Author's Note:

Here I am, back with another chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed since the previous one was posted: - Aietradaea (x 2), MayFairy, The Yoshinator, FullWolfMoonGirl, EmmaMarie, SophieQueenOfTheWorld, Celestial Valkyrie, SawManiac211, MountainLord-92, EDZEL2 (x 3), Son of Whitebeard, Imorgen (x 2) and Theta's Worst Nightmare.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, the cameos in the previous chapter were the two police officers, DCI Bell and DS Cheweski, who were from the excellent mini-series "State of Play", starring John Simm as a newspaper reporter. DCI Bell was played by Philip Glenister, who also played DCI Gene Hunt in "Life on Mars." Big box of virtual cookies to EDZEL2 who was the only one who got it (knew she would, being such a big John Simm fan!)

- Chapter Five -

"He was murdered?" Allie gasped, all the colour draining from her face in shock. "But...that doesn't make sense. Who would want to murder Terry?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," DCI Bell said. "An ex-girlfriend with a grudge, perhaps?"

His keen eyes never left her face, studying her acutely, like a bug in a specimen jar. Allie felt sickness rising in her stomach as it suddenly dawned on her what he was here for.

"Oh my God, you're talking about me," she whispered. "You can't seriously think I did it?"

Bell shrugged his shoulders, his expression impassive, giving nothing away. "You know the drill, Miss Castiel. We're investigating everyone with a motive. And, from what I've heard, you definitely have one of those. Where were you last night?"

"A motive? I broke up with Terry nearly a year ago. I hadn't even seen him in all of that time until yesterday. Why would I suddenly kill him?"

"I don't know – jealousy, spite, revenge...take your pick!" Bell suggested grimly. "But it's a bit of a coincidence that on the day he does go to see you, he ends up dead, don't you think?"

Allie's eyes widened in disbelief. The shock was beginning to wear off now, and anger was taking its place. "That's exactly what it is – coincidence! I don't know what you've heard, but he came here to ask me to take him back, because his girlfriend, Gillian, had thrown him out. He was drunk and unpleasant and abusive. I said no, we had a bit of a row, and then he left. And I haven't seen him since, end of story."

Detective-Sergeant Cheweski scribbled a few notes in a small notebook, while Bell gave an audible sigh. "Look, Miss Castiel, the best way to clear all this up is for you to just answer the question, all right? Where were you last night?"

With an effort, Allie managed to control her rising indignation. They were only doing their jobs, after all. As Bell said, the easiest way to get rid of them was to tell them what she had been doing the previous night. Thank God she had decided to go out after all, instead of staying at home alone as she usually did. Now at least she had a cast iron alibi.

"I went out with friends. We went to some clubs, danced a bit, had a bit to drink, and then I stayed over with one of the other girls. Her name is Glenda MacIntosh. I can give you her contact details. We got in at about 2am, I think."

Bell nodded and she recited Glenda's address and telephone number to the silent DS Cheweski, who dutifully recorded it in his notebook.

"You didn't say, Inspector," she ventured, turning back to Bell. "How exactly did Terry die?"

"He'd been drinking heavily and was apparently sleeping it off in his car," Bell replied. "Someone broke into the vehicle at approximately 1am and battered him to death with some sort of blunt object. I'm afraid it wasn't a very pleasant way to go."

Allie turned her head aside, hot, painful tears stinging her eyes. Whatever Terry had ended up becoming, they had been close once. They had laughed together, made love together. At one point, they had even planned a future together. The idea of him dying in such a horrible, terrifying way was sickening, to say the least. No matter how much she had despised him, she would never have wished that on him.

"I'm sorry," Bell said awkwardly, seeing her distress. "Do you...need to sit down, or something?"

She shook her head, not wanting him to see how much he had shaken her. "I'm all right. Look, Inspector, the bottom line is that Terry was a jerk - a lying, untrustworthy, two-timing git. I was well and truly finished with him and I never wanted to see him again, I admit that. But that's no reason to kill someone."

Bell gave her a tight, sardonic smile, the first real expression she had seen on his stony face. "You'd be surprised, Miss Castiel. In my experience, many murders have been committed for a lot less."

Allie glared at him, resenting him more every minute. "Well, not by me!"

"Apparently not, if your alibi holds up," Bell conceded curtly. As if on cue, Detective Sergeant Cheweski shut his notebook with a snap and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. "Thank you for your time, Miss Castiel, that's all we need for now. We'll continue with our investigations. However, we may need to speak to you again. So, as they say in the classics, don't leave town."

She watched the two policemen leave, a touch of ironic hysteria welling up in her throat. And where am I likely to go? she wanted to ask bitterly. Mars?

As the door slammed, her eyes automatically slid sideways towards Charlie. Usually, at times like this, when a particularly annoying customer had just departed the store, she would address some sort of flippant remark to him, as a way to relieve her tension. But today the terracotta warrior's blank expression reminded her suddenly of Bell, full of hidden agendas. Without really being able to explain why, her gaze fell to the statue's hands. Charlie's arms were carved stiffly by his sides, as if he was standing to attention, the perfect warrior. But at the end of his flowing sleeves, his hands were clenched into fists. Very large, very powerful-looking fists. Allie swallowed hard. Had they been like that yesterday? She didn't think so, but after everything that that happened, she wasn't convinced she could trust her own memory any more.

Quickly, feeling nervous but not quite sure why, she retreated to the back of the shop, putting the sales counter between herself and Charlie. And that was where she stayed, behind the statue, but keeping it in plain view, until the couriers arrived to take him to Mrs Neeson.

The two men from the courier company were young and well-muscled and brash, their all-too-human zest for life filling the shop like a clean, fresh breeze, chasing away any elusive supernatural forebodings. They flirted with Allie and made her laugh as they efficiently wrapped Charlie in packing material, loaded him on to a small dolly and shifted him out to their truck. One of them, the bloke with curly, dark hair and mischievous green eyes, even asked for her phone number as she signed all the paperwork. She refused with a smile, but she couldn't deny that it felt good to be asked, even if he wasn't much more than a cheeky kid.

But once the two lads had gone, taking their vibrant energy with them, the unsettled, ominous feeling returned. She kept thinking of the awful way Terry had died, her imagination unwillingly filling in the gaps in what DCI Bell had told her. The empty space where Charlie had stood for so long seemed to yawn at her, as if it was trying to tell her something.

In the end, Allie decided she couldn't put up with it any more. She went into the back room and shuffled through the drawers of odds and ends, until she found the small object she was looking for, carelessly discarded many weeks ago. Then she pulled on her heavy, hooded coat, turned the 'Open' sign to 'Closed', locked all the doors, set the alarm and hurried out into the snow.

In her hand, she held the simple blue and white business card that had been enclosed with the mug she had bought at the Portobello Market.

It read: "Sparrow and Nightingale, Antiquarian Books and rare DVDs".

It took about half an hour on the train to get to Notting Hill, and then another fifteen minutes of trekking through the knee deep snow to get to the address on the card. By the time she finally arrived, Allie was freezing cold and doubting her own sanity. After Terrence's little performance yesterday at the shop, the Doctor hadn't been able to leave quickly enough. Surely it was going to come across as a bit needy and pathetic, trying to track him down through his friends like this. And he hadn't actually said he knew Larry Nightingale, had he? He'd just made some sort of vague comment about knowing a lot of people. So she was probably completely wasting her time.

She hesitated outside the small bookshop, inwardly debating whether or not she should just walk away, and save herself a lot of embarrassment. But the hard, cold feeling of dread in her stomach wouldn't allow her to do it. There was something very wrong, she knew it. And the Doctor was the only one who might possibly have a clue what it was.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door and went inside. The narrow front room was cram-packed with shelves loaded down with old books and strange, esoteric-looking DVDs. The air was warm and cosy and had the comforting, musty smell of ancient paper. At the end of the room, a young man sat behind the sales counter, sorting through a tall pile of books. He had shaggy, blonde hair and enough stubble on his cheeks to suggest that he hadn't shaved for quite a few days. He was wearing a shabby red pullover. Allie recognised him easily enough as the man who had sold her the mug at the Portobello Market. There was no sign of any T-shirts or mugs in the shop, so she guessed it must be a sort of occasional sideline for him. There was also no sign of the "Sparrow" from "Sparrow and Nightingale", whoever he or she might be. Larry appeared to be running the shop alone, at least at the moment.

He glanced up as she entered, a look of surprise on his face, as if a customer had been the last thing he was expecting. Allie couldn't help wondering if the inclement weather had been affecting his trade as much as it had hers.

"Hi!" he said cheerfully. "Can I help you with something or are you happy to browse?"

She walked towards the counter. "Actually, yeah, I was hoping you could help me with something. My name is Allison Castiel. You probably don't remember me, but I bought a mug from you a few weeks ago at the Portobello Market."

His face fell almost comically and he gave her a worried look. "Oh nuts, there's nothing wrong with it, is there?"

"No, it's fine," she said reassuringly. "It's just...well, I want to talk to you about the slogan on it. 'The Angels Have The Phone Box'?"

This time, he leapt to his feet, a spark of anger lighting his eyes. "Oh, not this again! I suppose Derek sent you. Well, you can tell him I said to pull his head in! The entire egg-forum knows I thought of it first, so tough, I get the franchise!"

Allie blinked at him in confusion. "Um, no, I don't know anybody named Derek. And I certainly don't know anything about any egg-forum, whatever that is."

The anger faded from his face and he sat back down again, looking a little bit sheepish. "Sorry, I thought...never mind. So what did you want to know?"

"The thing is..." she said uncertainly. "The phone box...on the mug...I know who it belongs to. And I really need to contact him. Urgently. So I was hoping you might be able to help me."

His eyes widened. "You know the Doctor?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of. Well, not really," she said, her words falling over each other as she tried to explain in a way that wouldn't sound utterly mad. "He came into my shop a few days ago. There was this giant alien blowfly and he killed it. And then the next day, there was this alien bomb and he threw it into the pond in the park and blew it up. And then he left in his phone box, to go to Mars, I think. But now there's some other weird stuff happening – some really bad weird stuff - and I really, really need to talk to him."

Larry stared at her for a long moment, and she tensed, afraid that he was about to ask if she was crazy. But instead, he let out his breath in a long whoosh of awe and said, "Wow, giant blowflies, alien bombs, going to Mars...you really do know the Doctor, don't you?"

"Yeah," she said in relief that he understood. "Can you tell me how to get hold of him?"

To her immense disappointment, he shook his head. "Nah, I only met him the once. Didn't even talk to him then. My girlfriend, Sally Sparrow, she had a bit more to do with him than I did, though."

"Can I speak to her then?"

He shook his head again. "Sorry, she's in Manchester this week for a book fair. I could try and call her mobile, but the reception's a bit dodgy where she is, I'm afraid. Not sure it would help, anyway. I don't reckon she knows how to contact him any more than I do."

Allie sighed deeply, all her hope ebbing away. As she had suspected, this was a dead end. "Never mind," she said dully, turning to leave. "Forget it. Thanks anyway."

"This weird stuff you're on about," Larry called after her. "It doesn't have anything to do with moving statues, does it?"

She froze on the spot, scarcely daring to breathe. How did he know? How had he guessed at the fear she had hardly even been able to articulate to herself? Slowly, she rotated around to face him. "What do you mean...moving statues?"

"Well, the stone angels, just like it says on the mug," Larry replied matter-of-factly. "That's how we got involved with the Doctor in the first place. They look like statues, until you take your eyes off them, and then they attack. But as soon as you look at them, they freeze into stone again. The perfect defence, the Doctor says. And if they touch you, you get sent back in time and space, and they consume all the potential energy from the life you would have lived. That's what happened to my sister, Kathy. She was touched by one of them in an old abandoned house called Wester Drumlins and got sent back to 1920. I never saw her again."

"Oh God," Allie breathed. "I'm so sorry."

Larry's round, open face tightened with remembered loss, but he shrugged heavily. "Yeah, me too. She left Sally a letter. She said she was happy. She had a home and a family, everything she ever wanted, so I suppose that was something. She was eighty seven when she eventually died. Sally's usually the only one I can talk to about Kathy. No-one else would believe me. They'd all think I was off my rocker."

Allie gave him a shaky smile. "Don't worry, I believe you. I might not have done before I met the Doctor, but now I don't think anything would surprise me."

He pulled out a chair from behind the counter and indicated that she should sit down. "So you have come across the Angels then? That's why you're here, right?" he asked intently.

Allie suddenly realised how tired she felt. Sitting down seemed like the best idea in the world. Walking over to the chair, she flopped down in it, her legs feeling weak and boneless. "Not exactly an Angel," she replied. "More a terracotta warrior." And she explained to him all about Charlie.

At the end of her recitation, a dubious frown creased Larry's brow. "So, you think this warrior statue had something to do with your ex being murdered?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud," she winced. "But yeah, it's just a feeling I can't shake. And that strange word just appearing on his head out of nowhere...EMET. Somehow I just know it's significant. I was hoping the Doctor would be able to tell me what it meant."

"It doesn't sound like the Angels," Larry pondered, his face a mask of concentration. "Except for the fact that we're talking moving statues, of course. I've never heard of the Angels physically killing someone. The Doctor said they needed to send people back in time in order to feed on their energy, so killing someone outright doesn't make sense. And that inscription doesn't ring any bells at all."

"And now Mrs Neeson has bought Charlie. What should I do? I'm scared, Larry, really scared. What if he's dangerous? Even if he's not an Angel, he could still be something similar. It was a long-shot coming here, I know, but I couldn't come up with any other way of contacting the Doctor."

"I don't think there's anything you can do," Larry returned. "Not right now, anyway. You'll just have to sit tight and see what happens. Maybe you've got it all wrong and you're worried about nothing."

"Maybe," she said darkly. "And maybe not. Finding out about your Weeping Angels hasn't exactly reassured me."

A regretful look passed over his face. "I'm sorry I couldn't help more. I wish I knew how to find the Doctor, but I don't."

She smiled at him and got to her feet. "That's OK. It's actually been a relief to talk about it to someone who wouldn't immediately write me off as a raving lunatic. I couldn't tell the police about it. DCI Bell would just lock me up for wasting police time or something. So thanks for that, at least."

"Maybe the Doctor will come back anyway. If not..." He tore a scrap of paper from a newspaper resting on the counter and began scribbling on it. "Here," he said, offering it to her. "This is my mobile number. If you need me, if anything happens, give me a call."

She took it a little warily. "I'm not sure your Sally Sparrow would approve of that."

Larry grinned, and she couldn't help thinking that Sally was a lucky girl. He really did have a lovely smile. "When it comes to the Angels, and the Doctor, she'll understand, believe me," he promised confidently.

She slipped the little piece of paper into the pocket of her coat. "Thanks. Hopefully, I won't need to use it." She held out her hand to him. "See you, Larry. And thanks again."

He shook it solemnly. "See you, Allison. And you're welcome."

Leaving the warm haven of the bookshop behind her, she stepped back out into the snow, no nearer to finding the Doctor than when she had arrived.

Where are you, Travelling Man? she wondered wearily, drawing her coat closer around her body. I need you.

The Doctor stood in the darkened TARDIS console room, his head bowed, his body motionless, his mind in anguished turmoil. In the far reaches of the time machine, the cloister bell was tolling mournfully; the slow, reverberating peals foretelling doom and disaster. Foretelling his imminent death.

CLANG.

"The Laws of Time are mine and they will obey me!"

CLANG.

"I thought I was just a survivor, but I'm not. I'm the winner. That's who I am. The Time Lord Victorious."

CLANG.

"I don't care who you are. The Time Lord Victorious is WRONG!"

CLANG.

The flash of laser fire inside Adelaide's house; the echoing sound he would always now be able to hear inside his head; the chilling, sickening realisation of what his pride and arrogance had forced that brave woman to do. And then, Ood Sigma standing in the snow, calling to him, calling him back...

"I think your song must end soon... every song must end..."

He'd gone too far. For just a few minutes of mindless insanity, he had become everything he hated, everything he'd fought against for centuries. Staring feverishly at his dim reflection in the gleaming surface of the console, he didn't see his own familiar face – instead, in his tortured imagination, he saw the Master looking mockingly back at him, taunting him with what he had so nearly become.

His death was coming for him. Ood Sigma was calling to him, which could only mean one thing. His song was ending. No matter how hard he ran, how hard he fought, everything he did just made it happen, just brought it closer and closer.

He raised his head and a single tear ran down his face. Perhaps it was time. After the terrible enormity of what he had just done, perhaps he should answer the call, face up to the inevitable and allow it to happen. Sometimes a Time Lord lives for too long...

But even as the thought entered his head, he pushed it away, his back straightening in characteristic, stubborn determination; he gritted his teeth and said defiantly, to himself, to Ood Sigma, to the Master, to anyone else who was listening, "NO."

He'd been running far too long to stop now. He was the last of the Time Lords. If he had to, he would outrun Death itself. Only, from now on, he wouldn't make the mistake of trying to do it on his own.

Ignoring the warning of the cloister bell, his hand reached for the de-materialisation lever and slammed it down hard.

Allie had another restless night. When she woke early on Sunday morning, she couldn't remember exactly what she had dreamed, only that her sleep had been haunted by jumbled images of the Doctor, Charlie, Mrs Neeson and Larry Nightingale. Heavy-eyed and unrefreshed, she tumbled into the shower, praying it would make her feel human again.

Standing under the hot, rejuvenating spray, she decided she would grab a quick bagel from the bakery below her flat and then go back to the shop. She didn't usually work on Sundays, but she didn't have anything else planned and she felt far too unsettled and strung out to sit around home all day doing nothing. There was always plenty of paperwork to be getting on with. Failing that, maybe she could use the internet for some detective work and try to track down the other friend the Doctor had mentioned. What was his name? Captain Jack Harkness? It would probably only lead to another dead end, but it was worth a shot.

Feeling a bit more hopeful, now that she had some sort of a plan, she got dressed and pulled on her coat. Accompanied by the church bells of St Mary's pealing through the still, frosty air, she headed off on the short walk to work.

She realised that something was wrong as soon as she opened the front door. There was no warning beep from the alarm. Instantly, the tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck. The system was off again. But this time she knew with absolute certainty that she had turned it on when she left to go and see Larry the previous day.

Don't panic, she told herself, stepping warily into the room. It could just be malfunctioning.

But at that moment, she saw something in the shadows that made her gasp aloud, her heart nearly stopping in fear. The place where Charlie had stood was no longer empty. The terracotta warrior was back, standing in exactly the same position he always had, as if he had never been moved at all. His stone eyes seemed to be fixed on her in an unholy glare. Numbly, she realised that - even at this distance - she could easily read the inscription on his forehead, the deeply engraved letters larger and clearer than ever.

Shaking with terror, she ran behind the counter and snatched up the phone. Pulling out the tiny slip of paper from her coat pocket, she dialled the number without even stopping to think. The phone rang a few times before someone picked up and a sleepy male voice mumbled, "Yeah?"

"Larry?" she said frantically. "Larry, it's Allison Castiel."

"Allison?" he repeated, sounding more alert. "What's wrong?"

"He's here! I just got to my shop and he's come back!"

"Who? The Doctor?"

"No, not the Doctor! Charlie! The statue I told you about!" she cried, the fear rising up to almost choke her. "The couriers took him away yesterday afternoon, but he's back again!"

There was a stunned silence and then Larry said, "You're kidding."

"I wish I was. The alarm system was off and he's here, standing in exactly the same spot. And the writing on his head is bigger!" she gabbled. "I don't know what to..."

At that moment, she heard a noise behind her. A heavy, methodical noise. Like a footstep.

With a chill, she realised that, in making the phone call to Larry, she had inadvertently turned her back on the statue. Whirling abruptly, she found herself looking into a pair of blazing red eyes, glowing like two hot coals. Paralysing horror swept over her like a tidal wave. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a single sound, a stone hand grasped her around the throat and squeezed mercilessly.

Blackness engulfed her and the telephone receiver fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Like the pendulum of the grandfather clock, it swung back and forth in a lazy arc, Larry's tinny voice still echoing from it, uselessly calling her name.