pass that did that, although Caitlin’s long dark hair and blue eyes would have been enough to distract anyone who wanted a closer look. A quick smile was usually all it took Caitlin to get exactly what she wanted.

It was actually a keen security guard who spotted her as she walked through Restricted Access doors towards the arrivals lounge, heading to exactly where she really had no right to be.

‘Excuse me?’ he called out.

‘Is there a problem…’ Caitlin screwed up her eyes to read his name tag. ‘Is there a problem, Keith?’

Keith Brownlow stared at her, his head slightly to one side as if sizing her up. ‘Not seen you before,’ he said quietly.

‘Not been here long,’ she answered quickly.

‘Funny,’ he replied. ‘I know everyone in this Terminal.

And those I don’t know, don’t get in here. I need you to leave, I’m afraid, until I can verify you are who you say you are.’

Caitlin paused for a moment, trying to remember a name. ‘I’m sure if you check with Mr Golding he’ll vouch for me. I joined his staff on Thursday.’

Keith shrugged. ‘And I’ll do that, but only once you go back the way you came and wait in the Yellow Zone.’

‘You’re very good at this, Keith, aren’t you?’

‘We take security very seriously,’ he said.

‘Of course you do,’ purred Caitlin. ‘Quite right too. But look, there’s only you and me here, you’ve seen my pass, you can see I have clearance. I’m sure it’s just administration that have failed to inform you I’m here. I

really need to be the other side of that door to greet some VIPs.’

Keith ignored her, his right hand resting on the holstered revolver at his hip, his left hand raising his walkie-talkie.

‘Oh dear, and I thought we might become friends,’

Caitlin said, raising her right arm and sending a bolt of purple energy into Keith’s chest, reducing him to ashes before he could even register the movement.

She walked forward, her high heels squashing the few ashes that remained into the carpet. With a quick, deep breath, she pushed open the VIP area doors and marched out to greet her guests.

They were standing, waiting for her, neither of them really seeming to register where they were or what they were doing. Two old Americans, in from New York.

‘Mr and Mrs DiCotta? Congratulations on your wedding and welcome to your honeymoon.’

Donnie and Portia DiCotta said nothing, just nodded as Caitlin led them to one of the service buggies that elderly and disabled passengers were moved around the airport terminals in.

A confused handler looked at her pass as she flashed it at him, but then moved on, allowing her to take the buggy.

The DiCottas climbed on board as the handler turned back.

‘Do they have luggage?’ he called out.

Caitlin smiled her sweetest smile, which she hoped didn’t suggest what she thought (‘Oh, do go away, you pointless oaf’), then said aloud, ‘It’s been delayed at JFK

so we’ll come back for it in the morning.’

She started the buggy up and drove forward. ‘You’re the first,’ she said quietly, no longer all sweetness and smiles.

‘Where are the others?’

‘The Greek is in shortly, the Italian group, not for another hour or so. We’ll wait, collect them and then go to Madam Delphi together. She has a mission for you tonight.’ Caitlin gave a little laugh. ‘I would ask about jetlag, but I imagine Madam Delphi has ensured you feel none of that.’

‘We feel fine,’ said Portia DiCotta.

‘Good,’ Caitlin said. ‘Perfect.’

The buggy carried on, away from the main routes and across to another Gate where the flight from Athens International would arrive. ‘And then we’re off to meet the funky 787-3 from Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci di Fiumicino,’ she said. ‘I do hope you enjoy your stay. It’ll be brief but very dramatic.’

The little buggy trundled on down the long corridors ready to collect more of the army that Madam Delphi would eventually use to bring the human race to utter destruction.

Donna was adjusting the Doctor’s tie. She’d done this a hundred times for her dad, especially towards the end, which had given him an excuse to be grouchy and feel useless. The Doctor had no such excuse, but it hadn’t stopped him moaning about it.

‘Donna, I can tie a tie, you know.’

‘Really? Cos I’ve seen no evidence of that,’ was her

response, followed by an overenthusiastic shove of the knot a bit too close to the Doctor’s Adam’s apple.

‘Whoops,’ she smiled at him. ‘So sorry.’

He slid a finger down his shirt collar and somehow that single gesture seemed not only to loosen the knot, but also to undo his top button and then put creases into the shirt as well.

It was an art, he said. Geek chic, he said. Scruffy Arthur, she called it, giving up on a lost cause.

‘How’s Netty getting on?’ he asked.

‘She’s OK today,’ Donna said. ‘Granddad’s fussing round her. Mum’s speaking through gritted teeth because of it, so Netty’s hopped off early and said she’ll meet us there. I reckon she’s gone to buy another daft hat!’

‘Your mum’s worried about Wilf, that’s all. Netty’s great fun but a big responsibility,’ the Doctor said.

‘I know, but Mum doesn’t have to be so negative about it, does she?’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘She’s a mum, Donna. It’s their job to find fault with everyone in their family. It’s in the handbook.’

‘Did your mum criticise everything you do? The way you brushed your hair, the clothes you wore, the friends you hung out with, the music—’

‘Yeah, well, it was a bit different for me,’ he said quietly.

Donna looked at him and smiled comfortingly. ‘Of course it was. Sorry. Didn’t think.’

‘Oh, it’s all right. I’m just saying, give your mum some credit. It’s a lot to cope with – she’s looked after your

granddad alone for a long time. Now he has someone in his life, she’s bound to be a bit put out.’

‘Oh don’t go all Spock on me.’

‘Spock?’

‘Yeah, child psychologist blokey, or whatever he was.

All about relations between parents and kids.’

‘Ah. Dr Spock. Right.’

‘Why, is there another Spock that you know?’ laughed Donna as she headed out of the spare room. Although she suspected the Doctor hadn’t slept a wink in there – he never seemed to need sleep like a normal person.

The Doctor glanced at himself in the mirror. He always thought he looked quite good in a dinner jacket and black tie – he hated bow ties, they made him look like a waiter, going by what happened at other parties, so tonight it was a black tie proper. Course, it meant he now looked like he was going to a funeral, but hey-ho. And what was it with jackets, no matter how he buttoned them up, they always looked like they were too small or too tight, and the trousers never quite reached down to his ankles.

Ah well, it was Wilf’s night, not his.

There was a knock on the door. ‘Yeah, I’m coming, Donna, give us a minute.’

The door opened. It was Donna’s mum.

‘Ah. Hullo,’ he said. She was an intimidating woman and, like most mothers, she clearly didn’t like him much.

Was he imagining it or was his cheek starting to ache again?

Some mothers he could win over by sheer charm (ah, Jackie Tyler, what are you doing these days?), or by

proving that their daughter’s faith in him was justified (still got a good right hook, Francine Jones, bless you).

Now there was Sylvia Noble. Full of so much pride, tempered with so much rage, so much frustration. It was as if she never felt quite so in control of her life as she told herself she was, and that made her really angry.

Of course, it couldn’t have been easy losing Geoff. The Doctor had only met him once, at Donna’s wedding, where he seemed to be the more… temperate of the Noble parents. Now poor Sylvia was trying her best to deal with a wayward daughter who was nowhere near as wayward as Sylvia imagined (she still had no idea where he really took Donna) and an elderly father, who was so determined not to be a burden on his daughter that he became a bigger one by default. Wilf Mott wanted to prove he was independent, strong and twenty years younger than he was, believing it would take pressure of Sylvia; he just didn’t realise that Sylvia saw through this and was twice as worried as she would be if he just sat in an armchair all day watching Countdown.