‘Which renders you just perfect,’ said margarita woman, and the young barman unexpectedly remembered what his old gran had always said about redheads. ‘When you’re ready, please, professor.’
The barman tried to get out of his chair. ‘What are you going to do to me?’
One of the elderly men – the one with hair like Einstein – bustled forwards. ‘This won’t take a minute. Could we hold him down, please?’
‘What are you doing?’ he said again, struggling to get to his feet.
‘Hardly anything at all,’ said the professor, reassuringly. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t have time to mess about – a half-hour window is about all we can hope for – so I need to get cracking.’
The young barman began to struggle in earnest. ‘No, you can’t do this.’
The redhead shook her head. The young man resolved to pay more attention to his granny in future and even take her a bunch of flowers on her birthday.
‘Well, obviously we can. And are. You see, this isn’t our time. We don’t belong here. We’ll be gone in thirty minutes. And no one will ever know it was us. And we don’t care anyway. So the professor’s come up with a little something to make you talk. I’m afraid, because time is short, we’ll have to give you a whopping big dose. Normally it’s best to increase the dose quite slowly, but as I say, we don’t have time. If it does kill you, we’ll be awfully sorry about it, but we’ll just chuck your body in the river – because it’s important to be tidy, don’t you think? – and move on to someone else. Until someone talks. And someone will. Too late for the ones already floating down the Thames, of course, but that’s not our problem. Off you go, professor.’
Wielding a hypodermic that could have felled a horse, the professor moved in. The young man proved instantly cooperative. Unfortunately, he had nothing interesting to tell them. But he did give up his supervisor, that bastard Dave.
‘Mr Evans, if you would be so kind.’
Evans nodded and disappeared in search of that bastard Dave.
Who took one look at the sleeping barman and gave up his supervisor, Kevin.
Who took one look at that sleeping bastard Dave laid neatly next to the sleeping barman and gave up the boss, Mr Desai.
Who refused to talk. They could do whatever they liked, he said, jaw jutting pugnaciously. He wouldn’t talk. From the many glances he cast towards the door, it was obvious he was expecting rescue at any moment. Even with his unconscious staff stretched out on the floor around him, it was obvious he was more frightened of his employers than he was of his hypodermic-wielding captors.
Markham and Max exchanged glances. They had nothing further with which to frighten him. Their truth-serum bluff had been called. Now what?
Dr Dowson bustled forwards. ‘Stand aside, everyone. Andrew, did you bring . . . ?’
‘I did, Occy.’ He looked around. ‘Everyone, step back out of range, please.’
Markham looked uneasy. ‘Professor, what are you doing?’
‘Making him talk.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, it’s quite easy. Leon, dear boy, I wonder if you’d pop behind the bar for a moment, please. I need half a lime and two beermats if you’d be so good.’
Leon moved behind the bar. Everyone turned their heads to see what he was doing.
An ear-splitting shriek filled the room and was cut off in half a second as Dr Dowson clapped his hand over Mr Desai’s mouth.
Evans eased the door open a fraction to check no one had heard.
Mr Desai’s face was red. Tears and mucus ran down his face. His right leg juddered uncontrollably.
Of his audience, Max was the first to pull herself together. ‘Have you changed your mind?’
He nodded. Frantically.
Markham pulled Professor Rapson to one side. ‘Professor, what did you do?’
‘An old trick I learned during the Civil Uprisings.’
‘How?’
‘Mm?’
‘How did you learn?’
‘Well, it was done to me several times so I know it works.’
Markham stared at him then wisely decided not to pursue that any further. ‘So what were the beermats and the lime for?’
‘A distraction. Trust me, it’s not a trick you want other people to know.’ He nodded at Mr Desai. ‘If you ask him now, I think he’ll tell you everything you need to know.’
It took a while for Mr Desai to recover the power of speech, but once he did there was no holding him. He gabbled something about occasionally being required to pass messages on to a telephone number in Shoreditch. No, he had no idea of the location or who was at the other end of the phone. No, there was never a word spoken from the other end. And no, he hadn’t written the number down, but he could remember it and for God’s sake keep him away from me. He wrote down the number with a shaking hand.
Max passed it to Matthew who pulled out his scratchpad. Thirty seconds later he nodded. ‘Got it.’ He nodded to Mr Desai. ‘The Time Police thank you for your cooperation.’
‘Never mind the sodding Time Police – just keep that old bastard away from me.’
Matthew continued, because he was still under training and Major Ellis was a stickler, ‘You will receive an official acknowledgement thanking you for your cooperation and assistance and making sure the entire world knows you sang like a cassowary.’
Professor Rapson approached with the hypodermic.
If he had been pale before, Mr Desai was now ashen. ‘What? I told you everything. You bastards.’
Markham shook his head. ‘Can’t have you tipping them off. Whenever you’re ready, professor.’
‘No. Keep him away. Don’t let him—’
There was the hiss of a hypodermic and Mr Desai went limp and smacked his face on the table. Several people winced. ‘That’s going to sting in the morning,’ said Evans.
‘Well,’ said Max, as they carefully propped all the unconscious staff in the recovery position, ‘they sang like . . .’
‘Cassowaries,’ said Matthew, again.
‘What’s a cassowary?’
‘A small Australian bird,’ said Matthew, after only a very short pause. ‘Noted for its placid temperament and affectionate nature. If you ever meet one, they love to be stroked under the chin.’
‘Oh, OK. Time to go, everyone. Mr Evans, please put that pint down.’
‘What about the bouncer?’ asked Peterson.