“Who? Who calls me that?”
“I don't know.” Beryl frowned, her eyebrows beetling. “What was the name of that blonde haired lad? The one I always said looked more like an altar boy than a police officer. Used to follow you around like a lost puppy, always had his notebook out?”
“Yes, that's the one.”
“He used to call me Doctor Who?”
“No. He never said anything about it. It was everyone else who called you that.”
“Surely not? Why, for God's sake?” It was a rhetorical question but his dear wife answered it anyway.
“Because you followed up all the loony cases. The leylines and the witches. That hound of death on the moor.”
He chuckled. “I remember that. Water rising up through the limestone and making a bog. It scared the devil out of me when I heard it myself.”