Doctor Who: Bad Therapy by Matthew Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

the gym. Some of the models had been photographed nude, but the publishers had discreetly superimposed black underwear over the offending parts of the photographs. To the Doctor, this coyness seemed somehow representative of the age.
    There were some loose pages that had obviously been torn from other exercise magazines. Pictures of healthy looking young men flexing muscles and lifting weights. All of the models in the pictures had cherubic expressions and 27
     
    golden hair. The Doctor was reminded of the boy who died at the hospital.
    Reminded of the blood making pink streaks in the fair hair.
    The envelopes, which had been secreted between the pages of the magazine, were all addressed to JACK BARTLETT, ESQ and also contained photographs. Or rather, the Doctor discovered after examining them, each contained a single copy of the same picture. From the grainy texture of the image it was clear that the picture had been taken from a distance, probably with a telephoto lens. The picture was of two young men sitting on a bench facing each other. Despite the poor quality of the photograph, the two men were easily identifiable. The blond boy, his hair dark in this picture, was reaching out to touch Jack’s face.
    There was something familiar about the envelope. A fault in the typewriter had meant that the ‘Q’ in ‘ESQ’ had been printed slightly lower than the other letters in the line. The Doctor had seen this before. When he’d called at the flat earlier that evening, there had been a similar letter for Jack on the sideboard in the hall. He’d noticed it while Mrs Carroway had been bitterly sounding off about the inadequacies of her tenant – three months behind with the rent and coming in at all hours from those pubs in the West End.
    Jack’s voice, raised in anger, brought the Doctor into the present. ‘That’s too much! I can’t get my hands on that much. They’re already asking questions at work. I’ve given you money this month. I just can’t get any more.’
    ‘I’m afraid,’ the croaky voice rasped, not sounding afraid at all, ‘that the interest on your debt has been increased. The people I represent are keen to make the most out of their investment. But they are not greedy. They want just one more payment; if that isn’t made they will be forced to take extreme action. Letters will be sent. Statements will be made. Public statements, if you catch my drift?’
    The Doctor’s face hardened. It wasn’t a loan: Jack hadn’t borrowed any money. It was extortion. Jack Bartlett was paying to keep the photograph secret. Paying to keep that touch, that moment in the park quiet. The photographs in the envelopes were to remind Jack of the blackmailer’s hold over him.
    The Doctor placed the envelopes back between the pages of the magazine and pushed it back into its hiding place in the folds of the exercise magazine.
    The coyness of the magazine had suddenly lost its charm.
    The Doctor climbed slowly and calmly out from under the bed. Jack’s ‘guest’
    was a stooped, elderly man with rheumy eyes and a pinched, vicious face. On seeing the Doctor, the old man let out a whinny of laughter.
    ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize that I was interrupting something.’ He raised an eyebrow, somewhat theatrically. ‘There’s just no stopping you little devils, is there? I wonder if I should let my employers know about this little 28
     
    liaison. They’re always on the lookout for new clients. And who might you be, Mr?’
    Jack shouted that it wasn’t like that. The Doctor only calmly brushed the dust from his jacket with his hat.
    ‘It’s not Mr, it’s Doctor, actually.’
    The old man’s lined face broke out into a grin, displaying a few yellowing teeth. ‘It gets better and better. In our business we find that men who have much, are always willing to work that little bit harder to keep hold of what they’ve got.’
    The Doctor reached into his jacket pockets and dramatically emptied their