Chapter Eight: Good night, sleep tight…

The Doctor stood outside number twenty-four, Park Heath Close with his physic paper ready and waiting in his hand, running the other through his hair. He raised his hand to knock, when the door opened and a short dumpy woman with greying black hair and large blue eyes stood there, surveying him.

"John Smith, Social Worker. Just thought I'd pop 'round and check you're looking after your children and your home is in order, and don't worry, it's not a full inspection. It's nothing to worry about…oh, and sorry I'm so late," The Doctor smiled, holding up the physic paper.

"It's OK, Mr Smith. Do come in, I was just about to make some tea. May I take your coat?" she replied nervously.

"Thanks. You are Mrs. Marie McQueen, aren't you?"

"Why, I am,"

"And you have three children, am I correct?"

"Yes. Jessica, my eldest (she's twenty-one today), and twin son and daughter, Oliver and Sally, who're seventeen. Unfortunately, Sally's ran off somewhere. Oh, you'd love her, she's wonderful. Very bright, always top of class, and so's her brother…"

The Doctor glimpsed a pile of papers lying on the floor in a messy heap. 'These must be the birth certificates Hayley was talking about,' he thought, sitting down in the baggy armchair Mrs. McQueen had offered him.

"Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle's just boiled," she asked timidly.

"Oh, go on then. I love a good cuppa," he beamed. "Could I read your newspaper? I haven't been able to buy one lately,"

"Sure go ahead. One or two sugars?"

"Er…one please. Thanks for your hospitality, by the way. I'm sure your children are glad to have such a wonderful mother,"

"I wouldn't say 'wonderful'. Caring, maybe, but not wonderful,"

She brought the teas on a tray, put it on the coffee table and walked upstairs to get the rest of the McQueen clan. Meanwhile, the Doctor searched his pockets for the sleeping pills. They weren't in there! 'They were in my jacket! Damn!' he thought angrily. Grabbing the paper, he began to read, trying to stop his frustration from overloading. On the front page, it read in large letters:

GIRL, 21, STILL MISSING AFTER BEING KIDNAPPED AT BIRTH

Ava Hartley, whom is twenty-one today, has been missing since birth in a hospital in New Zealand. Police, who have been searching for the girl since 2004, have had no success and continue to search every country to find her. Parents Maya and Luke Hartley are also searching, positive that their daughter is alive and well. 'We have lost twenty-one years of our beautiful daughter growing up, and we can't think why anyone would take that away from us. Please, whoever has her, let us know that she is alive,' comments a tearful Maya. So far, not one sighting of Ava has been reported. If you happen to find her, call us on '03256 994 996'.

The Doctor looked at the girl's picture. It was bad enough kidnapping the child in the first place, but for twenty-one years…but he found a coincidence in the tale: Jessica was twenty-one today. Could she be the missing Ava Hartley? The sounds of clomping coming down the stairs filled his ears suddenly, and he realised it was the rest of the McQueens coming down the stairs in a rush to get tea. His sensitive hearing picked up another sound apart from the dominant 'thump thump'…whispering. No, maybe he imagined it…

"Mr Smith, this is the remainder of the family. Jessica, Oliver and David, this is Mr Smith. He's inspecting our house," Mrs McQueen smiled, gesturing to the Doctor.

"Good evening, Mr Smith. How has work been?" Mr McQueen asked, shaking the Doctor's hand.

"Not bad, not bad. Yours?" the Doctor smiled back, standing up. As he did this, he saw Oliver look at him; he had a young and innocent face, and was very tall. He was also thin, with the same dark brown hair and deep brown eyes hidden behind square thick-rimmed glasses as his natural father standing in front of him, and stood with hands in pockets. All the air of his father, of course.

"Oh, mine's good. Would you like to sit down?"

"OK, thanks. Lovely little place you've got here…"

The Doctor gulped as a horrid taste from the tea lasted forever in his mouth. It tasted oddly like…like quietus benzina. How could he be so stupid? He knew right from the beginning that she was suspicious, so taking the tea was just a mistake along the way…thinking about this, he felt his eyelids become heavy and droop, then his head lolled forward into his chest. Then the cup fell on the floor with a tinkle of china bouncing off the walls, and it went dark; the Doctor was out cold.