side and was marching over towards the pair. The little man doffed his battered hat and, ignoring the young policeman entirely, addressed the old woman.

‘Good morning, Madam, I’m the Doctor. If I could have a minute of your time.’

‘Eh?’ the woman started, recoiling from his politeness. The constable opened his mouth and then closed it again, unsure of the status of the little man. Harris started to walk over, but then stopped, suddenly unwilling to implicate himself in the scene.

The Doctor closed both of his hands around one of the woman’s, and leant forward to communicate that she had his full attention. He reminded Harris of a country vicar.

‘Tell me,’ the Doctor started, softly, ‘this vehicle that ate someone whole.

Can you remember what sort of vehicle it was? Even the colour might be useful?’

‘Black cab, wasn’t it?’ the woman spluttered. She was so pleased to have an audience that she tripped over her words in her enthusiasm to get them out.

‘Came out of the dark, it did. Drove through it like it could see in the smog.’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor agreed, tapping his chin with his umbrella handle. ‘I’d rather gathered that impression as well.’

The old woman’s eyes lit up. ‘You’ve seen it too. Now maybe someone’ll believe me.’

‘Sir,’ the young constable began. ‘I wouldn’t pay too much mind to Margaret 63