Chapter Eleven

The Doctor follows Sergeant Henson's lead, taking them further away from the safety of the TARDIS. The Doctor, led by the Sergeant's extensive knowledge of the area, walks along side-streets, cuts through narrow alleyways, and crosses a small play park until reaching a small, red-bricked building. Thick, black iron bars cover the windows on the ground floor; parked on the road in front of the building are a collection of different cars, all marked with the same blue and white design and embellished with the word 'POLICE'. Other than the Doctor and Sergeant Henson, no other people are to be seen.

'So this is a Police station?' asks the Doctor, looking up at the sign above the door that reads 'POLICE STATION': 'I thought they'd be more... buzz.'

'Go inside, explain yourself to Laura at the front desk; Superintendent's office is down the corridor, last one on the right,' instructs Henson. He turns to leave.

'Are you not coming in?'

'Oh god, no,' replies Henson. 'My shift finished fifteen minutes ago – I'm taking the afternoon off. And besides, I'm not getting it in the neck for bringing you here. I'm not in the mood for bloody paperwork right now.'

Despite giving the Sergeant a quizzical look, the Doctor allows him to leave without further questioning. He checks his inside jacket pocket for his invaluable black leather wallet and hops up the stone steps to the blue wooden door. He pushes open the heavy door and steps into a small reception area: to his left is a desk with a young woman sat behind it, behind her is a wilting pot plant, and opposite her, against the other wall, are three old plastic chairs.

'Take a seat,' says the woman instinctively, without looking up from her finger nail that is being attacked by long plastic file: 'somebody will deal with you shortly.'

Spinning on the spot, the Doctor glances at the uncomfortable-looking chairs before turning his attention back to the uninterested woman behind the desk.

'Erm, yes,' says the Doctor, 'I'm here from Scotland Yard – Inspector... Smith.' He extends his arm and displays his credentials in the leather wallet. 'I've been tasked with a special mission, you see – investigating an important... investigation. Top secret, highly dangerous, shouldn't really tell you any more – need to know basis, I'm afraid.' The Doctor tucks the Psychic Paper back into his inside pocket and moves closer to the desk: 'I'm sort of a... hot-shot agent, you see. A bit like James Bond – he was a nice bloke... ginger,' he recalls, half to himself. 'I couldn't tell you what I was up to even if I wanted to.' The Doctor playfully points at the receptionist and leans forwards onto the desk. He misjudges the height of the desk, however, and stumbles to his left, crashing his leg into the side of the table.

The receptionist looks up at the Doctor and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Without saying a word she points with her nail file towards the two doors to her left, and watches the Doctor make a hasty exit from the room.

The Doctor, eager to put a distance between himself and the embarrassing situation in the reception area, pushes open the closest door and steps inside. Instead of finding himself in a corridor, however, the Doctor steps into a large room filled with desks; cluttered notice boards cover most of the walls, disinterested men in blue uniforms sort through mountains of paper; more men, some in uniform and some in normal clothes, skulk around the room making coffee, chatting to one another, and throw balls of paper to annoy others. It is the heart of the Police station, the epicentre for crime fighting in the north London suburb, a temple of justice and security, and everybody inside looks entirely disinterested, lazy, and bored.

As the occupants of the room slowly begin to sense the Doctor's alien presence, an awkward hush infects the room. After a few moments, the rustling of paper, the chatting, the shuffling around, and the clinking of empty mugs is subdued, and the entire room stares at the man in the tweed jacket and the bowtie standing at the door.

'Hello,' he says, 'I'm the Doctor.' He strides towards the centre of the room; manoeuvring between static Policemen, waltzing around desks and hopping over a stack of papers on the floor. 'I'm here on a very special mission from Scotland Yard and I need your attention.' He looks around at the bewildered faces surrounding him: 'well I think it's safe to say I have that already.' As he walks past an open-mouthed office-boy holding a tray topped with three steaming mugs, the Doctor helps himself to a hot beverage. 'Something weird is going on and I need your to help me find out what exactly is happening;' the Doctor moves towards an unoccupied desk in the far corner and sweeps an arm across the tabletop, sending the stacks of paper crashing to the floor. He lifts the telephone from the adjacent desk and places it on the now empty table; taking a plastic chair from the corner, he places it behind the desk and sits down.

He places the mug next to the telephone on the table in front of him, crosses his arms, and leans forwards. 'Tell me everything you know about the death of the little boy and the woman on Cropley Street, report to me any other mysterious events in that area, and any major goings-on in the city in the last...'the Doctor look at the inside of his wrist at his watch, 'oh, two hours or so. Anything mysterious or out of the ordinary I want mapped and cross-referenced. I want to know names and addresses; I want eye-witness reports, I want to know what people have seen, what's being said, and any gossip – gossip is good: it has a habit of being what people want to say, rather than what they ought to say. I want it done quickly and I want it done now – people's lives may depend on how you act in the next half an hour.' The Doctor sits with his arm folded on the desk looking entirely pleased with himself. 'Oh!' he exclaims, whilst pointing a finger into the air, 'one last thing: one very important and crucial thing... does anybody have any bickies to go with the tea?' He looks hopefully around the room with his eyebrows raised: 'preferably with jam in them.'

Before he receives an answer, however, a door on the other side of the room slams open, and a tall, imposing man strides into the middle of the room. The man, dressed in a tight navy blue uniform adorned with badges of commendation, despite having greying hair, is lean with broad, powerful shoulders. The younger Policemen step out of the man's path, whilst the older, more experienced officers offer silent respect.

'I'm Superintendant Harrow and this is my station and my officers. Who are you and what are you doing here?'

'Hello, I'm the Doctor,' he says quickly, whilst burying his hands into his trouser pockets. 'I'm from... wait a minute,' he rummages inside his trouser pockets before delving into jacket and pulling out the Psychic Paper. 'Scotland Yard!' he announces; thrusting the open wallet towards the tall, important man. The Doctor snaps the wallet shut once the Superintendent is satisfied and continues to explain himself: 'strange stuff going on, I'm here to investigate, and I need your fine young men to help me.' Feeling pressured by the glare of the Policeman standing over him, the Doctor clarifies his statement: 'that's the short version.'

'Why is Scotland Yard poking their noses in here?' asks Harrow. 'Surely they can conduct any investigation from within the city?'

'New initiative,' explains the Doctor: 'reaching out into the community.' Satisfied that the Psychic Paper has provided the Superintendant with enough information to prevent him from asking too many more questions, the Doctor takes a sip of his tea. 'Now,' he announces to the room, clapping his hands together and ignoring the annoyed look on Harrow's face, 'let's get to work.'

It happens to be my birthday today. That must be cause for a review? I hope you're enjoying the story so far.