Doctor How and the Illegal Aliens: Book 1: The Doctor Who Is Not a Time Lord

by Mark Speed

  “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.”

  Chapter Seven

  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. “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.”

  Peterson gave Thickett a meaningful look. “Well, well,” said Thickett, rocking up and down on his toes with glee. “Dr How. Who’d have thought it?”

  “Do you really think it’s him, after all these years?” asked Peterson. “Surely he’d be in his nineties by now? Or even older. Probably dead, in fact.”

  “The description is perfect, Miss Peterson. I told you – age doesn’t matter a jot to him and his ilk.” He rubbed his hands. “And he has a new assistant. He’s up to something.”

  “Here, what’s all this about?” said Grove, swallowing the last of his food.

  “I want you to show us exactly what you showed the other two earlier today,” said Thickett.

  “I’ve got a business to run,” said Grove, and turned his focus back to his paper.

  “I don’t think you understand me, Mr Grove,” said Thickett, fixing the man with a stare so cold it could roll back global warming. “I think you’ll find you have no choice but to cooperate with us.”

  “We don’t wish to be heavy-handed about this, Mr Grove,” said Peterson with a smile. “But we really do need you to show us what the other two were interested in. It’s an issue of national security. I’ll get the sampling packs from the car.”

  “I noticed your CCTV camera pointing towards the exit,” said Thickett. “I take it that your recent visitors went in that direction?”

  “Yeah, they was on foot. The monitor’s o
ver there. Captures two frames per second.”

  “I’m sure that’s all we’ll need.”

  Grove went over to the monitor and hard disk, which were in a secure cabinet. Peterson came back in with a black box and looked over Thickett’s shoulder as Grove fiddled with the controls. “Don’t ever need to do this, guv. Sorry. I reckon they arrived about half-ten. Right, here we go.” Two sets of blurred legs walked into view, then the image went fuzzy for a second, before becoming clear again, showing the same view.

  “Play it again. Slow-motion. One second of replay at twenty-four frames per second is twelve seconds of real time,” said Thickett.

  Grove did as he was told twice more in slow-motion. Each time the image went fuzzy just after the Doctor and Kevin’s feet came into view, then cleared once they were out of the camera’s view.

  “Damn! Of all the rotten luck,” said Thickett. “When did they leave? We can at least see their clothes, relative height. Maybe one might even turn to talk to the other and we’ll see a profile.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” said Grove. He spooled forward and let the video run. “Here. See? That’s the edge of the door just coming into the frame there on the bottom right as it opens when they leave.” The screen went fuzzy, then it cleared to reveal the empty scene again.

  “What?” screamed Thickett. He put a hand on Grove’s shoulder. “Did you do this? Did the Doctor tell you to do this?”

  Grove pulled himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “I don’t know nothing about no Doctor, mate. Now you come in here with your badge and your accusations but I don’t know who you are. I ain’t ever heard of no MI16, and if this is a wind-up you’ll be eating hospital food.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Peterson. “My colleague’s a little overwrought. Our department has been trying to track down this… man, the Doctor, for quite some time.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know who you are, do I? For all I know, this Doctor could be the good guy and you could be the wrong ’uns.”

  “I assure you that we’re above board, Mr Grove,” said Peterson. “If you’d care to call SO15 on this number, they’ll vouch for us.”

  “SO15? What’s that?”

  Thickett pushed into the conversation. “It used to be called Special Branch. If you’d prefer, we could get a warrant to search your premises, Mr Grove?”

  “We would just like some answers,” said Peterson. “Did you tamper with the CCTV?”

  “No. But, come to think of it, the lad was alone in here for a couple of minutes whilst this Doctor fellah took a sample. But then I don’t see how he could have nobbled the footage after they left.”

  “Right enough,” said Peterson. She turned to Thickett. “I seem to recall reading something about this in the files. Some kind of intelligent disruptive device. They were notoriously difficult to photograph, and they were nondescript – an everyman.” She turned to Grove. “Tell me, could you describe these two men in more detail?”

  “The older chap was in a black suit, black shoes and a white shirt.”

  “Colour of tie?”

  “I…I don’t know if he was wearing a tie, Miss.”

  “Hair and eye colour?”

  “Dark hair. Eyes were… I don’t recall. Sorry. I’m normally quite good with faces. You know, when I used to pick up fares it was handy – in case they did a runner or something.” Grove shook his head.

  “The youth? What about the youth?” asked Thickett.

  “Mixed race.” He shrugged.

  “The colour of the hoodie?” asked Thickett.

  “It wasn’t white. Grey? Or was it blue? I don’t think it was red, but…I’m sorry.” Grove rubbed the back of his head. “I can’t really see them in my mind’s eye. The more I think of them, the less I see them. Look, I’m not being funny but to be honest I don’t remember too much about this morning.”

  “It’s okay, Mr Grove,” said Peterson. “Just show us where you took them. Show us the vehicles.”

  As they went out into the yard, Thickett touched Peterson’s arm and muttered, “Do you see now? Do you see why they need to be controlled? This one, this How character – he’s the most dangerous, I’m sure of that.”

  “My understanding was that we owe them a great debt,” said Peterson. She opened the box and took a phial out to sample the same puddle that the Doctor had tested. “He hardly seems to be a threat. Quite the opposite, I’d have thought.”

  “Well, Miss Peterson, it is our department’s remit to find and control this kind of technology. The kind of technology that your friend the Doctor uses so casually.”

  Peterson rolled her eyes at Thickett’s provocative language. Although he was her boss in the department, it was only thanks to his long years of service. She didn’t know much about his background, but was sure she’d find a wealth of disappointment and petty resentment in it. As far as she was concerned, if things didn’t pick up soon she’d try her luck elsewhere. A Ph.D. in Astrophysics from Imperial College carried no weight with a dyed-in-the-wool mid-ranking civil servant like Thickett.

  She put the phial in the box and walked over to join Grove and Thickett at the bent fence. She felt a twinge of excitement coursing through her veins as she did a mental calculation of the forces that would be required to perform such a feat. She ducked down and stepped through the gap, leaving the two men in the yard. Her eyes followed the mutilated undergrowth along the back of the properties. They took in the pile of earth at the side of the embankment and she smiled. She was glad she wasn’t wearing heels.

  “Are you alright there, Miss Peterson?” Thickett called after her.

  “Fine, thank you. Just going to take a few samples.”

  And there they were, in the soft earth: the Doctor’s shoeprints. She placed a phial on each of them for scale, and took photographs. She could figure out his shoe-size later. If it was really him. It was trivial but here, at last, was physical proof of his existence. She touched the impressions lightly with the tips of her fingers and smiled again to herself.

  Chapter Eight

  The Doctor looked with disdain at the food on his plate.

  “You said less of the KFC and more of the piri-piri, Doc,” said Kevin.

  “I meant for you, not me.”

  “That’s proper flame-grilled chicken, that is.”

  The Doctor ran his Tsk Army Ultraknife over it. “It may once have seen fire, but that was around three weeks ago, in a factory. The chicken itself came from Thailand. It was merely defrosted and microwaved in the so-called kitchen.”

  “Straight up, your Ultraknife is a food critic too? Maybe it could start its own blog.”

  “No, it can’t analyse food, Kevin. At least not to that extent. I was using my Ultraknife’s UV function to eliminate what I’m quite certain are large colonies of bacteria. The facts behind the origin of this food are my own deduction. Those marks that are supposed to look like it’s been flame-grilled on a barbecue are actually printed onto the meat.”

  “Is that right?” said Kevin through a mouthful of bun, chicken and spicy sauce.

  “Of course. If any grill were that dirty this place would lose its licence. Although frankly, I’m surprised it got one in the first place.”

  “Delicious, though. And a healthy low-fat alternative to fried chicken.”

  The Doctor took a reluctant bite. His phone gave a quiet ping and he drew it out of his pocket. “Ah, preliminary results from the tests are back.”

  “What tests?”

  “The samples we took a couple of hours ago, remember? The preliminary results are back. Now, let’s see…”

  “Back up a bit, Doc.”

  “Why?”

  “You haven’t taken them samples back to the lab yet.”

  “I didn’t need to.” The Doctor put his phone on the table, took another bite and continued to read the message on his phone.

  “You just put them in your pocket.”

  “Of course. That’s how they got back to the
lab in the Spectrel.”

  “No, Doctor. Listen, listen. You are, like, telling me that you put your hand in your pocket and it reached back into the Spectrel? And you put the samples in there to be analysed?”

  The Doctor thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that is what I am telling you. What of it?”

  “Wow! Like, how does that work?”

  “Do you really want to understand how it works?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “In that case, I suggest you join the Theoretical Physics department of a major university and do a doctorate. However, I will explain it in layman’s terms for you. You know computers, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, like somewhat, Doctor. I only hacked into the system that hacked into your system, didn’t I?”

  “That’s a matter for some debate. My understanding was that they used you as a proxy, but we’ll let that one pass. So you know what a desktop shortcut does?”

  “Yeah. Put a shortcut on your desktop and you don’t have to navigate all the way down through the folders to get to a file. One click and it’s open.”

  “Exactly. And you understand how that works with a shortened URL going to a specific page on a website too?”

  “Similar sort of thing, innit.”

  “And you know what a zip file is?”

  “Of course. Files contain a lot of repeated code. If you can crunch out all the spare code you create a much smaller file.”

  “Same principle.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you don’t have the doctorate. That’s an analogy. Matter – all this stuff around you – is mostly empty. There’s nothing really there when I tap this table.” The table sounded solid enough to Kevin under the Doctor’s knuckles. “It’s just opposing forces meeting and not moving. The things that generate the forces are miniscule. It’s mostly just empty space.”

  “Okay, I get that. But the shortcut?”

  “Other dimensions.”

  “Seems simple enough.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to hearing you explain it to an audience of your esteemed peers when you pick up your Nobel Prize for Physics next year.”