Deep Blue Read online

  ‘Flare gun?’ said Mike.

  Pickard nodded. ‘I think Terry here fired it point-blank at his attacker, who then either fell or was blown overboard.’

  ‘And Terry died later from loss of blood,’ murmured Mike.

  Pickard let the blanket fall back over the corpse. Mike straightened up.

  ‘Well, thanks again for your help, Inspector. You will keep me informed if there are any developments, won’t you?’

  Pickard smiled thinly. ‘If that’s what you want. Though I don’t think we’ll be arresting any little green men from Mars for this.’

  Mike matched Pickard’s smile with a disarming one of his own. ‘You never know, Inspector,’ he said. ‘You never know.’

  Guy Elkins woke up thinking about who in the world he would most like to kill. Just lately his mind was refusing to turn itself to any other subject. If his mates started talking about football or motorbikes or girls they’d like to sleep with, his thoughts would begin to slip and a strange buzzing would start up in his brain, drowning out their words. The last time he had been in the pub, four days ago, all he had been able to think about was smashing his beer glass on the counter and ramming the jagged edge into Carl Collier’s throat.

  Carl was his best mate, they had known each other since they were babies, but the thought of Carl’s blood spurting out filled him with a shudder of excitement he could barely control. He had felt sweat spring up on his brow, had clenched his teeth and gripped his beer glass so hard it was a wonder it hadn’t exploded in his fist. Carl had noticed the state he was in, had frowned and asked Guy if he was feeling all right. Guy had known what Carl was saying despite his words being drowned out by a buzzing so loud it was like having an electricity pylon in his head.

  The only reason he hadn’t slashed his best friend’s throat on that occasion was that he had forced himself, with a mighty effort of will, to let go of the glass, shove Carl out of the way and stagger out of the pub. He had set off for home at a stumbling run and hadn’t stopped until he got there. He had no idea whether Carl had come after him to find out what was wrong. Certainly Guy hadn’t seen him since he’d left him sitting bemusedly in a pool of beer on the pub floor.

  Guy and Carl, both eighteen now, had been getting into trouble together almost since they could walk. They’d been done for affray, burglary, vandalism, shoplifting, stealing cars. They knew each other’s strengths and limitations, knew they could rely on one another in a crisis. At least, they did until about ten days ago. It was then that Guy’s mind had started to... change.

  Guy, like Carl, had always enjoyed a good scrap. He believed there was nothing better than hearing the crunch of somebody’s nose breaking beneath his fist, of knocking somebody to the ground, spilling somebody’s blood. Just recently, though, the desire to inflict violence on other people had grown into an obsession, an addiction. It was as if something had taken him over, latched on to that desire within him, and had begun to feed it. In turn, the desire had responded, growing and flourishing like some rampant weed in his brain, and in the process strangling all other thoughts and needs. Today Guy didn’t just want to hurt people, he wanted to kill them, wanted to rip them apart, bathe in their blood. The sheer ferocity of his thoughts was terrifying and exhilarating. Yet although his bloodlust had engulfed him to the point where he could barely function on any social level, he had never felt more alive.

  All week he had been roaming the streets for stray animals or raiding people’s gardens for their pets, bringing them back to the house, torturing and killing them in his room. It assuaged his desires a little, but it was not enough. Sooner or later he knew he would have to move on to people. The only thing that had held him back was the extra attention it would bring, the fear of getting caught.

  It was not prison that scared him, though; far from it. He was simply terrified of being deprived of what he needed to feed his addiction. The buzzing urge to kill was so overwhelming that, were he to be denied the opportunity, he honestly believed his body would be ripped apart by the build-up of pressure inside him.

  So, who to kill? Who would he most like to kill? His drunken widower of a father who had never given a sod for him? Mrs Raymond, the vicious old cow of a headmistress who’d expelled him? Sergeant Weathers, who never got off his case, even when he wasn’t up to anything? Or how about that stupid bird, Janice Crooks, who had shrieked with laughter when he’d asked her out in the pub a few months ago?

  Anyone would do, right now. If an opportunity were to present itself where he knew he could kill Carl, his life-long mate, and not get caught for it, he’d do it. He’d kill old women, little kids, babies...

  Through the buzzing cacophony of his thoughts he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. Was this it? Was this what he’d been waiting for? Had a victim come to his lair? He scrambled out of bed and ran downstairs, only half-aware that he’d been wearing the same crumpled T-shirt and jeans for several days now, that in all that time he hadn’t washed or brushed his teeth or combed the lank, shoulder-length hair that he kidded himself made him look like Charlie George.

  He saw the man blink in shock and disgust as soon as he opened the door, saw it in the split-second before he covered it up. Guy was disappointed. The man looked lean and fit, as though he’d be hard to kill if Guy decided to try it, as though he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  The frustration gnawed inside him, seemed to awaken the terrible itching that constantly simmered just beneath the surface of his skin. He wanted to tear at his own chest and arms with his fingernails. He gave an involuntary moan and the man looked at him curiously.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I...’ Guy’s voice was a croak; his face felt like a loose rubber mask he was trying unsuccessfully to control. With a gargantuan effort he pulled himself together, though his voice sounded slurred and rasping. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My name is Mike Yates,’ the man said. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Derek Elkins. We have an appointment.’

  As the information seeped slowly into his brain, Guy could only stare at him.

  ‘Er... I was told he lived at this address,’ the man added helpfully. ‘Perhaps I was incorrectly informed?’

  Guy knew some sort of reaction was called for. He stepped back, dragging the door open as he did so. ‘No,’ he mumbled, and nodded at the door on his right. ‘There.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the man said, stepping inside. He gave Guy an encouraging smile. ‘Is it all right to go in?’

  Guy could only grunt and nod. The itching was becoming unbearable now. As the man stepped past him, Guy thought about ramming a knife into his guts, slashing his throat. He shuddered and moaned, his hand spasming.

  The man gave him another curious look and went into the room Guy had indicated. As soon as the door closed behind him, Guy turned and staggered towards the stairs. He was shaking, his head pounding, his body full of a desperate need. The itching was so bad it was like his skin was being torn by tiny hooks.

  He was stumbling like a drunk by the time he reached his room. He fell to his knees beside the bed and scrabbled beneath it. His hand closed around the jar and he yanked it out, almost salivating at the sight of the clear, jelly-like substance inside. He unscrewed the lid, put the jar shakily down on the floor and tore off his T-shirt.

  His chest and arms were covered with tiny black quills that had sprouted from his skin. He fingered them for a moment, shivering at the ripples that coursed through his body. He was fascinated and awed and oddly proud of the transformation he was undergoing He picked up the jar with his left hand and delved into it with his right, scooping out a lump of the jelly. Without hesitation he smeared the stuff on his arms and chest where the itching was most concentrated.

  Instantly the gel acted like a balm, cooling and soothing his inflamed skin. Guy crooned like an animal and sank to the floor. Soon, when the itching had subsided as much as it was going to, he would go out and find something to kill.

  ‘There’s someth
ing he’s not telling us,’ said Tegan. ‘I just know it.’

  ‘Feminine intuition?’ Turlough smirked.

  Tegan flashed him one of her dangerous looks. ‘Don’t make fun of me, Turlough.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Turlough said contritely. ‘I just think you’re reading something into the situation that isn’t there.’

  Tegan glanced anxiously across the hotel foyer at the Doctor, who was standing at the reception desk booking rooms for them all. ‘You don’t think he’s behaving strangely?’

  ‘No stranger than usual.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s being… secretive? Evasive?’

  Turlough sighed. ‘The Doctor’s always secretive. You might as well face up to it, Tegan. You’re never going to be privy to his innermost thoughts.’

  She glared at him. She still wasn’t sure whether Turlough meant to belittle her when he spoke like this or whether it was just his way. Whichever, his condescending manner was like a flame to her all-too-short fuse. ‘Well, I’ve known him a lot longer than you have,’ she snapped, ‘and I reckon he’s up to something’

  It had started in the fairground, this vague and distracted manner of the Doctor’s, which Tegan felt certain meant there was something rather substantial on his mind. It couldn’t still be the events on Sea Base Four which were disturbing him, could it? Tegan knew that the Doctor abhorred violence and regarded violent death as a senseless waste, but he had seen so many tragedies, so many atrocities in his long lives that he tended to put them aside quickly, sometimes forgot them within minutes of re-entering the TARDIS - or so it had always seemed.

  No, Tegan felt certain it wasn’t that. So, what was it?

  Maybe Turlough was right. Was she simply looking for trouble where there wasn’t any?

  Her anger evaporated and she sighed as doubt crept in to replace it. The thing was, travelling with the Doctor had made her expect trouble wherever she went. If she hadn’t been captured or shot at within ten minutes of arriving somewhere she became suspicious. Which, to be honest, was no way to be, was it? Perhaps she ought to think about getting out before she became so battle-hardened that her encounters with death became no more distressing than... than breaking a fingernail or stubbing a toe.

  The Doctor strode back across the hotel foyer, oblivious to the strange looks he was attracting, and dangled room keys in front of each of his companions’ faces. Turlough took his, but Tegan looked up at the Doctor with a frown and asked,

  ‘Why are we staying here?’

  The Doctor looked surprised. ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘It’s not a case of like or dislike. It’s...’ She paused a moment to collect her thoughts, which gave Turlough the opportunity to insinuate himself silkily into the conversation.

  ‘Tegan thinks you have a hidden agenda, Doctor.’

  She went puce with fury, but the Doctor simply looked baffled. ‘Hidden agenda? Whatever do you mean?’

  Turlough smirked in the face of Tegan’s anger and pressed the fingertips of his hands together.

  Speaking as though she was biting off each word and spitting it out, Tegan said, ‘I just want to know what we’re doing here, that’s all.’

  ‘Doing?’ said the Doctor, still baffled, or feigning it. ‘We’re having a holiday. I told you, I thought we could all do with one.’

  Tegan was irritated by his presumption, but decided not to pursue it; she was more concerned with the matter in hand.

  ‘But why here? We’ve got our rooms in the TARDIS.’

  ‘What’s the point of going on holiday but staying at home?’

  said the Doctor.

  Tegan sighed again. She was getting nowhere fast. Maybe there was nowhere to get. ‘All right, I’ll buy it,’ she said. ‘But you would tell us if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you, Doctor?’

  ‘If I thought we had any cause to worry, I’d certainly inform you of the circumstances,’ he assured her.

  The key to the room he had booked for Tegan was still looped over his forefinger. She took it and picked up the bag he had told her to pack in the TARDIS after their afternoon at the fun-fair.

  As they waited for the lift, the Doctor rocked back on his heels, hands in pockets, and commented on the architecture.

  Turlough nodded but remained silent. Tegan merely grunted.

  Their rooms were on the fourth floor. Tegan had 404, Turlough 408 and the Doctor 418 at the end of the corridor.

  ‘See you later,’ he said with a brisk smile outside the door to Tegan’s room and turned to stride away.

  ‘When later?’ she called after him.

  ‘Dinner at seven,’ he replied without turning back.

  She made an exasperated face, which Turlough, fitting the key into the door of his own room, responded to with what might have been construed as a sympathetic raising of the eyebrows. Tegan went into her room and shut the door.

  Looking around, she huffed out a sigh, though in fact it was a very pleasant room, spacious and airy with butter-yellow walls and a deep-mattressed double bed. She dumped her bag on the armchair beside the dressing table and strode across to the large window flanked by flowery curtains on the far wall. She opened the window wide and, sticking her head out, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

  Immediately, she felt calmer. The combination of warm sunlight on her face and the salty tang of sea air filling her lungs was a soothing panacea. The cries of gulls, though raucous, were familiar and comforting, transporting her back to a happy weekend she had spent in Brighton with Aunt Vanessa not long after arriving in England, and to days sailing off the south coast with her grandfather.

  With a guilty start she remembered that the last time she had seen her grandfather he had been about to move house and she had promised to visit him just as soon as she returned from Amsterdam. However it was in Amsterdam that she had met up with the Doctor again. She wondered now how her grandfather had taken her apparent disappearance - he was bound to be worried about her.

  She pulled her head back in through the window, then blinked. Of course! The solution was so blindingly obvious she was a dolt for not having thought of it straight away. All she had to do was ask the Doctor to take her to visit her grandfather before he had cause to wonder where she was.

  Tegan had never been one to let the grass grow under her feet. She believed in striking while the iron was hot, acting on impulse. Of course, this attitude had got her into trouble many times, but she knew she would never change.

  She almost ran across the room and pulled open the door, only remembering at the last moment to go back and snatch up the key from the bed before yanking the door shut behind her. She marched down the corridor and rapped on the Doctor’s door. There was no answer. She knocked again, put her ear to the door, and called out, ‘Doctor? Doctor, are you in there?’

  Still no reply. Was he sleeping or just ignoring her?

  Frustrated, she pounded on the door with her fist and shouted, ‘Doctor, will you please answer me? I need to talk to you!’

  A door further down the corridor opened and Turlough popped his head out. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘What does it look like? I want to talk to the Doctor, but he won’t answer.’

  Turlough wandered up and put his ear to the door.

  ‘Perhaps he’s not there.’

  ‘Well, where is he then?’

  He raised his hands as if to protect himself from her anger.

  ‘I only said perhaps. I don’t know any more than you do.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered, and marched down the corridor and through the half-open door into Turlough’s room. Polite applause from the cricket match on the TV

  greeted her as she entered. The carpet bag that the Doctor had lent Turlough was open on the bed, though he had not yet removed any of its contents. Tegan snatched up the phone on the bedside table and dialled the Doctor’s room number. Receiving no reply, she banged down the phone, then immediately picked it up again and dialled
‘10’.

  ‘Reception,’ said a woman’s voice.

  ‘Hello, this is Tegan Jovanka from room 404. I’m trying to get in touch with a friend of mine in room 418, but there’s no reply.’

  ‘Dr John Smith?’ said the woman.

  ‘Er... yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Just a moment please, Miss Jovanka.’ There was a brief pause, then ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jovanka, but Dr Smith left the hotel about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Left?’ exclaimed Tegan, her previous suspicions reawakening. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Jovanka, but I believe he left you a note... Ah yes, here it is.’

  ‘Could you read it please?’

  ‘Certainly, Miss Jovanka.’ There was the sound of rustling paper, then the woman said, ‘Dear Tegan and Turlough, I’ve had to pop out for a while. Things to do. See you soon. The Doctor.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Jovanka.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tegan, tight-lipped, and put the phone down.

  The Doctor sniffed the air like a bloodhound but could detect nothing unusual. He appeared nonchalant as he strolled along the promenade, hands in pockets, though in fact his mind was attuned to the slightest trace of the telepathic link he had briefly established earlier.

  It was an alien mind he had made contact with, of that he was certain. But as to where it had come from, he had no idea. His gaze roamed along the rows of seafront shops and hotels and boarding-houses; he peered up into the diamond-blue sky and watched the gulls wheeling and screeching; he scanned the busy stretch of dun-coloured beach where people were sunbathing, playing football, flying kites, building sandcastles, paddling in the shallows or bobbing among the waves; he stared out to sea, which shifted and rippled and swelled constantly, as if myriad pulses were beating at random beneath its blue and glassy skin.

  He ordered a ‘99’ from an ice-cream van and asked the heavily sideburned proprietor whether he had seen anything unusual in the town recently.