Doctor Who_ Timeless Part 7

'Wishing you'd been with Anji all this time, are you?'

Fitz said nothing.

'Yes, well, the Doctor couldn't really ask her, could he?' Trix scrutinised her nails. 'He needed someone who could pull this act off.'

'And you never stop, do you? Acting, I mean.'

She shrugged.

The annoying thing was that Trix really was was good. She could slip on a whole new personality in the time it took Fitz to put on one sock. She really seemed to become a different person entirely, which was especially annoying if you started to like that person, because you knew that the second her usefulness had expired she'd be gone, without regret. Replaced by... the real her? Who the h.e.l.l was this woman anyway? good. She could slip on a whole new personality in the time it took Fitz to put on one sock. She really seemed to become a different person entirely, which was especially annoying if you started to like that person, because you knew that the second her usefulness had expired she'd be gone, without regret. Replaced by... the real her? Who the h.e.l.l was this woman anyway?

When the Doctor had announced the pair of them were down for this 'deep cover' mission, the day after Fitz's brief stint as a lift engineer, sharing a flat with Trix for weeks at a time hadn't seemed so bad. He figured maybe they'd bond, grow closer, that he'd work her out a little better or, at the very least, catch a glimpse of her t.i.ts. Instead it was just weird. He'd worked out early on that Trix wasn't only playing the part of Susan Canonshire, trying to get inside this Timeless organisation the Doctor had a thing about. She was playing another part too: that highly demanding role of Woman in Enforced Intimacy with Fitz.

She'd been very good at it too as the weeks wore on listening to his stories, laughing at his jokes, chatting about this and that. But she wasn't quite so hot as she thought she was. A couple of weeks in he'd noticed her eyes glazing over, or a subtle yawn, or some forced enthusiasm. They weren't two friends getting through something; it was like the Doctor had set him up with an escort, someone paid to respond to him in as professional a way as possible. What really annoyed him was the fact he'd noticed any of this at all; she didn't rate him highly enough to keep the truth from him.

Six weeks it had been. They had to seem a credible couple, the Doctor said. They had to be seen to be around. New to the area and looking for very particular thrills. He'd kitted them out with a few useful props, sorted them out some ID and prepared to take them back a month and a half into the past. 'By the time you've made first contact and got something positive to go on,' he'd predicted, 'you'll have caught up with Anji and me in this this time. We can help you.' time. We can help you.'

Fitz turned to Trix. 'So are we an old married couple? Looking for a way to spice up the tedium of our lives together?'

'Look at the way you're fiddling with that wedding ring,' Trix pointed out. 'You're not used to it, you can't leave it alone. You don't even know you're doing it. We'd better be newly weds.'

'Agreed,' said the Doctor. 'But I'd rather you'd been together as a couple for years. Stability, you see.'

'Six years.' She nodded. 'We were in such a rut, we either broke up, or we got married. We were stupid and opted for the latter.'

It would be dangerous, the Doctor had told them. Timeless wasn't just about murder its real business was something far more sinister. The people who were a part of it were no fools. Fitz and Trix needed a pukka past, should anyone want to check them out. And once contact had been made, their flat would almost certainly be rifled through for any evidence of a set up.

Fitz suggested a photo alb.u.m, full of pix showing the two of them together in different times and places.

'We met in the crowds around Princess Di's funeral,' Trix suggested. 'Both cursing them as a b.l.o.o.d.y nuisance.'

The Doctor gave her a look of grim approval, and set the controls. 'A suitably morbid beginning.'

They'd posed among the mourners on the Mall, both wearing brightly coloured suits. Fitz felt embarra.s.sed but Trix seemed to enjoy the looks of disapproval, the mumbled comments aimed in their direction.

'Why would we even do this?' complained Fitz.

'It's obvious.' Trix pulled a still cheesier grin for the Doctor's instamatic. 'You were trying to use up a film to get it developed that day. We met when you asked me to pose for your last pictures, since I was the only splash of colour in this whole miserable mora.s.s of black.' She looked at him pointedly. 'As come-ons go, I thought it was poor, Ralf. But you were quite cute so I went along with it.'

Fitz stared at her, gobsmacked.

'Come on, Fitz,' the Doctor coached him, snapping away. 'You've got a pretty girl posing for pictures with you! You're well on your way!'

'But where to?' he muttered, smiling resignedly.

The Doctor took them in the TARDIS all around the world, posing together, piecing together the dates and details of their mythical relationship. As a venture capitalist, Ralf Canonshire had fingers in many pies. He particularly enjoyed investing in films; oh yes, he could spot the winners. His glamorous but already ever so slightly bored wife Susan simply trailed round after him soaking up the sun and the good life. They had put down the flimsiest of roots a luxury villa outside Milan (for Susan spoke more than a smattering of Italian), a chateau in Nantes (for Ralf could attempt a pretty good French accent). They had more money than sense, and a taste for illegal thrills you couldn't buy on the open market Fab!

A back copy of Anji's local paper had yielded a great flat ready to rent (though Fitz, North London born and bred, found it hard to feel comfortable south of the river). The Doctor was footing the staggering bill, and who was Fitz to argue? This, he told himself, posing in dark gla.s.ses and his beret in the mirror in his sw.a.n.ky new pad, was going to be fun.

He should've known better, of course.

Their real mission, apart from trying not to murder each other in the meantime, was to make contact with the mysterious jet-setting Daniel Basalt. He travelled a lot, but was based in South London. The girl had apparently given the Doctor the full SP on this villain, right down to details of the clubs he frequented and the faces he mixed with. Fitz was to mix with them too. That was the fun part, establishing himself as a man-about-several-towns, an international playboy with a calculatedly amoral streak. He'd almost been disappointed when finally, during a particularly ribald night down the Groucho, his ruse resulted in talk of this Basalt fella. At a private party in Chelsea later that night he was introduced to a half-Chinese guy everyone called Chongy. Chongy secured access for Basalt's special guests, and had suggested Ralf should get in touch next time he was in town, if he wanted some real fun.

'Forget Chongy,' Trix had told him at the start of week four. 'I'll make contact with Basalt directly, alone since Dear Daniel has an eye for the ladies.'

'You'll poke it out, in that outfit,' Fitz said, trying not to stare at just how low a neckline could plunge.

'Dress nice, and nasty things will happen. As mum used to say.'

Fitz gave her a cynical look.

Trix shrugged, unembarra.s.sed. 'Distraction tactics. Your eyes are glued to my chest, right?'

'Wrong!' lied Fitz.

'Basalt's a bloke. This dress might just dissuade him from looking into my eyes for very long.' She blinked. 'If anything's going to give you away, it's the eyes.'

'I thought you were a pro. Worried?'

'The Doctor said we ought to be,' Trix replied coolly. 'First rule of a con: minimise your risks.'

Trix had already befriended one of Basalt's women, Bethany, who had told her when Basalt was due to visit. Her plan was to call round at Bethany's before he arrived, and linger long enough to meet him on her way out. A chance encounter; and if he liked what he saw, she imagined he wouldn't dream of her leaving. Bethany would be mad as h.e.l.l, but Trix's objective would be achieved.

It worked like a charm, and gave her the opportunity in front of Basalt to make her feelings clear: that she didn't have any. All that could hope to stir her ennui was that ever-since-she-was-a-schoolgirl desire to attain the ultimate high... whatever the cost. Cheesy stuff sure, but Basalt seemed receptive to it. That and the dress, of course.

He told Trix she'd be surprised by how many people felt just the same as she did. Perhaps she should talk to some and hear how he'd helped them...

One thing had led to another, and now here they were. Clients of Timeless, and expected to kill.

The row had blown over by bedtime; neither of them had the energy or the inclination. The end was in sight now; the present day was approaching the day they'd left to come here, six weeks into history. They'd touch base with the Doctor soon.

It was Fitz's turn for the couch and sleeping bag this week. As he snuggled down, Trix came out of the bedroom in a silk dressing gown.

'What do you think we should do now?' she asked him.

Fitz looked at her sceptically. Asking his opinion now? What tactics were these? 'I think we should learn a bit more about Signor Nencini. And what Basalt gets up to when he's not scooching about clubs and luring beautiful women into webs of crime, vice and general villainy.' He sighed. 'Lucky b.u.g.g.e.r.'

'I agree,' Trix said. 'With the first bit. I'm going to spy on Nencini in Streatham, see if I can dig up any dirt on him, anything that might've led to his status as one of Basalt's targets.'

'Which leaves me to follow Basalt,' mused Fitz. 'A touch of the old secret agent stuff. OK.'

'It's a deal, then,' she said. 'N'night, Ralf baby.'

Fitz smiled ruefully. 'So long, Susan.'

'Is it? Don't tease me.' She blew him a kiss and vanished back into the bedroom.

Part of him knew d.a.m.n well she was only pretending to flirt with him to make him feel better. But Fitz chose not to listen to that part for once, and soon fell into a happy sleep.

Next morning, Fitz picked up Basalt's trail outside Jacqui's place the stinky git's car, a dark blue Porsche, was parked outside. Fitz sat keeping watch till he was so bored he could eat the steering wheel just for something to do.

Finally Basalt opened Jacqui's front door briskly about 3 p.m. and left without a backward glance. Jacqui, on the other hand, dressed in a white towelling dressing gown, stared after him with doglike devotion till he'd rounded the corner out of sight.

Soon Basalt was tearing off down Holland Park Avenue towards Shepherds Bush, while Fitz followed on discreetly in a second-hand Nova. The heavy traffic was a great leveller of speed, and he had no difficulty tailing Basalt as he left London and headed out on to the M3.

After an hour and a half Fitz reckoned he was heading for Southampton, or Poole. It was actually Bournemouth.

Bournemouth left Fitz unimpressed. It was full of hotels that looked too big and people who looked too old. But as he negotiated the town's outskirts he supposed the place must have something to offer a swinger like Basalt.

Apparently it did. A woman in a wheelchair.

She looked to be in her fifties, with the most beautiful sad blue eyes. She was clipping the roses in her garden when Basalt walked up the driveway. He'd parked three streets away; Fitz observed with sinking heart that the needlessly long walk wasn't due to problems parking.

Fitz watched as Basalt shook her hand and waved about a leather briefcase. A few minutes later she was leading the way to her pebble-dashed bungalow. Basalt took a casual look round, and Fitz shrank further back into the bushes of the B&B opposite, out of sight. Danger Man had nothing on him.

An hour and a half later, when Basalt still hadn't come back out. Fitz feared the worst. But he could hardly knock on the door and check everything was all right, could he? And now a man kept glaring out at him from the B&B's window.

He trudged back to his car, feeling uneasy. From there, he could keep an eye on Basalt's motor, maybe even give it a quick once over. And when Basalt came back, he could pop back and check up on the old dear and her amazing eyes.

By nine o'clock Fitz was bored and miserable. He had a good mind to give up on the whole idea; the lady in the chair was probably another of Basalt's birds. Her wheels could be a kick if you were that way inclined. He was stupid to be sitting here worrying.

Even so, he decided he'd have one more look at the woman's house before calling it a wasted night.

A chill had crept into the evening, and the dusky streets were pretty much deserted. Fitz sneaked up the driveway and paused outside the front door. The curtains were drawn in the living room, but the lights were on, and so was a blaring TV. Maybe she was deaf as well as crippled. They certainly weren't having a quiet night in at that volume, but still... probably harmless.

His stomach churned as he crept along the side of the house, scaled a gate, and hotfooted it into her well-kept little garden.

The TV was still louder back here. A sit-com by the sound of things. At least he didn't have to worry about any noise he might make.

Fitz leaped heroically for the cover of an austere-looking conifer. Heart thumping, he risked a peep round it.

Blue blinds hung down over one window. Suddenly they snapped up, and there was the woman.

She was hunched over the worktop, her face bruised and b.l.o.o.d.y, banging on the window and clearly screaming. But the only noise Fitz could hear was from the TV.

Basalt smacked the woman's head into the window and cracked open both. Then he heaved her p.r.o.ne body out of sight and yanked the blinds back down.

While canned laughter roared in the background, Basalt was killing her.

And the man was smiling; how he was smiling.

Ten.

Second chances Celia could tell them a mile off, or from halfway down the avenue at least. Hawkers, peddling shoddy goods or religion no doubt: a big, lumbering man in a bad suit and a poor little girl he'd dragged along with him for the sympathy vote on this cold winter afternoon.

She resolved not to answer the door, but kept twitching her net curtains periodically to check on the duo's progress as they called dolefully along the shiny front doors of the tree-lined street.

Except that they weren't knocking on anyone's doors. They were just peering at the numbers on each, and moving on.

Oddly troubled, Celia came away from the window and busied herself with the usual nothings about the house. Charles wouldn't be home for another three hours. As always in the long daytimes, she missed him.

The trill of the doorbell made her jump half out of her skin. She ignored it, peeved they should pick on her, and held herself very still and quiet while she waited to see if they'd try again.

They did. She was expecting the ring this time but still she jumped just the same.

By the third ring, in a sudden rush of irritation, she bustled over to the door and opened it.

'I don't want anything, thank you,' she said primly. 'Please go away.'

'You have lovely eyes,' said the little girl, who did not. Hers were asymmetrical, one a good inch higher than the other, and a sort of milky blue, whereas Celia's were a sparkling indigo.

'I beg your pardon?' she said frostily.

'They are,' agreed the man. 'Beautiful eyes.' He smiled happily at her, no trace of mischief or malice about him. If anything he seemed a bit simple. Everything about him eyes, nose, lips, arms seemed slightly oversized.

The girl on the other hand looked much sharper, and soon proved it. 'They're your best feature. I'll bet people tell you that all the time.'

Celia blinked. They had had used to tell her that. used to tell her that.

'And I'm sure,' said the child, lowering her voice and adopting a confidential tone, 'that they helped to reel in Charles all those years ago, didn't they?'

Celia turned, almost speechless, to the big man. 'You have an impudent daughter,' she spluttered at last.

He shrugged. 'She is not my daughter.'

Then, with a p.r.i.c.kle along her spine, Celia realised she'd seen the child before. 'You were following me around the supermarket yesterday. I told you to clear off.'

'You did,' agreed the girl evenly. She had a rucksack on her back. A doll's arm stuck out from beneath the canvas flap. 'My name's Chloe.'

'And I am Erasmus,' said the man.

'What is it you want?' Celia asked, more suspicious now than ever. 'How dare you try to poke your silly noses into '

'Chloe's found out something about you.' Erasmus looked sad now, genuinely sorry. 'It's not good news, I'm afraid.'

'Something bad's going to happen to you,' said Chloe. Her eyes seemed frozen in her freckled face, fixing Celia to the spot. 'Something that'll make you wish you were dead.'

'Goodness me.' Celia took a step back. 'I think I've heard enough of this nonsense.'