The Romance Of Crime Part 8

He smiled. 'Yes, my dear?'

'I was wondering what this piece signifies?' She pointed to a frame that contained a letter.

'That is not my own creation,' Stokes explained, 'but it remains a fascinating item of criminal memorabilia. It's a copy of a letter received by the police authorities shortly after the arrest of the Nisbett firm. Must be, what, five, six, years ago now. Although, of course, they never caught up with the Nisbett brothers themselves. They're still out there somewhere.' He shuddered.

The Doctor squinted up at the letter.

Dear Boss

We have got it in for your sort, after they nicked our lads. We are right down on coppers. We are lads. We are right down on coppers. We are respectable buisnessmen and we were provoked. You respectable buisnessmen and we were provoked. You cant pin anything on us. We'll be back, cant pin anything on us. We'll be back, Charles and Edward Nisbett Charles and Edward Nisbett

'Appalling grammar and spelling,' the Doctor observed.

'And I don't think much of the tone.'

'Not a sentiment to express in their company, Doctor,' said Stokes. 'The kind of business they were involved in was anything but respectable. Extortion, fraud, smuggling, arms dealing, torture, multiple murder. And that was just for openers.'

Romana picked up another exhibit, a purple print that had been leant against a wall. 'Now, I prefer this.'

The Doctor joined her. 'Yes, that's much better. Easy on the eye.'

Stokes s.n.a.t.c.hed the print away. 'You can't be serious, surely.'

'I think it's your best work,' Romana complimented him.

'Perhaps because it's not his,' a voice said from behind them. A young man had entered the gallery. He was smiling broadly. 'It's mine.'

Stokes threw the picture at him. 'And you can have it.' He gestured to the Doctor and Romana. 'Don't imagine that these people have any critical skills, Zy. I mean, just look at them.'

Zy sneered at him. 'You know, Men, there are two things I have to tell you.'

Stokes sneered back. 'Oh, really? My ears await.'

'First is, I've made another sale today and upped the price.

Second is,' he paused for effect, his clear blue eyes glistening with malice, 'I'm putting in a bid to take this place over when your lease runs out. End of July, isn't it?'

Stokes flushed as purple as Zy's picture. 'You! An Irontown upstart barely out of his creche! I have to laugh! And how do you intend to raise the funds?'

'The government have agreed to grant me an award,' Zy said smoothly. 'I spoke to the arts committee last night over vidi-link. And I can get the rest through my sales.'

Stokes's arms flapped furiously. 'Ludicrous! It's my duty to warn you, I suppose. Your talent stretches no further than your own deluded imagination!'

The Doctor nudged Romana and they slipped out of the gallery, leaving the artists to their argument. The raised voices echoed out of the gallery and along the corridor leading to the lift.

'Oh yes?' Zy was saying. 'And when was your last sale?

What do you really think you're doing here with all this junk?

It's so much garbage.'

Stokes screamed, 'Cretin! Out! Out!'

The shelves of the station's library creaked with books, thick volumes crammed with judgements, rulings, transcripts and statutes. Staircases curled from shadowy corners, tempting the browser up or down to specialized sections on agricultural policy, reports on remand reform, successfully contested libel actions. Pale librarians shuffled along the aisles, arranging and rearranging the texts. Barristers and their clerks spoke in loud, bluff voices and stood importantly on step ladders, reaching for obscure sources as if they were pioneers planting flags on towering summits.

Spiggot made his way to the far end of the library, and a section of shelving devoted to what were known as dead tiles.

It was here that papers pertaining to matters dealt with by the courts of the Rock found their final resting place, finished cases that waited five years for public interest to fade before being fed to the shredder. Spiggot coughed at the dust released as he tugged one of the crumbling cardboard files from its position. He couldn't believe that this stuff hadn't been transferred to computer. The legal profession's centuries-old distrust of technology was scarcely credible. Another area of weakness.

He peered at the faded writing on the edges of each bulging file. The cases were ordered by a complicated numbering system that made no sense. He gritted his teeth. He wasn't used to grubbing about with damp old files. There were rows and rows of the things. It might take him hours to find what he was looking for.

And all the while, valuable time was pa.s.sing.

Pyerpoint led the dazed Margo into her cabin and settled her on to her bed. Her head turned from side to side on her starched pillow. 'I...' she started to say. 'I...'

'Ssh now,' Pyerpoint told her. His attention was taken by the open pad on her desk drawer. He picked it up and stared at the rows of equations.

'Margo,' he told her. 'You must stay here and relax.' He sat on the bed and took one of her hands. 'Do you understand me?

You must stay here. Relax. Don't trouble yourself. Everything will come right soon. I will protect you, old friend.' He gave the hand a slight squeeze of rea.s.surance.

She smiled up at him and nodded. 'Yes, relax,' she whispered. 'I must relax.' Her eyes closed and her head fell back on the pillow.

Pyerpoint waited a moment. He carefully removed his hand from hers and stood up. He looked down at the mathematical symbols on the page in his hand and frowned. 'What is she doing? I've done all I can for her. What is this?'

He replaced the sheet of paper and left the cabin, locking the door behind him.

Margo's eyes opened.

Pyerpoint took a lift up to the courtrooms. He walked with a heavy step along the crowded corridors, his grim presence enough to startle into silence an excited huddle of lawyers noisily engaged in arguing a technical point at the end of the working week.

He was about to return to his office when a call came through from Shom. 'Sir, Spiggot has gone to the library. Do you want us to find out what he's up to?'

Pyerpoint thought. 'No, Shom,' he said. 'I understand the way his mind works. He is attempting to confuse and divert us. Leave him to it.'

The Doctor and Romana watched Pyerpoint from a nearby alcove. He straightened his tunic and entered the suite that contained his office.

The Doctor was puzzled. 'What's old Spiggot doing in the library, then?' he wondered aloud. 'Unless ah!' He held up a finger. 'Yes, of course!'

'He's probably gone there to check files about whatever it is he's not telling us,' Romana said casually.

'Why do you always have to spoil it for me?' asked the Doctor. 'You're not supposed to have worked that out yet.' He chewed his bottom lip. 'There is something you can do for me, though.'

'What, check up on Spiggot?'

'No, no. Just stay here and keep an eye on things. I won't be long.' He fumbled in his pockets, produced a small tin whistle and blew into it. 'We need K9. I thought I'd meet him on the way.'

He started to walk away. Romana grabbed his arm.

'Doctor. Why do we need K9?'

He grinned back at her. 'Because K9 can carry out instant checks on computers.'

'You said the computer wasn't important.'

The Doctor nodded. 'Yes, I did. But perhaps its apparent lack of importance is in itself important, eh?'

He tried to leave again. Again Romana stopped him.

'Doctor?'

'Yes, what now?'

'You're very irritating.'

He smiled. 'I suppose I am. But it's ages since I got the chance to do some good old-fashioned criminal investigation.'

His tone suddenly became very serious. 'There's a crime behind a crime here, Romana. And Spiggot isn't telling us, or Pyerpoint, or anybody else, half of what he knows.' He strode off down the corridor.

Stokes was alone in the gallery. He had gathered Zy's materials and cases and tipped them into a heap. He wiped away a trail of dribble that slid from his mouth at the prospect of losing the project he had originated to that young fool. 'He wouldn't dare. The arts committee will laugh him out of their office after one glance at his derivative doodlings. The scheming little devil, I'll '

A click came from the darkness that shrouded the huge door of the gallery. Stokes called out, 'Who's that? Who is there?'

He walked forward. There was no response.

'I said, who is there? Zy?' The miserable runt was afraid to show himself. 'Don't hide in the shadows, boy, I know you're there. What are you '

Blackness.

The b.u.t.t of a standard issue blaster came down across the back of Stokes's head. All sixteen flabby stone of him slid heavily to the marble floor in much the same fashion as a badly designed building slips off a cliff edge.

Margo returned the blaster to its place on her belt. She looked around at the gallery and laughed. What nonsense!

It had been easy to escape from the cabin. That idiot Pyerpoint had thought to imprison her behind a simple door-lock! She had put on her uniform, crept to the emergency stairs and made her way down to the gallery un.o.bserved.

She picked up the sculpture of Ventol, the three-headed killer of the lower city, and threw it across the room. It smashed into serrated chunks and threw out a cloud of dust.

'I have returned!' she said exultantly. 'The time has come at last! The process has worked. I have full control!'

She reached for another of the exhibits.

The ultrasonic signal of the Doctor's whistle penetrated the transdimensional envelope of the TARDIS and made itself known to the small section of awareness K9 had left on line as he recharged his energy banks. The head of the robot dog tilted upward and his eyescreen glowed a healthy red.

'Coming, Master,' he said. 'This unit is fully recharged and functioning at ninety-six point eight seven per cent of full capacity.'

He sent a signal to the console that tripped the door control and whirred through.

The woman that had been Margo surveyed the ruins of the gallery and nodded approvingly. A beastly hiss issued from her lips. It would be good to kill, she thought. Just one Normal, now, as an appetizer. She would relish the taste of a death. The hefty weight of Stokes lay temptingly sprawled before her, but she dismissed him. She wanted to look into the eyes of her victim, to witness the terror that her gaze could bring. She had to kill.

She left the gallery and returned to the stairway. A Normal was sure to pa.s.s by eventually.

Romana sat on one of the leather b.u.t.toned couches that lined the corridors outside the courtrooms. The large and loud clock above the main courtroom had just struck six. Most of the lawyers and staff had returned to their quarters. She was reviewing the events of the last few hours in an attempt to follow the Doctor's reasoning. She was by now more than accustomed to his arbitrary behaviour and leaps of logic, but her examination of the facts could not clarify why he should have become so concerned over a sabotaged computer and a lying policeman. She suspected he was looking for complications that weren't there. She was also becoming bored.

Her boredom disappeared in an instant as she saw Zy walking along the corridor. His eyes were fixed ahead and he walked past without noticing her.

Curious, she climbed from the couch and followed him from the court area, taking care to keep her distance. He led her to a large metal door at the far end of the corridor. He stopped and glanced about nervously. She hid behind a pillar and watched as he slid the metal door open and walked through. Romana waited thirty seconds and pursued him. She knew from the map she'd memorized earlier that the door led to the emergency stairway, a network of steps that hugged the side of the station's buildings and led not only to the other floors but also to the Rock's emergency escape capsules.

Beyond was a narrow staircase that tapered spirally downwards into darkness. Old electric lamps shone up through the latticed metalwork of the steps. A chequered pattern of shadow fell over Romana's face.

The clatter of Zy's hurrying footsteps echoed up the shaft of the stair-well. Careful not to alert him to her presence, she slipped off her boots and tiptoed after him.

Spiggot checked another file. His eyes widened as he saw the name of the case. At last! He tugged it from the shelving and took it to the nearest desk for closer examination.

It had been stuffed with bundles of reports and notes and tied with rotting green string. He unpicked the knot and delved inside. It contained a lengthy summary of the case and relevant points of law, copies of the sentencing certificate, and a set of photographs sandwiched between squares of brown card secured in a plastic binder. Spiggot flipped the binder open.

It was much as the system had been told by the eager media three years before. The victims had been squashed flat, compressed into bundles of blood-drenched skin and bone.

Spiggot had seen death in many forms. It was part of the job and he was accustomed to it. But he'd never seen it like this.

He swallowed to calm his stomach and, recalling his rookie training, thought of ordinary, better things. His goldfish, his house, Angie and the kids.

He found the death certificate pressed beneath the book of photographs. It stated clearly that Xais, self-proclaimed princess of the Guaal Territories, last of the Ugly Mutants, genius, terrorist and killer of at least two thousand humans, had been terminated by particle reversal almost three years ago. The certificate had been signed by Margo and was countersigned by Pyerpoint.

He closed the file and tapped a finger against his teeth.

'Then who,' he wondered, 'killed the miners on Planet Eleven?'

Zy had led Romana on an exhausting climb down eight flights of stairs and had now reached the junction of the stairway with the bas.e.m.e.nt. Romana watched from what she considered to be a safe distance.

'The old coot,' she heard Zy mumble as he turned for the exit that would take him back to the gallery. 'He's finally going to get what's been coming to him.'

A step creaked under Romana's foot and Zy's head turned.