didn't care how he looked.
'We have come to see Dr Saxon,' Tweed said, holding his folder open.
After a pause: 'You are looking at him.'
'Since we wish to talk about a patient perhaps we had better come inside,' Tweed suggested.
'Perhaps you had . . .' After another pause.
Saxon then gazed straight at Paula. His lips twisted into a lascivious smile which she disliked. She stared straight back at him with a blank expression. He ushered them inside what appeared to be a waiting room. Piles of pamphlets lay on tables; wooden chairs stood against the walls. Tweed glanced at several pamphlets.
As he did so Saxon closed the door with his foot, laid one outsize clammy hand on Paula's shoulder, touching her bare neck, which she disliked even more. 'This way, my dear,' he whispered, guiding her into a larger room, kicking its door shut.
She gathered she was in his consulting room. It was very different from Bella Ashton's. A large leather chair stood in the middle with spotlights beaming down when Saxon switched on illumination. Before she realized what was happening, he had lifted her, perched her on the chair. His movements were surprisingly swift for a large man. Automatically she had rested her arms along the arms of the chair.
'You've got this wrong,' she snapped.
Only then did she realize he had fastened handcuff-like straps over her wrists. She couldn't move. Taking a deep breath she yelled at him. 'Take these bloody things off my wrists. You're out of your mind.'
'Hysteria,' he whispered. He was by a sink, pouring liquid from a bottle into a plastic cup. 'This will quieten you down while I check your eyes—'
The door into the consulting room was flung open, banged back against the wall. Tweed stormed in. He ran forward, turned the leather straps round, found the chain lock, his fingers fiddling with each strap, and Paula was free. She jumped out of the chair, glared at Saxon.
'What is the matter with you, you fat pig?'
'I'll take that for analysis,' Tweed growled, grabbing the plastic cup out of Saxon's hand. 'This should do.' He took an empty beaker off a shelf, poured the cup's contents into it and snapped the beaker lid shut.
'I do not understand this commotion.' Saxon stood as though bewildered. 'That cup contained a mild dose of Valium to quieten her down.'
'I'm not the bloody patient,' Paula shouted at him.
'Then who is?'
'You have a patient here called Michael,' Tweed rasped at him. 'That is why we are here. Mrs Ashton passed him to you.'
'A thousand apologies.' Saxon spread his hands. 'Surely you understand . . .'
'Shut up!' snapped Tweed. As Saxon approached him he took hold of the psychiatrist, shoved him into the chair that Paula had occupied. 'Where is Michael?' he demanded.
'In his room. I have just returned from taking him for a walk. Such a patient needs exercise.'
'What is your diagnosis of him?' Tweed continued in the same demanding voice. 'You saw my SIS folder. You could help us.'
'Anything concerning one of my patients is confidential.'
'Then we'll call the Yard and you'll be charged with obstruction - for withholding vital information. Paula, you have the mobile?'
'Yes, you want Chief Superintendent Buchanan?'
'Please.' Saxon, on his feet now, was at his most oily, smirking as he gestured to the couch. 'Ask your questions,' he pressed, settling his huge bulk into a large leather chair, which groaned under the pressure. 'I really am at your service, sir.'
'I've already asked,' Tweed said coldly. 'Your diagnosis of Michael.'
'An exceptional case of extreme amnesia.' He clasped his hands and twiddled fat fingers. 'Michael doesn't know where he is, how he got into London, where he lives. He has a bump on the right side of the head, probably due to a blow from a heavy object. That, I believe, brought on the amnesia.'
'He has, perhaps, uttered a sentence or two?'
'Nothing, no things at all. No words. He can dress and get himself ready for bed.' He smirked at Paula. 'Excuse me, but he
'We have come to see Dr Saxon,' Tweed said, holding his folder open.
After a pause: 'You are looking at him.'
'Since we wish to talk about a patient perhaps we had better come inside,' Tweed suggested.
'Perhaps you had . . .' After another pause.
Saxon then gazed straight at Paula. His lips twisted into a lascivious smile which she disliked. She stared straight back at him with a blank expression. He ushered them inside what appeared to be a waiting room. Piles of pamphlets lay on tables; wooden chairs stood against the walls. Tweed glanced at several pamphlets.
As he did so Saxon closed the door with his foot, laid one outsize clammy hand on Paula's shoulder, touching her bare neck, which she disliked even more. 'This way, my dear,' he whispered, guiding her into a larger room, kicking its door shut.
She gathered she was in his consulting room. It was very different from Bella Ashton's. A large leather chair stood in the middle with spotlights beaming down when Saxon switched on illumination. Before she realized what was happening, he had lifted her, perched her on the chair. His movements were surprisingly swift for a large man. Automatically she had rested her arms along the arms of the chair.
'You've got this wrong,' she snapped.
Only then did she realize he had fastened handcuff-like straps over her wrists. She couldn't move. Taking a deep breath she yelled at him. 'Take these bloody things off my wrists. You're out of your mind.'
'Hysteria,' he whispered. He was by a sink, pouring liquid from a bottle into a plastic cup. 'This will quieten you down while I check your eyes—'
The door into the consulting room was flung open, banged back against the wall. Tweed stormed in. He ran forward, turned the leather straps round, found the chain lock, his fingers fiddling with each strap, and Paula was free. She jumped out of the chair, glared at Saxon.
'What is the matter with you, you fat pig?'
'I'll take that for analysis,' Tweed growled, grabbing the plastic cup out of Saxon's hand. 'This should do.' He took an empty beaker off a shelf, poured the cup's contents into it and snapped the beaker lid shut.
'I do not understand this commotion.' Saxon stood as though bewildered. 'That cup contained a mild dose of Valium to quieten her down.'
'I'm not the bloody patient,' Paula shouted at him.
'Then who is?'
'You have a patient here called Michael,' Tweed rasped at him. 'That is why we are here. Mrs Ashton passed him to you.'
'A thousand apologies.' Saxon spread his hands. 'Surely you understand . . .'
'Shut up!' snapped Tweed. As Saxon approached him he took hold of the psychiatrist, shoved him into the chair that Paula had occupied. 'Where is Michael?' he demanded.
'In his room. I have just returned from taking him for a walk. Such a patient needs exercise.'
'What is your diagnosis of him?' Tweed continued in the same demanding voice. 'You saw my SIS folder. You could help us.'
'Anything concerning one of my patients is confidential.'
'Then we'll call the Yard and you'll be charged with obstruction - for withholding vital information. Paula, you have the mobile?'
'Yes, you want Chief Superintendent Buchanan?'
'Please.' Saxon, on his feet now, was at his most oily, smirking as he gestured to the couch. 'Ask your questions,' he pressed, settling his huge bulk into a large leather chair, which groaned under the pressure. 'I really am at your service, sir.'
'I've already asked,' Tweed said coldly. 'Your diagnosis of Michael.'
'An exceptional case of extreme amnesia.' He clasped his hands and twiddled fat fingers. 'Michael doesn't know where he is, how he got into London, where he lives. He has a bump on the right side of the head, probably due to a blow from a heavy object. That, I believe, brought on the amnesia.'
'He has, perhaps, uttered a sentence or two?'
'Nothing, no things at all. No words. He can dress and get himself ready for bed.' He smirked at Paula. 'Excuse me, but he