Island of Death Read Free Page B

lips out, and wiggled them, pouting like a goldfish blowing bubbles.
    What on earth?
    ‘What on earth are you doing now?’ said Sarah.
     
    ‘Asking him if he’s feeling better.’
    The goldfish came to the front of the tank, nuzzling the glass, and waggled its tail vigorously.
    ‘Good,’ said the Doctor. ‘Gary’s a friend of mine,’ he went on as he started to dismantle the equipment, ‘and he was a bit under the weather. So I gave him a re-charge. A quick shot of coherent bio-energy waves. Analogous to the laser.’
    ‘But he looks just like an ordinary goldfish!’
    ‘For the very good reason that he is an ordinary goldfish.’
    ‘But...’
    ‘Well now, I suppose I’d better have a look at this photo of yours,’ said the Doctor, obviously changing the subject.
    So he had been listening!
    The moment she handed it to him, his whole manner changed. ‘I owe you an apology, Sarah,’ he said. ‘I thought you were indulging in the usual journalistic hyperbole.’
    Cheek!
    ‘Do you recognise what it’s supposed to be then?’ she asked.
    ‘Never set eyes on the creature. Where’s that aspirin bottle?’
    It was on occasions like this that Sarah had the feeling that investigative journalism was rather like trying to sprint across a soggy ploughed field in gumboots. The Doctor was interested, certainly, but he didn’t seem to see the urgency of the matter any more than Clorinda had.
    ‘Come back in the morning,’ he said, unscrewing the cap and giving the little bottle a sniff.
     
    Ah well, she thought as she made her way back to the office, at least it would give her time to think about Clorinda’s ridiculous fish article - a supposedly topical subject, the peg being the quarrel with Iceland. She hadn’t even started the piece yet and Clorinda had now demanded it for the next morning.
    But she sat at her desk all afternoon and found no inspiration at all. Her mind just wouldn’t get into gear. Why couldn’t the Doctor have analysed the stuff straight away?
    Surely it couldn’t be all that difficult for somebody like him?
    It was no good. Every time she tried to concentrate, the monstrous (but somehow fascinating) image of the Skang floated into her mind.
    Bloody fish! At six o’clock she gave up. She’d have to write it at home, even if it meant sitting up half the night.
     
    ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said the young constable behind the reception desk at Hampstead Heath police station. ‘Are you reporting some sort of incident?’
    ‘It’s a clear enough question, I should have thought,’ said the Doctor tetchily. ‘I’ll ask it again. Have there been any bodies found near here - on the Heath, perhaps - which give the impression that the person concerned starved to death?’
    The PC hesitated. ‘Er... I won’t keep you a moment,’ he said, and disappeared.
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    ‘So why do you want to know?’ said Detective Constable Willard, after the Doctor had repeated his question yet again.
    ‘That, Officer, is my business.’ The Doctor’s mood had hardly been improved by his being forced to wait in the bleak interview room for over twenty minutes.
    ‘I think you’ve made it ours as well, sir. You can’t expect us to reveal all our info to any Tom, Dick or Harry who wanders into the nick, now can you?’
    ‘My name is neither Tom nor Dick. And do I look like a Harry?’ The Doctor’s words were clipped, as he tried to keep his temper.
    ‘Well now,’ said the CID man, taking a fountain pen from his pocket, ‘that’s as good a place as any to start. What is your name?’
    ‘I am known as the Doctor.’
    ‘Your name, I said.’
    For a moment the Doctor was tempted to give this plodding oaf his original, Gallifreyan name, just to watch him wrestle with the spelling. But then he sighed, and produced the pseudonym that had served him so well in the past. ‘My name is John Smith. Now, can we get on with it?’
    ‘John Smith? Is that so? Well,