Author's Note: OK, just to prove that I can, here's a QUICK update to this one! Thank you very much to the following people who took the time to review the last chapter, this update is really thanks to your encouragement:- Romana-II, CJaMes2, SawManiac211, phantomviola, KlinicallyInsaneKoschei, Aietradaea and 3LWOOD. Hope you like this chapter!
CHAPTER FOUR
Amy looked around her incredulously, suddenly wondering if she was actually asleep in her own bed, having some kind of weird nightmare. First the TARDIS running off and leaving her in a freaky thunderstorm, then the creepy, deserted house, complete with a Weeping Angel, and now this. She was not exactly familiar with police procedures, even in her own time. In fact, the closest she had ever come to being involved with the police had been dressing up as a policewoman with a very short skirt as part of her job as a kiss-o-gram. But she certainly hadn't been expecting this.
She was seated on an uncomfortable, metal chair behind a rickety table in a dim, dank room that smelled suspiciously like old sneakers and stale cigarette smoke.
Everything seemed to have happened in fast-forward since her encounter with Detective Chief Inspector Hunt. The man was a human whirlwind. Before she could even attempt any sort of explanation, she had been unceremoniously extracted from the cupboard and bundled down the stairs into the back seat of an orange Ford Cortina.
DCI Hunt and the man in the leather jacket, who Amy gathered was named Detective Inspector Tyler, had climbed into the front seat, while the other two men remained behind to continue their investigation of the cottage. Amy tried to protest, wanting to warn them that the Angel was still in there, but was rudely told by Hunt to "shut it" until they arrived at the station. He then proceeded to drive the car at a break-neck pace through the darkened streets of Manchester, despite several pleas from DI Tyler to slow down, which went completely unheeded apart from a grunted comment that Tyler needed to stop being such a "nancy-boy". Amy could do nothing but close her eyes and hold on as tightly as she could, wondering dizzily if she would have perhaps been wiser to take her chances with the Weeping Angel after all.
Upon arriving at the grim, grey, multi-storey police station, she had been hustled up to the second floor, which apparently housed the best and the brightest of the Manchester and Salford Police's A-Division CID. She had been expecting to be taken to a stark, cold, clinical interrogation room - probably with one of those two-way mirror thingamajigs, just like in the movies. Instead, she had been ushered through a shabby old door inexplicably marked "Lost and Found".
Old fashioned fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, bathing everything in an unhealthy, urine-coloured glow. The only window was situated at the very back of the room, a long, narrow, barred pane of glass set high in the wall, through which intermittent flashes of lightning could still be seen blasting across the night sky. The room was crowded with banks of unstable-looking shelving, enclosed with metal mesh. To Amy's surprise, this appeared to be some sort of disorganised storage facility for a wide and astonishing variety of miscellanea, including such assorted things as several old bowling trophies, a pile of bright orange "witch's hat" road cones, a battered old baby's pram and even a bright red dress-maker's dummy wearing an incongruous bow tie.
A lump came to Amy's throat as she looked at this last item – the silly bow tie reminded her of the Doctor and suddenly she felt very tired, very lonely and very vulnerable. Blinking back tears, she found herself wondering hysterically if DCI Hunt meant to stack her on one of these dusty shelves and abandon her, waiting for the Doctor to come and collect her, just another piece of lost property like all these other forgotten things. Instead, he and Tyler had just disappeared, leaving her sitting at the table, cooling her heels while they went and did goodness knows what.
After an hour of waiting, her temper had just about reached boiling point, her rising anger overcoming her other emotions. While she was stuck in here, the Doctor was probably fruitlessly searching the wasteland for her. What if he couldn't find her? What if she was stuck here in 1974 forever, thanks to DCI Gene Hunt and his Keystone Cops? Not to mention the fact that while they bumbled around, there was a Weeping Angel still wandering around Manchester killing people.
Her eyes fixed furiously on to the entrance of the room. When DCI Hunt finally returned, he was going to get a piece of her mind!
Detective Sergeant Ray Carling took a long, irritable drag of his cigarette. Typical! Bloody typical! He would get stuck here with DC Chris Skelton in this dark, freezing cold, leaky cottage in the middle of a storm, while Hunt and Tyler got to escort a good-looking bird back to the nice warm station. Talk about privileges of rank!
"We'd better take a shufty at the kitchen, I s'pose," Chris said, swinging the lantern around in an arc, making the eerie shadows dance on the walls of the downstairs hallway. "The meat wagon will be here in a minute, to take the body away."
"Yeah," Ray agreed unenthusiastically, following his colleague towards the kitchen door. "S'pose."
He wished he was back in the Railway Arms, with a pint of bitter in front of him, eyeing off the new barmaid. Now she had a rack on her to die for, a right nice handful! He wondered idly if she had a regular bloke. If not, maybe he could talk her into coming out to the flicks with him some time. Now that would be something.
Just then, his musings were rudely interrupted by an astonished exclamation from Chris. "Bloody hell!"
Standing in the corner of the tiny kitchen, glowing whitely in the lamplight, was a life-size statue of an angel. Ray stared at it in disbelief, sure he was seeing things. He wasn't much of a one for appreciating art, but even he had to admit that the statue was eerily beautiful, with its sweeping, widespread wings and its flowing gown. Its face was hidden in its hands, as though it was weeping.
"What do you think it's doing here?" Chris asked, his voice not much more than an awed whisper.
"How the hell would I know, you dozy dimmock?" Ray retorted crossly. "Maybe it walked here."
Chris gave him a hurt look. "No need to be so narky, Ray."
Ray dropped his cigarette on the dusty floor and stubbed it out with a deep sigh. "It's obviously been nicked, from a cemetery or something. It's probably valuable."
"I reckon we'll have to get it back to the station then. We can't just leave it here, something might happen to it," the young DC replied. "Anyway, the Guv will probably want it for evidence."
"Tyler will probably want to treat it as a suspect and interview it," Ray said with a sarcastic snigger. "Leave no stone unturned, Chris, leave no stone unturned."
Chris tried unsuccessfully to smother a grin at the ridiculous image. It was no secret that the Boss and Ray did not exactly see eye-to-eye when it came to criminal investigation, or anything else at all, come to that. And as much as Chris respected his DI, there was no doubt that Tyler had a definite reputation for being extremely pedantic – or, as Ray often put it, "having a stick shoved up his ass sideways".
"I'd better call for another wagon then," he said, reaching for his hand-held radio.
"How long are you going to keep her waiting for in there, Guv?" Sam demanded, standing insistently in front of Gene's desk. The DCI had his feet up and was interestedly examining the centrefold of a Playboy magazine, turning it from side to side, apparently trying to discover the best viewing angle. "You won't get anything out of her if you get her back up."
"That's all you know, Dorothy," Gene retorted. "It's a recognised interrogation technique. Let 'em sweat for a while and they'll tell you everything."
"Yeah, a technique for suspects," Sam shot back. "But she's not a suspect, she's a witness."
"Is that right, sunshine? Well, I beg to differ. She was the only one apprehended at the scene of the crime. I'd say that makes her pretty bloody suspect to me."
Sam stared at him incredulously. "You can't seriously think that a female of that size and weight could possibly have snapped that bloke's neck? His head was nearly ripped from his shoulders. Even a tall, strong man would have had trouble doing that much damage."
Gene dumped his magazine on his desk, his face hard as he glared up at his subordinate. "Exactly. And he's the third victim killed in precisely the same way, in the same area, this week. This is more than just a murder investigation, Tyler. There's something strange going on in my city and I don't like it. And Miss Amelia Pond is our only concrete lead so far. So, if you don't mind, we'll do this my way."
Sam sighed. He had learned from bitter experience that there was little point in arguing with Gene when he had his mind set on something, as it only made the man dig his heels in even harder. His boss was right about one thing though – there was definitely something very strange about these killings. Sam had seen a lot of murders in his time, but the appalling level of violence involved in these was something he had never come across before. It was almost...inhuman. His logical, clear-cut mind veered away from the idea immediately, rejecting it out of hand. There was no way he believed in the supernatural, it just wasn't possible. But, to his dismay, the thought refused to go away, hovering insidiously in the back of his brain.
Once upon a time, back in 2006, Sam Tyler hadn't believed in time travel either. And yet, here he was, living in 1974.
What if other impossible things weren't quite so impossible after all?
An inexplicable shiver traced up his spine. Suddenly, he was very, very glad that his fiancee Annie was far away in the Lake District, on holiday with her sister. Right now, he didn't want her anywhere near Manchester.
At last, Amy heard the door creak open and DCI Hunt and DI Tyler walked around the banks of shelving, heading towards her. DI Tyler was holding an old-fashioned tape recorder in his hand.
"About time!" she exclaimed angrily. "Took you long enough!"
"Sorry to keep you waiting, love, didn't realise you were on a tight schedule!" Hunt retorted.
"Yeah? Well, here's the thing, Detective Chief Inspector, I don't like waiting!" Amy said coldly. "I've already done too much of it in my life and I don't intend to do any more! So hurry up and ask your questions and let me out of here."
"Only too happy to oblige, darling," Hunt replied sarcastically, taking a seat at the table opposite her. "DI Tyler, if you wouldn't mind..."
Tyler pressed the record button on the tape deck and spoke clearly into the microphone. "28 October 1974, interview with Amy Pond, commencing 7:03pm. Officers present – DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler."
"Wait a minute!" Amy interrupted, recognition suddenly blasting through her brain as she saw his face at close quarters. "I know you! I couldn't think where I'd seen you before, but you're that politician bloke...the one that became Prime Minister and went mad. The one that killed the President of the United States. Saxon...Harold Saxon, that's it!"
Hunt and Tyler exchanged a speaking glance. Amy saw it and could have bitten her tongue out. Why had on Earth she said anything? It was so obvious what they were thinking. They thought she was off her rocker, completely mad. And why wouldn't they? Harold Saxon probably hadn't even been born yet in 1974. But she remembered all those election posters, all those speeches on the TV when she was younger, living in Leadworth...Tyler looked so much like Harold Saxon – they could have been twins.
"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. My name is Detective Inspector Sam Tyler," the policeman said gently. "I've never heard of anyone named Harold Saxon."
"Sorry," Amy muttered. "My mistake."
Both Tyler and Hunt were staring at her hand where it rested on the table top. Surprised, she realised she was compulsively tapping out a four beat rhythm, over and over again. With a conscious effort, she forced herself to stop, folding her arms and glaring at them.
"O...kay," Hunt drawled, his eyebrows slightly raised. "Now that we've sorted out that my DI isn't moonlighting as the Prime Minister of Britain, maybe you could find the time to tell me exactly what you know about the murder of Tom Reynolds?"
Amy swallowed hard. What should she say? She could lie, but that would mean that the Angel would be free to continue unhindered on its killing spree. But if she told the truth, she would probably end up locked up in an insane asylum.
"What's the point?" she said bitterly, trying to delay the inevitable. "You won't believe me."
"Try us," DI Tyler suggested, his hazel eyes steady on her face, silently urging her to trust him. "You might be surprised."
Another Author's Note: Wow, it's a lot harder than I thought to write Gene and Sam, especially for an Aussie girl...hopefully I did OK. Any feedback would be much appreciated! XXX