The Doctor marched quickly and with determination up the stairs to Madden’s studio.  He knocked loudly but didn’t wait for an answer.

“Madden” he bellowed in typical Doctor Bravado.

“Doctor?” Madden’s head appeared a few moments later from behind the black curtain.

“Just trying to fix the enlarger.  Can I help you?”  He wiped an old cloth over his greased hands and gestured towards an inviting chair.

Impatiently the Doctor sat, realising that all he had at the moment was conjecture and harassing the witness might be over-ruled, especially if Rose was here.

“Tea?”  Bill poured two generous cups and settled down opposite the Time Lord.

“Thanks,” he accepted the cup hastily and sipped the liquid without ever removing his eyes from the man before him.

“Do you use Selenium toner in your darkroom?” he queried.

“Yeah, of course.  Punches up the contrast nicely.”  Bill looked confused by this line of questioning but replied amiably none the less.

“Hate that stuff.  Stinks like ammonia and lingers with you for ages.”

“Yeah!” Bill laughed in agreement.  “Stella always complained about that.”

The Doctor coughed suddenly and animatedly, mania apparent in all his actions.  His chest felt tight as he set down the china and loosened his swirled blue tie. 

“Can I get you some water?” Madden offered.

“Nope, fine.  Thanks.”  He coughed again, a deep chesty sputter that propelled his body forward by its sheer force. 

With shock the Doctor realised he was sweating and his breathing was coming in short, sharp pants.  Internally his blood seemed to thunder through his veins and spatter against his atriums like a percussive, burst water main. 

He instinctively clutched his chest and groaned in anguish, sensitive, pain receptors firing like an automatic riffle with unlimited bullets.  Agitated synapses transmitted electrifying twinges, speeding in rapid succession from his left heart up into his shoulder and down his arm like adrenalin junkied racing drivers negotiating hair pin corners with force and alacrity instead of precision.  His expressive face contorted in agony and disbelief.

Meanwhile Madden calmly retrieved four photographs from a locked draw in a scruffy, utilitarian chest and laid them out wordlessly on the coffee table.