"Great God Almighty, Kevin. I thought I told you to get some decent clothes?"

Kevin stepped out of the porch, having undergone the ritual of what he thought of as the UV shower. "This is great gear, Doc. It's the latest season from Hilfiger. D'you, like, not like it?"

"It's a hoodie, Kevin. And the letters spelling the brand name aren't even sewn on very well. They've not even bothered to trim the threads off the edges."

"That's the whole thing, man. It's what you pay for. It's the look."

"Let me correct you: it's what I paid for. Do you have the receipts, as I asked?"

"I'm not taking them back." Kevin handed over some crumpled pieces of paper.

The Doctor examined the receipts. "Since when were people stupid enough to pay a premium for such shoddy workmanship? The whole point of the industrial revolution was not just mass-production, but consistently higher quality. I suppose I ought to take my hat off to Mr Hilfiger for charging a premium for lowering the quality."

"Let me point something out to you, Doc. The way I figure it is that one of the reasons you hired me is because I is street. You can do, like, all this high-end stuff with physics and time travel and all that palaver, but the one thing you ain't got in your armoury is street knowledge."

"I could acquire it; like I could acquire any language or knowledge."

"Look at you, man. You is square. In fact, you has, like, got more right angles than a cube."

"Very good, Kevin."

"Thanks. But my point is that you are an," Kevin furrowed his brow, "an anachronism. You're lucky you don't get mugged with your black suit and your white shirt."

"A time-travelling anachronism. How humorous. Do you know what a tautology is, Kevin?" He brushed the youth's answer aside, irritated that his companion might have a decent stab at the correct answer. "The gentleman's suit is one of the most versatile pieces of clothing in the Pleasant universe. Two breast pockets inside, a breast one outside and two capacious ones at the bottom, each with a shelf for change. The trousers have two pockets to the front and two to the rear, both of which button shut. In the event of a marine incident, the trousers may come off; the ends of the legs can be tied and used as a flotation device. I'm sure you must have learnt that in swimming at school using a pair of pyjamas. I will leave aside the extraordinary physical qualities of the material used in this particular suit, but the shirt is made of a lighter version of it. A shirt and suit is one of the most adaptable sartorial choices ever invented. Furthermore, it bestows authority on its wearer."

"What about a spacesuit?"

"What?"

"Neil Armstrong didn't wear a two-piece single-breasted suit to the moon. You get me?"

"Don't act the smart-ass with me, laddie. My point is that a suit will get you in anywhere."

"Yeah, like a funeral parlour."

"I think you'll find that more people are murdered in hoodies, Kevin."

"Yeah, but more people are seen dead in suits. So what do you want me to do, then?"

The Doctor sighed heavily. "I suppose on the plus side your outfit doesn't smell of fried food yet. Though I'm sure you'll work on it soon enough. Look, here's another couple of hundred to get yourself another outfit for when you need to dress up a bit smarter. And for when you don't want to be subject to random stop-and-searches by the police."

"Sorry. It's just, like, this is my uniform. You understand me? You might think I'm more likely to get stabbed wearing this, but it's less conspicuous where I live."

"Sure. I suppose times have changed. A hundred years ago the guy sweeping the street would wear a suit. Not a great one, but nevertheless a suit. Where I go it gets me instant respect."

"That's what I'm saying, Doc. You wear a suit like that in my manor and you're the enemy, innit? Like everyone thought you was with the Feds the other night. And that landed me right in it."

"Speaking of which, how are your friends?"

Kevin smiled. "Like you said, man. They just steer clear of me at the moment. They is like scalded cats but they don't know why. Cool."

"Even so, I want you to keep clear of them. Understood?"

"Yes, boss."

"Excellent. Now, come with me."

Kevin followed the Doctor to the cellar, but hesitated at the bottom step because Trinity was sitting in the chair he'd sat in the last time. She gave a loud meowl and sat bolt upright. He walked hesitantly over and reached out to stroke her head. She pressed up into his hand, and he stroked her. "Good girl. Mind if I sit here?"

Trinity stood up and looked at him with her glowing green eyes. He understood what he had to do, and picked her up.

"Jesus, she's heavy. I've got a three-year-old cousin who weighs less than this." He set her down on his lap. She put her front paws on his left thigh and he felt the prick of her claws through his jeans as she flexed them. He wondered how much blood they'd spilled. This was one cat that could handle herself on the streets. Spider, he reminded himself. Or something. She settled down and began purring.

"Oh, I forgot to mention your DNA tests the other night."

"You what? You mean the Feds have fitted me up for something?"

The Doctor looked at him for a second. "Oh, I see. You think I've checked your DNA against scenes-of-crime evidence held on the police national DNA database. No, no. That's not what I mean at all. I mean your DNA's history. And your future. Would you like to know?"

"Like, what's the downside?"

"Some people don't like to know their genetic susceptibility to cancer, Alzheimer's, heart disease and so forth."

"Can you give me a hint? Like, would I want to know how I'm going to die?"

"These are only for increased propensities, Kevin. I can only tell you what you have a greater chance of dying from if you make poor lifestyle choices. I can't tell you whether you're going to get run over by a bus next week. Though I suppose your intelligence and sensory perception might have a bearing on it."

"Like, can you just summarise?"

"As you wish. It would be a terrific idea if you were to give the fried food a rest. Your father died from heart disease, didn't he?" Kevin nodded. "Scottish," continued the Doctor. "Tie that to a loving wife who believes the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, combine it with a lethal Caledonian-Caribbean diet and... well, you know the result. Sorry. Eat more fresh fruit and veg, eh? Less KFC and more of the piri-piri. Go easy on the fries and the sodas."

"You mentioned my history?"

"So I did. Ever wondered how a Caledonian-Afro-Caribbean boy has blue eyes?"

"Yeah, I had. It's actually been remarked on. They used to bully me for being a 'coconut' at school."

"Coconut?"

"Black on the outside, white on the inside. To put it into language you can understand, Doctor, it's a common derogatory term when you don't like the behaviour or appearance of someone else of colour."

"I see. Interesting. There are none so judgemental as one's own race." The Doctor paused for thought. "True enough."

"Why is it?"

"I suppose part of it might be envy, but also a kind of racial pride. It would depend on the situation."

"No, I mean my blue eyes, man."

"Seven generations ago, one of your ancestors by the name of Ekua – from Ghana, incidentally – had the great fortune to be spared the worst. She was a comely lady, as they would have said back in those times, and caught the eye of a Mr Cruachan – a supervisor at the plantation. You are a direct descendant of the male born of their union. Your family's carried the recessive gene for blue eyes since then and your father had blue eyes. When you were conceived, those blue eyes popped out to say hello."

"Cheers, Doc. It was so worth the years of bullying. How the hell do you know all this?"

"We keep detailed records, and what we don't know we can derive or impute. Your Scottish ancestry has served you well, Kevin, and in ways you'll only come to understand in the future."

"Meaning?"

"In terms of genetics it might protect you against your mother's family's propensity for obesity and diabetes, as well as sickle cell anaemia. You retain just enough of that gene to afford you a touch of protection against malaria. And for the rest of it, I have a feeling we'll be delving into your family history in more detail in another one of our little adventures."

"I can't wait. Really. Sorry to be rude, but can I just ask where in the space-time continuum this particular adventure we has embarked upon is going to take us?"

"Essex."

"You have got to be joking. What about Jupiter or Mars? Or Alpha Centauri or something?"

"Why the hell would we go there?"

"Why the hell would you go to Essex if you have the rest of the bleedin' universe to choose from? In fact, why go to Essex if you have the rest of Britain to choose from. Or anywhere for that matter."

"You've completely lost me, Kevin."

"Look, when the Eleventh Doctor takes on Clara Oswald as his new assistant, he asks her where she wants to go. That was in The Rings of Akhaten."

"Oh, dear God," said the Doctor. "That is fiction, Kevin. We're dealing with cold, hard reality here."

"But –"

"It's unfortunate that this particular investigation doesn't meet with your somewhat ambitious travel expectations, Kevin." The youth's eyes nearly popped out at the Doctor's understatement, but he chose to remain silent. "However, expediency suggests that Essex is our first port of call. To put it in your parlance, Dagenham is where the action is, man."

"It depends what kind of action you is after, Doc. If you want white racist blokes with beer-bellies then it's right up your street, innit?"

"That's a racist comment in itself – don't be such a hypocrite."

"This sucks, Doc. I thought I was signing up for some kind of intergalactic adventure thing."

"It was so much easier in the past. Damn the BBC and their idiotic scriptwriters for creating these sorts of expectations. Damn them to hell." The Doctor took a deep breath. "Look, I don't know what there might be waiting for us in Essex."

"I can't wait to find out, Doc. Mind you, this is going to be my first trip in the TAR—" Kevin saw the Doctor stiffen. "In the Spectrel, innit? Man, that is just cool beyond imagining."

"What on earth makes you think we're going in the Spectrel?"

"But Time Lords always travel in the T – in their Spectrels, don't they?"

"Only if absolutely necessary."

"You what?"

"It's another myth put about by those scoundrels. Dramatic effect and all that. It's all his fault."

"What do you mean?"

"Who's fault."

"No, I asked you first."

"No, you clot. It's Who's fault – Dr bloody Who. That's who!"

"Why?"

"No, not Why. I said it's Who's fault."

"Whose fault?"

"Yes. Who."

"What?"

"No! Listen, damn you. Don't bring Why or What into it. It's nothing to do with them. It's Who's fault."

"That's what I'm trying to establish, Doctor. Whose fault is it?"

"Yes. It's Who's fault; now, can we just bloody get on with it and stop arguing the toss and bringing the others into it?"

"Like, you really need talking therapy, Doc. We is uncovering some major anger-management issues here."

Trinity quaked in Kevin's lap, her head bobbing up and down.

"Sorry, this is my fault. I see that now. Let me explain a little bit more to you. There are six of us. The others are What, Why, When, Where, and Who."

"Six Time Lords? I thought there was, like, the whole planet of Gallifrey, and you've got the Master and Rana, and –" He caught a look from the Doctor. "Sorry, Gaelfrey."

"Please, Kevin. Will you just be quiet and listen to me? There are six of us. We are not Time Lords. That is a gross aggrandisement; a title which suited a certain someone. Powerful we may be, but lords we are not. We are Time Keepers. Referees, if you will."

"Referees?"

The Doctor sighed. "What was the one instruction I gave you?"

"Uh... Stick with you and do as you say?"

"Precisely, now I would like you to just shut up and listen. We are Time Keepers. We alone have free rein to make temporal journeys. Time travel is an undertaking not to be taken lightly. The consequences can be dire – cataclysmic. The sort of foul-ups that can end a universe. I'm sure you must be aware of that, even from your own culture's popular conception of it. That is not to say that we are the only ones who can travel in time, but we are the only ones allowed free rein to do so. Even then we are bound by an intergalactic treaty, which means we must adhere to a certain code.

"Your appointment as my assistant was a matter of some significance, not to say some controversy. I may say there were some grave reservations about your previous behaviour, but I gave a personal assurance that I understood you to be someone of the rarest good character. In some respects, rather like an ancestor of yours from the sixth century. Don't let me down. You have questions?"

"Where are the other guys? The other Time Keepers?"

"I know of their whereabouts, but not of their circumstances. We had a... disagreement. A bit of a falling-out. That was some fifty years ago. I alone chose to stay on the true path. The others have, shall we say, drifted a little. In fact, one of them first drifted about nine hundred years ago. But the serious rift was in 1963. I have a strong feeling I shall be reacquainting myself with them in the coming adventures. You will have the rare, if not privileged, opportunity to witness it."

"You said these guys are your cousins? Is that, like, for real? It's, like, not a turn of phrase?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Well, I refer to my bluds as cuz, sometimes. Is it like that, or is they real blood relatives?"

"Yes, four of them are cousins. One of them is my twin brother. I'm sure you can guess who."

"Who?"

"Yes."

"No, who?"

"Exactly." The Doctor's gaze was in some far-off place, his voice low and monotone. "He was always the troublesome one. He instigated the rift, cemented the separation. Blabbed to the Beeb. I can never forgive him for that. Never."

Kevin brightened. "My Mum actually knows someone who's a psychologist. Rather than wait six months on the NHS, she could see you privately. You know, for talking therapy."

The Doctor shot up from his seat. "We're going to Essex. Now."

"But I want to hear the rest of the stuff about your family. I'm actually a really big Dr Who fan, you know."

"Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. You – and millions of others – weren't to know. You're all innocent victims in all of this. You've been duped."

"But I want to hear –"

"All in good time, as we Gaelfreyans like to say. Some of us don't give up our secrets so easily. Or cheaply. Come."

 

One of the perks Kevin hadn't counted on was an Oyster card – the pre-paid electronic card used on London's transport network. However, the potential saving of hundreds of pounds of travel expenses was little compensation for the disappointment of not having his first trip in the Spectrel. The Doctor briefed him on the way, showing him some photographs from a website to which Kevin was a regular visitor. Run by a retired policeman, it allowed serving officers to submit material that was too far-fetched for routine reports.

They arrived in Dagenham by rail, and the Doctor consulted his smartphone. "It's just a mile or so over to the east," he said.

"So we'll get a cab, then?"

"Heavens, no – we'll walk."

"We're going to walk to a taxi depot? Is this for real?"

"Yes, it's all for real, Kevin. Come on."

They arrived twenty minutes later in a semi-industrial area of tatty red brick buildings which had avoided refurbishment since their heyday in the Fifties. The compound belonging to Grove Cab Services was around fifty feet wide and a hundred long. Grey metal fencing ten feet high separated it from the road at the front and sides, and the railway embankment at the rear. The fence posts were flattened galvanised steel with a triple point at the top. A profusion of weeds grew at the bottom, and the top had been secured with razor wire. On two sides the compound was bordered by buildings – those belonging to the business were at the front, and on the other side there was the external wall of a neighbouring unit. Three cabs – their roofs scratched and windows broken –– sat on the pot-holed tarmac, set at odd angles to each other as if they'd been casually put down by a giant. A white transit van that had seen better days was the only other vehicle in the yard. The crash of a piece of metal falling echoed from inside one of the buildings at the front. A passenger train rattled past on the embankment fifteen feet above as the Doctor and Kevin approached the entrance to the office.

"Let me do the talking, but follow my lead," said the Doctor. "You're my assistant. Your area of expertise is car mechanics."

"But I don't know the first thing about cars."

"Then you should be working at your local garage."

"What?"

"You'd fit in perfectly and earn a fortune on repeat business."

"I don't get you."

"That was humour, Kevin. I do it sometimes."

The Doctor pushed open the door and they found themselves in a small, basic reception area – the kind of reception area that never receives female visitors. A man looked up from a desk behind the counter. He was bald, white and in his fifties. "Can't do nothing for you, guv. Bit of an accident the other day, and the owner-drivers are all over in town. I hate to say it, but there's a private hire firm just down the road there. They usually have a couple of spare drivers."

"Mr Grove? We're from the insurance," said the Doctor.

"Eh? We had someone in yesterday doing the assessment."

"Loss adjustment," corrected the Doctor. "Who was it? Briggs'?"

"No, Swann."

"Well, that explains everything." The Doctor lifted up a flap in the counter and moved into Grove's personal space. "We don't just underwrite them, we have to check every adjustment they make. We just need to take a quick look at the damage. Take some pictures."

"Erm. Sure. Be my guest." Mr Grove stood up, revealing a pronounced beer belly. Kevin dug the Doctor in the ribs.

"My understanding is that your business maintains its own fleet of cabs, and maintains cabs for owner-drivers," said the Doctor.

"Yeah, s'right," said Grove, leading them through to the exit at the back. He held it open for them as they stepped into the yard. Close up, they could see that the three cabs had scratches and dents on their right-hand sides. "They was all turned over on their backs when we came in. Fuel tanks severed."

"You've done a good job of cleaning up the diesel – I see no trace of it on the surface of the puddles," said the Doctor.

"There weren't none. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to half-inch a few gallons of fuel."

"And the police didn't find any prints?"

"They dusted the side of that one." Grove drew them round to show them the side of a cab that had been covered in fine aluminium powder. "But of course you've got hundreds of members of the public all over them doors every day. Waste of time."

"And I believe the intruder or intruders got in over there?" The Doctor pointed to an area of fencing bordering the railway embankment at the back. The cross-bars at the bottom had been severed and a section several feet wide had been bent upwards to the height of a man.

"Bleedin' amazing, innit?" said Grove as they walked over to examine it. "This is quality stuff. Cost us a fortune. You'd need an oxy-acetylene torch to get through that in a reasonable time. Then you'd want some big jacks to do the bending, wouldn't you?"

"And there's nothing to set the jacks against except the earth embankment, so the initial bending would be a problem."

"Exactly." Grove pointed towards the end of the fence. "And you'd have to haul all that kit through these brambles." He laughed. "And for what? Vandalise some black cabs? Use the jacks to turn 'em over on their backs and then cut the fuel tanks off to nick the diesel? If that makes sense to you, then you should be certified. Never 'eard of anything like it."

"Any CCTV footage?"

"Camera only covers the exit. You expect someone to try and half-inch vehicles, and – like I say – you don't expect someone to go to this bother to do this."

The Doctor pulled a camera out of his jacket pocket and took a couple of pictures from different angles. "I imagine you must feel rather hard done-by."

Grove laughed again. "Hard done-by don't even come into it, squire. Here, you'll want to see the underside of one of them cabs."

They turned and walked back to the building. Adjacent to where they'd exited the office was a metal roller-shutter, which Grove banged on. "George!" A few seconds later there was the whine of an electric motor and the shutter clattered upwards into its cover to reveal another overweight middle-aged man next to the control pad. Once it reached the height of the Doctor's head, the shutter stopped with a rattle and they walked into the workshop. There were two hydraulic platforms side by side, but only one black cab was being serviced. It was four feet off the ground. The crashing sound they'd heard earlier was evidently a damaged side panel being removed.

"Insurance," said Grove, jerking a thumb at the Doctor and Kevin. "Give her a couple more feet." He grabbed an electric light in a protective cage on the end of a cable and switched it on.

George clicked a button on the wall and the cab rose high enough for the others to get in underneath. The Doctor had to duck his head slightly.

"There you are. Clean cut. I don't know what does that. Biggest pair of pliers on God's green Earth, I should have thought." He tapped Kevin on the chest and then pointed along the fuel line. "You can see for yourself I'm going to have to replace the entire line. Yeah?"

"Goes without saying," said Kevin, trying to sound like he understood.

The Doctor took a couple more photographs and pocketed his camera. From the same pocket he brought out a glass phial with a bud sticking down into the container from the stopper at the top. "Has anyone touched this?"

"George? Did you touch the tank yet?"

"Nah. No spares for any of that. Had a side-panel in stock. Get through plenty of those. The other stuff is on order. Maybe later today."

The Doctor pulled the stopper off the top of the phial and rubbed the bud against the surfaces of the cut.

"What's that for?" asked Grove.

"Looking for traces of whatever made the cut."

"You're 'aving a giraffe, ain't you?"

"Nothing humorous about modern forensic loss-adjustment," said the Doctor. "I'd certainly be interested in what kind of tool was used."

"I'd be much happier if you could just get the readies to me. This is murder on my cash flow – not to mention damage to my reputation. Hang on...... are you implying that we might have used some of our own gear to do this?"

"Not at all. What would be your motive?"

"Well, exactly. Thank you."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to examine that hole in the fence again."

"I thought you was wanting to see more of the damage to the cabs?"

"Eh? Oh, well we'd want to make sure the fence was secure to prevent a repeat. Otherwise you'd expect a jump in premiums, wouldn't you?"

"Sure. Whatever. You do what you have to do. Some of us have to work for a living." Grove went back to his office and the Doctor ushered Kevin over to the hole in the fence.

"Whatever did this was unbelievably strong," said the Doctor. He dabbed a second phial against the severed edges of the metal. "And where did it come from and go to?"

"The bushes the other side have been crushed a bit," said Kevin. "Something's been in them."

"Yes, I see that. Then further up the embankment it's all been cut back by the railway company so you can't see any traces of where whatever it was might have come from. Typical." He stepped underneath the gap and looked along the back of the fence, to where it ran into the back wall of the neighbouring business. "Bingo."

"What?"

"You should see this. The brambles have been crushed and ripped right along the back of these properties. There's a mound of fresh earth against the back wall over there. Come on, lad."

Kevin followed him along the bottom of the embankment, stumbling a couple of times when his feet snagged on bramble stems. The Doctor seemed to have little difficulty, and the youth was out of breath when they reached the edge of the pile. He flapped the bottom of his hoodie to let fresh air in.

"Smell that, Kevin?"

"Diesel, innit?"

"Exactly. See how earth has spread out against the wall? Whatever it was has burrowed into the side of the embankment, so the soil's scattered down and to the side slightly. Absolutely no sign that the police even bothered coming to look at this. Hopeless."

He climbed up the embankment to just above the disturbed soil and stamped on it. "Sounds hollow. This mound of earth wasn't dumped here; it's a burrow." He stamped hard again nearer to the edge of the earth and a clod came away underfoot, causing him to lose his balance and teeter. Once he'd recovered he kicked the clod away to reveal the top of a hole leading into the side of the embankment. He made a face and then stepped onto the earth so that he could bend down and take a look inside. He sank up to his ankles.

"Aren't you, like, scared, Doctor?"

"This was done a couple of days ago. The amount of soil displaced would indicate that this is either a small hole dug as a temporary hiding place, or that the thing that dug it is moving through the ground."

"I don't understand."

"This amount of soil," the Doctor indicated the mound he was standing on, "we can probably assume is about the size of the thing that dug it out. If it had dug a temporary hole to hide in, then it probably would have done a better job of covering up the entrance. All I can see through here is the top of more soil. So the thing is just displacing an amount of soil equal to the volume of its body as it tunnels. That's my view, anyway." He gave a rare smile. "My professional opinion, as someone who has investigated plenty of seemingly inexplicable phenomena. Whatever did this has long gone."

"Like where?"

"I have no idea. Underground. The sewers, perhaps? Unlikely, since they are underneath the service roads for this estate, rather than to the rear. And it might be too big to fit in anything but a main sewer. You saw the size of the tailings from the first incident."

"Tailings?"

"You know: spoil. The right word for the stuff left over from mining activity. I think we can call this either tailings or spoil, since we've established that this is a burrow. Precision is key in these things, Kevin."

"Whatever."

"Oh, please don't be flippant. What else do you think we can deduce from this?"

"Are you, like, seriously asking me?"

"Of course. I want to teach you to think a little for yourself."

Kevin sucked his teeth. "We know it's incredibly strong." The Doctor nodded. "It seems to like diesel. It burrows."

"And?"

"It can cut through metal."

"Good. And what else?"

"Uh... it hates black cabs?"

"Exactly. It seems to have a little penchant for wrecking black cabs. Very good. Or it could be a 'they', rather than an 'it'. And every incident took place at night."

"Yeah. So, uh, where does that leave us?"

"Absolutely nowhere. I need to see the results of the samples I've taken. Come." The Doctor pulled his feet out of the pile of mud and shook the dirt from them. Every trace fell off, leaving behind perfectly clean black trousers and polished shoes. He started walking back through the mutilated undergrowth towards the hole in the fence.

"That's like...amazing. Can I get some clothes made of that?"

"Restricted technology," said the Doctor over his shoulder. "Sorry." His tone brightened a little, and he added, "Though your people are getting fairly close." He chuckled to himself. "It's funny. It was way before your time, and it's not played much on the TV these days – not that I think you watch old black-and-white films anyway – but there was a film called The Man in the White Suit. Came out in the early Fifties. Alec Guinness played the lead. You'd know him better as –"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi in the original Star Wars!"

"Oh, well remembered."

"Gimme a break, Doc. Like, how could I not know? How could I not know my man Obi-Wan?"

"If you believe the press, most inner-city children don't know that milk comes from a cow, or potatoes from the ground."

"Well, that's like, not important information, is it?"

The Doctor stopped and twisted round to look at Kevin. "You what?"

"Like, am I going to milk a cow in Tulse Hill, Doc? Or am I going to dig up some plant roots if I want fries? Nah, I'm just going to rock over to BK and get me some fries and a milkshake, innit? Milk comes from a bottle, or a machine if you want a shake. It's irrelevant. You get me? That information is, like, surplus to my requirements. I don't need to know that in order to survive in today's sophisticated urban environment, does I?"

"Well, I suppose you're right on one thing: those milkshakes have probably never seen a cow either. I dread to think what I'd find if I did tests on one of those."

"So get on with your story."

The Doctor ducked under the bent fence and back into the yard. "Oh, just a recollection. It was only a few years after the end of the war. Things were still fresh in the folk memory. Science had taken leaps and bounds, and a few people had seen the seemingly impossible in the previous decade – aeroplanes without propellers, for example; the jet-powered fighter. So they wrote this satire about a man who had invented a miracle material which was incredibly hard-wearing and impervious to any kind of contamination. Since it couldn't be dyed, it was white. Hence The Man in the White Suit."

"So what happened?"

"The factory owners and the unions realised he was a threat to the entire business, so they tried to stop him, of course. He'd have ruined them all – destroyed the industry. In the end, the material turned out to be unstable, so the suit fell apart and all was well."

"So you're afraid if you give us this cloth we'll not have a textile manufacturing industry?"

"No, not at all. You're such a vain species you'll never tire of wasteful fashions. You'd probably end up with endless landfills full of perfectly good clothes you simply didn't like."

"Thanks for yet another insult."

"Not intended. Sorry."

"Well, what's your point?"

"No point, dear boy. No point. Just an amusing anecdote about our portrayal in popular culture."

"You mean...?"

"It's difficult to keep everything a complete secret. Things leak at the sides. One of the film's writers, Alexander Mackendrick, worked for the Ministry of Information during the war."

"So what about Doctor Who the TV series?"

"That was a step too far. I will talk no more on this matter for now. You will find out more in our further adventures." The Doctor opened the office door in the back of the building and Kevin followed him inside.

Grove swivelled in his seat. "See all you wanted to see?"

"Yes, thank you," said the Doctor. "Just one thing. Was the Transit van left here overnight?"

"Yeah. The van was here. So was one of the other cabs."

"Really?" said the Doctor.

"Well, yeah. I did mention it in the original report."

"I must have missed that. My apologies. And this other cab wasn't damaged at all?"

"Not apart from the paint and the flat battery. A couple of scratches on the roof."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, these vandals had splashed this stuff over the back of it. Took the paint off. The police said it was like that gel they use to remove graffiti. Corroded the rubber around the rear window too. That'll have to be replaced. It's at the paint shop now getting a respray."

"Was there anything different about this cab?"

"Jesus, you said Swann was bad. I don't think much of your outfit either. Did you actually read the report?"

"I can only apologise. They tend to send me into these things a bit blind – start from first principles and all that."

"It was an older model. FX4. Rounder lines. You know the one. Superseded by the TX1 back in, let me see, ninety-seven I think it was. Problem with the FX4 was that you can leave the lights on after taking the key out. Can't do that in the later models."

"Go on."

"Well, the driver had left the internal lights on. Oh, and the Taxi sign."

"The orange sign on the front that lights up when it's for hire?"

"Yep."

"Hmm. That's food for thought. Thank you." The Doctor raised the flap in the counter and held it open for Kevin. "I don't suppose you saw whether the police took any samples of that gunk?"

"Nah, we washed it off."

"I just need to see that. You can stay there if you like, Kevin."

"Gordon Bennett," said Grove.

The Doctor hurried out the back door and was directed to the spot where the older cab had been standing. "Where was the rear of the vehicle?"

"Just there, mate."

"About where this puddle is?"

"Yeah."

The Doctor took out another phial, dipped it into the muddy water and put the stopper back on. He held it up to the light.

"Happy now?" asked Grove.

"Oh, as I'll ever be." He walked back to the office door.

"You sure you're not with the Old Bill?"

"The police? No. As I say, we have to do these tests to try to see what caused the damage." He opened the door. "After you."

Grove walked back into his office and eyed Kevin, who was leaning against the exit, playing with his phone. "Like I say, I feel like I'm under investigation here."

"Don't worry about it."

"Can I have your card? I'd like to keep in touch. You know, in case anything else turns up."

Kevin perked up, looking ready to make a fast exit.

"My card? Certainly." The Doctor reached into his left breast pocket and took out his wallet. He took out a card and presented it.

"Michael Wallace, Loss Adjuster, Alperton Claims. Right enough then, Mr Wallace. I'll email you if I think of anything else."

"I'm much obliged to you, Mr Grove," said the Doctor, and ushered Kevin outside.

"That was impressive. I didn't realise you was a con artist too," said Kevin, as soon as they were round the corner.

"Con artist? I didn't con Grove out of anything, and had no intention of doing so, either. I like to think of that role as being one of confidence trickster. One just needs the confidence and the props. I printed that card on an ordinary colour printer this morning. By the way, how far do you think we'd have got if we'd both been wearing hoodies?"

"Alright, I take your point. Now, it's way past my lunch and I need to eat."

"Very well, but no fried food. I need you to be fighting fit."

"If you want to eat healthy, you're in the wrong place. This is Dagenham, Doc. Get real."