by Barry Letts
ISLAND OF DEATH
BARRY LETTS
DOCTOR WHO:
ISLAND OF DEATH
Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd,
Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane
London W12 OTT
First published 2005
Reprinted 2005
Copyright © Barry Letts 2005
The moral right of the author has been asserted Original series broadcast on BBC television Format © BBC 1963
Doctor Who and TARDIS are trademarks
of the British Broadcasting Corporation
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
ISBN 0 563 48631 7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Commissioning editors: Shirley Patton and Stuart Cooper Editor and creative consultant: Justin Richards Project editor: Vicki Vrint
Cover imaging by Black Sheep © BBC 2005
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CHAPTER ONE
‘Is it vampires, Prof? Or did she starve herself to death? Or what?’
Professor Mortimer Willow, consultant forensic pathologist to the Met in North London, grinned happily at the grizzly remains lying on the table in front of him. He loved a puzzle.
‘What indeed, Sergeant. No, not vampires - for two reasons.
One, vampires are a myth; unless you’re talking about a member of the species Desmodus rotundus. I suppose one might conceivably have escaped from Regents Park, but it would have to have been a very large bat indeed to have done this to the poor lass. As for starvation...’
He leaned forward and picked up the bony hand. Anybody who had anorexia nervosa - or who had been deliberately deprived of food - would have been dead long before she’d reached this degree of emaciation.
‘And the second?’
‘Mm?’
‘The second reason it’s not vampires.’
‘What are you talking about, Sergeant? Do try to stick to the point!’ Glory be to Gladys, the man was a fool! Removing the entire contents of the circulatory system would merely produce a slightly thinner and extremely pallid version of the victim. The weight of the blood would be only about eleven pounds. Less than a stone.
The chestnut-haired young woman must have been quite a beauty: the structure of her skull, clearly delineated under the tight skin, made that quite apparent; her sojourn in the shallow grave on Hampstead Heath had been too short to affect the smooth complexion; and the fox that had revealed her to the early morning jogger had soon given up any hope of a decent dinner.
Doctor Prebble, the professor’s assistant, peered at the body through his thick glasses. ‘Could it be a virus?’
‘When in doubt, eh?’ said the professor. ‘The all-purpose get-out! Where would the medical profession be without its pet viruses? I think not, Brian.’ And he pointed to a mark on the base of the victim’s neck, just above the breastbone. ‘The skin has been punctured.’
Prebble whipped out his tape measure. It was a cut an inch and a half long. ‘Doesn’t look like a knife wound,’ he said.
Ah well, we’re not going to find out by goggling at her like a bunch of tourists at Madame Tussauds...’ The professor held out his hand, without looking, and as he expected his assistant placed within it the razor-sharp scalpel he would use to open up the chest and the abdomen. And, as was his wont at these moments, he abruptly burst into song. ‘Che gelida manina..’.
And as suddenly stopped.
He would learn nothing from the internal organs of the deceased; nothing from the lungs, the heart, the liver, the kidneys; nothing from the gut, from the oesophagus to the rectum; and for a very good reason.
There was nothing there.
The dead girl’s body was literally just skin and bone.
Arimiggle arimoggle frendog Skang!’
At least, that’s what it sounded like to Sarah Jane Smith, as she stood at the back of the white-clad bunch of about a dozen young people who were happily chanting the words.
Maybe it was Tibetan, she thought. Or Sanskrit. Judging by the images displayed on the walls, it wasn’t any European language, not even Finnish or Lithuanian - or Double-Dutch for that matter, even if it sounded like it.
As the voices rose in pitch and volume, she glanced over at the slight, curly-haired figure whose presence here was the reason she had come. The pale face of Jeremy Fitzoliver (her Hooray Henry’ colleague on the Metropolitan) was ecstatic, with a wide-eyed vacancy that did it no favours at all.
Looks even more like an educationally sub-normal sheep than usual, thought Sarah, as her attention was caught by a movement.
Now what? The white-robed guru - if that’s what he was.
Where had she seen that handsome face before? - who was sitting at the front before a pair of ornate curtains, was pouring a colourless liquid from a handsome antique jug into a number of small plastic cups. These were then handed round by two helpers dressed like their master.
For a moment she was tempted to take a cup like the other couple of ‘guests’, as the newcomers like her were dubbed, but her journalistic caution prevailed. You could never be too careful. If she was going to discover what this was all about, she needed to keep her head clear.
As the chanting became more frenzied, rising in a crescendo of rapture, the guru, taking a larger cup in both hands, rose to his feet, turned his back on the gathering, and raised the chalice on high, quite obviously mirroring the actions of a Christian priest at communion.
Well really! At that moment, Sarah quite forgot all her reservations about the cosy version of faith she’d argued over in the vicar’s confirmation classes. This was a sort of blasphemy!
But worse was to come. As the voices came to a climax with a resounding shout of ‘SKANG!’, the helpers pulled back the curtains to reveal a painting of a being: an Indian or Tibetan divinity it would seem; or more likely a demon. A horrific demon in the shape of a hideous insect with a needle-pointed snout... or... what was the word? Oh yes... a proboscis.
Was this what they’d come to worship?
The silence as the faithful drained their cups was broken by shouts of joy and wild laughter. Watched with benign equanimity by the guru (and utter astonishment by Sarah), they flung their cups to the ground and their arms round each other, giggling and chattering at the tops of their voices like a crowd of ten-year-old schoolgirls let out to play.
They were clearly as high as kites.
To Sarah’s horror, Jeremy tripped his way through the swaying crowd, almost dancing, and threw his arms around her in an enveloping hug. This was a Jeremy transformed, very far from the usual reserved ex-public-school boy she’d always known.
‘Come on!’ he cried, pulling back and grabbing her hand.
‘We’re all going down to the garden. This is where the guests get to share our love-in!’
What!
‘No, no!’ said Jeremy, with a typical Jeremy chortle.
‘Nothing like that! Just dancing and singing and stuff. Come on, Sarah, this is the first day of the rest of your life!’
Trust Jeremy to latch onto a new cliché, thought Sarah, taking back her hand. She lowered her voice. ‘Jeremy, there’s something not quite right with this whole set-up. Why don’t we work together to find out what’s going on? You could be undercover while I...’
‘You’ve got it wrong, old girl! This is how life should be -
loving everybody, sharing everything... Once you let the Skang into your heart...’
Sharing?
‘You haven’t given them any money, have you?’ she asked.
He reddened slightly. ‘Look, don’t start that elder-sister sniff again. It wasn’t much. Peanuts really.’
‘Oh, Jeremy!’
‘We’re only talking about a measly twenty thou. Honestly, Sarah, you sound just like Mama sometimes.’
Twenty grand! More than four times what she earned in a year! It was no good. He was well and truly hooked.
‘Off you go,’ she said, seeing his almost panicky glance over his shoulder as he realised that his new brothers and sisters had all disappeared.
‘I want to have a word with his nibs,’ she added grimly. ‘I’m not going to let this one get away.’
Jeremy’s shadow of a frown at her disrespect was wiped away by the sunny grin of the new-born zealot. ‘Please yourself,’ he said. ‘You’ll join us in the end. Everybody will.
Honestly, Sarah, I’ve never been so happy in all my bally life!’
And off he went.
She turned to speak to the guru - who had been wiping the ceremonial cup and replacing it in a little cupboard - only to find that he was staring at her with a slight frown on his face.
Had he heard what she’d been saying?
When he caught her eye he turned away, taking a key from his pocket, to unlock the double doors underneath the sacred icon.
‘Excuse me!’ called Sarah.
He turned back - but not before he’d re-locked the door.
‘You’re missing all the fun,’ he said, with a charming smile.
She definitely knew him. In the mould of the traditional Hollywood star - literally tall, dark and handsome - you’d think he would be hard to forget. And the voice... that was like an actor’s too.
Had she seen him around Hampstead? In Tesco’s or something?
‘Could I ask you a few questions? I’m Sarah Jane Smith -
from Metropolitan. The magazine, you know? We’re doing a feature on -’
His smile abruptly vanished. ‘A journalist... Ah yes, I remember you now. Metropolitan. And can I expect you to do as efficient a hatchet job on me now as you did last time?’
Eh? Oh Lor’! Of course. He looked so different with his long hair and his white robes.
‘We only reported what the committee said.’
Alex Whitbread. Shortened his name from Alexander to woo the masses. Alex Whitbread, the charmer - until you got on the wrong side of him. The farthest right member of a right-wing government, thrown out for blatant corruption - and more than a touch of racism. Better be careful, though. He was as sharp as he was good-looking. Tipped for prime minister in his early days.
This was a story in itself! If she could grab a photo...
Her hand was creeping towards her shoulder bag. After the foul-up at Space World, she never went anywhere without a 35mm camera and a Polaroid back-up.
‘Why should I submit myself to the smears of the gutter press?’ he asked.
Gutter press! Clorinda would love that. As editor of the glossiest of the glossies...
‘Look, Mr Whitbread -’
‘Brother Alex, if you don’t mind.’
‘Okay. Brother Alex. It’s obvious that you’ve moved away from your old life. And anyway, we want to write about your... your movement. Not you personally.’
He relaxed slightly. ‘Mm. Nonetheless, you infiltrated this meeting by pretending to be a new disciple. That’s hardly likely to inspire my trust.’
‘But that’s just it. Why the secrecy? Why can’t anybody just walk in and join up? And what’s it all about?’
‘The criteria for becoming a disciple - even a guest - are extremely strict. Mother Hilda insists that...’
‘Mother Hilda?’
For a moment, Whitbread looked as if he’d let out too much. ‘Ah yes... Mother Hilda. Mother Hilda is the founder of our order. It was through the revelation vouchsafed to Mother Hilda that the divine message of the great Skang was given to the world. Skang - may his name be blessed - Skang deserves, nay demands, only the most perfect representatives of the human race as his initiates. All the vitality of supreme bodily fitness; superlative intelligence...’
Superlative intelligence! Jeremy?
‘...and a dedication and a devotion which will merit the ultimate reward.’
‘And what’s that?’ Sarah asked.
‘The reward of Skang’s incomparable love.’
Incomparable codswallop, more like. ‘I thought they were asking rather a lot of questions when I applied. I’m flattered that they let me in.’
‘I gather that you didn’t partake of the... the communal cup?’
Couldn’t bring himself to say communion, could he!
‘No,’ said Sarah. ‘I just wasn’t thirsty.’
‘Once you’ve experienced the at-one-ment of the family of Skang, you’ll understand - and be eager to learn the esoteric truths of our teaching.’
‘I believe you,’ said Sarah, drily. ‘So where does this Mother Hilda hang out?’
Again the hesitation.
‘In Bombay,’ said Whitbread. It’s no secret. The ashram was the first Skang centre in the entire world.’
‘You mean... you mean there are places like this in other countries? How many? How many kids have got caught up in this?’
Whoops. Not the most tactful way of putting it! She’d blown it.
‘I’ve said enough,’ snapped Whitbread, turning away. ‘Print what you like.’
She pulled out the small camera. ‘Oh, Mr Whitbread...
Brother Alex!’
He turned back. ‘What?’
Got him!
His reaction was extraordinary. With the speed of a cobra’s strike, he lunged towards her and whipped the camera from her hand; and all in one movement he took out the film, pulling it from the cassette, letting it fell into useless curls.
Dropping the open camera at her feet without a word, he turned back to the door, taking a key from his pocket.
The bastard! He wasn’t going to get away with that!
‘One last question, Mr Whitbread. What’s through that door? Why do you keep it locked?’
But his only answer was a resounding slam.
CHAPTER TWO
It was Jeremy’s mother and, indirectly, his Uncle Teddy (who just happened to own about thirty per cent of the company that published Metropolitan), who had been the prime cause of Sarah’s incursion into the further reaches of the New Age.
‘Here,’ Clorinda had said, tossing a letter with an impeccably engraved letterhead towards Sarah. ‘You’d better look into this. I’ve just been glad to see the back of the little creep.’
Jeremy hadn’t come into work for something like three weeks. Since his absence had little or no effect on the output of the editorial department, it was hardly noticed, apart from giving rise to the occasional brief sigh of relief.
When, however, Sarah reluctantly went to see his Mama’
(as he always called her), it appeared that she looked on the matter somewhat differently.
‘The poor boy is so trusting,’ she’d said to Sarah, dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of a handkerchief. ‘I’m just afraid that somebody’s got wind of his trust fund. And he’s generous to a fault, as I’m sure you know.’
Generous? The last time he bought a round, there were riots in Fetter Lane. Well, not quite, but Sarah wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘Trust fund?’ she asked.
‘A legacy. Granny Fitzoliver left him a few shares. And when he turned eighteen...’ She’d dabbed at her eyes again and taken a sip from the half-filled tumbler in her other hand. The aroma of Chanel No. 5 had mingled with a whiff of neat gin.
‘He moved out, you see. Slumming it in Knightsbridge...’
Compared with Eaton Square, y-e-e-ss, I suppose you could say that, Sarah had thought.
‘... and the last
time I saw him was about three weeks ago.
Popped in to get his cricket togs, he said. Cricket? He hated cricket at school!’
‘Paid three months’ rent in advance and took off after a week,’ said the caretaker of the block of flats in Knightsbridge where Jeremy had been living. ‘Here, I’ve got a forwarding address somewhere... Not that he’s had any post...’
And it had transpired that he’d gone even further down market than Knightsbridge (or so Mama would have thought)
- to Hampstead. Number 115 South Hill Park Square, NW3: a stone’s throw from the Heath and, for that matter, from Sarah’s own little attic bedsitter (dignified by the name of
‘studio flat’ because it had a bath in a box next to the kitchen sink). And when Sarah had put the new address under surveillance, having had no joy with a direct approach at the front door, sure enough there he was, resplendent in his cricket flannels, having slipped out to buy some fags.
‘You won’t have to wear white as a guest,’ he’d said (as if she was worried!), after he’d told her the glad news of his own acceptance into the bosom of the great Skang. ‘It’s all a gas.
Chanting and stuff... and... and things. You’ll love it, Sarah, honest. And you’re only just in time!’
‘Just in time? For what?’
Jeremy’s happy expression had disappeared. For a moment, he’d looked like a naughty little boy - a guilty little boy. ‘Oh... er...’ His face had cleared. ‘In time for today’s celebration, of course. What did you think I meant?’
Jeremy had always been easy to read. So what had all that been about? Sarah had filed his obvious slip away in the ‘To Be Dealt With Later’ section of her brain and followed him into the house.
* * *
One of the advantages of the temple room of the ashram... the commune... whatever... being on the second floor of the lofty terrace of houses that made up the north side of South Hill Park Square, was that there was a ledge, at least eighteen inches wide, between the little balconies outside the front windows. And until Sarah had got halfway to the window of the room with the locked door, she’d thought it would be a good idea to edge along it.
