The Witches of Chiswick

4

The headquarters of the DOCS had plenty of high-tech state-of-the-art equipment. There were heaps of holographic how’s-your-fathers and digital directory doodahs. There were even some inter-rositors, which were powered by a complicated process involving the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. Most of it however had long since ceased to work, and that which still did so, did so at irregular intervals.

Officer Denton was au-fait with the running of all the equipment that still worked. She possessed the necessary operational skills and had certificates to prove it. Not that any of her comrades had ever expressed a desire to see them. Officer Denton set to the task of tracking down the killer.

“This should be a challenge,” she told Chief Inspector Sam, “but not much of one. We’ll soon have him.”

“I fear not for this,” said her superior. “Would you care to take us through the method you will be employing?”

Officer Denton put aside her nail varnish and blew on her fingertips. “As you are well aware,” said she, “at any given time it is possible for us to locate any given person. No one can travel without being iris-scanned. Folk are constantly scanned in their housing units by iris-scanning systems installed within their home screens.”

“Which is not something known to the general public,” said Sam, tapping his nose in a significant fashion.

“Naturally not, sir. But if the scanners actually happen to be working, then they do give us the edge. We know where people are and we know where they should be. Whether they are in employment. And if not, where else they are. There are iris-scanners on the corners of every street. In every shop, store and supermarket. We shall tune in our instruments to the unit of this William Starling and see who paid him a visit.”

“It’s all too easy these days,” said Officer John. “Sometimes I hanker for the good old days, when police officers had to use their wits to apprehend villains.”

Chief Inspector Sam made shudderings. “Stuff all that,” said he. “Far too many margins for error. See if you can get any life out of the instruments, Denton. And if you can, we’ll identify the malcontent and despatch an execution squad. And then we’ll all have a nice cup of coffee.”

“Ten four, sir,” said Denton, in the time-honoured fashion.

The officers of the law gathered about their token female counterpart as she twiddled dials, pressed key-pads and made enigmatic finger-wavings over sensors and scanners and the Lord-of-the-Laminates knows what else.

And when nothing happened, she took to hammering the equipment with her shoe.

Presently she said, “Oh.”

“Oh?” said Sam. “I like not the sound of this ‘Oh’.”

“It’s a bit of a tricky ‘Oh’,” said Officer Denton, applying lipstick in the general area of her mouth. “There’s nothing recorded on the iris-scanner in the home screen at William Starling’s unit, other than for William Starling.”

“So the malcontent somehow shielded his eyes from the scanner?”

“Possibly so, sir. Remember the performance artist said that his eyes were completely black. Perhaps he was wearing opaque contact lenses to avoid recognition. But there’s something more. The thermascan didn’t register anything either.”

“For the benefit of those who might not know about the workings of the thermascan,” said Sam, carefully, “perhaps you would care to elaborate.”

“Well, as you obviously know, sir,” said Officer Denton, with more than equal care, “thermascans are incorporated into all home screens; on the off chance that crimes might be committed in the dark. The heat signatures of human beings are as distinctive as their iris patterns. According to the thermascan in the home screen of Mr Starling, which, I am impressed to see is actually working, he was all alone when he was shot to death.”

“So it was suicide.”

“No, sir, not suicide. The thermascan registered the heat from the gun as it was fired. It was several metres away from Mr Starling.”

“So what exactly are you saying, young woman?”

“I’m saying that I don’t know what shot Mr Starling, sir, but it wasn’t a human being.”

The mortal remains of William Starling, known to his friends and family as Will, were bagged up by paramedics, their uniforms made gay with holographic logos, which flashed fetchingly and falteringly all around and about them.

Chief Inspector Sam Maggott, now at the crime scene, viewed the bagging up with a sad and jaundiced eye. “This just won’t do,” he told his team. “No thermascan, no iris identification, no murder weapon. Any physical traces, Denton?”

Token woman Denton was scanning the bright orange walls of the breakfasting area, with something that resembled an electronic frying pan. “Let you know in just a minute, sir,” she replied.

“And what, exactly are you doing now?” asked Sam.

“Checking auditory residuals, sir. It’s a very technical business.” Policewoman Denton gave the electronic-frying-pan affair a hearty whack with her fist. “It’s working now,” she said.

“I’ll leave you to it then.”

Officer Denton went on with her very technical business. Sam glanced around and about his surroundings. The surroundings were not in tiptop condition. They presented a scene of utter destruction. The rooms of the housing unit had been thoroughly trashed, furniture smashed to laminated splinters, pictures torn from the walls and shredded. The polysynthetic carpeting had even been ripped from the floor.

“These places depress me,” Sam said.

“Why so, sir?” asked Officer John.

“Because I grew up in one of these. Crowborough Tower, Tooting sector. Five hundred and nineteenth floor. South-facing, which was fine on Thursdays, of course. But they’re all the same. On the rare occasion that there is a crime and I have to visit the crime scene, it’s always like going home to the unit I was brought up in. It’s almost as if every crime is committed in my own front room, against one of my own family. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I certainly do, sir,” said Officer John. “But I like that. It makes it personal. And after all, society is one big family really. We’re all interrelated, after all.”

“I’m not related to you!” said Sam.

“You are, sir. I looked you up. You’re a distant cousin.”

Sam shuddered. “How’s it going, Denton?” he called.

“All done, sir. Shall we wait until the paramedics have removed the body?”

Sam waved to the paramedics. “Haul him down to the morgue,” he said. The paramedics lifted the bagged-up body onto a kind of high-tech sleigh arrangement and tapped buttons on a remote control. The high-tech sleigh arrangement rose into the air and the paramedics guided it from the breakfasting area. No sooner had it reached the hall, however, than its high-techness failed and it crashed to the floor. The paramedics, cursing and complaining, dragged body and sleigh away. Sam closed the front door upon them and returned to his team. “So what have you got, Denton?” he asked.

“Residual auditory record, sir. The sounds that have been absorbed into the walls of this area during the last two hours. I’ve downloaded them.” Officer Denton displayed the electronic-frying-pan affair. “Shall I play them back?”

“Please do,” said Sam.

And the officer did so.

There was a lot of static, crackles and poppings. Then the sound of daytime home screen entertainment.

“What is that?” Sam asked.

“It’s the UK classic channel,” said Officer John. “They play historic TV shows, some of them nearly two hundred years old. I know this one; it’s The Sweeney.”

“The who?”

“No, sir. The Who were a classical musical ensemble in the early 1960s. This is a TV series, about policemen.”

“Fascinating,” said Sam, making the face of one who was far from fascinated. “But what use is this to us?”

“Keep listening, sir,” said Officer Denton. “Here it comes.”

Chief Inspector Sam listened to the playback. The sound of a corporate theme tune reached his ears.

“The door chime,” said Denton. “Keep listening.”

The sound of the door chime was followed by the sound of footsteps.

“He got out of his chair to answer the door,” said Denton.

Then came the sound of the door opening.

“He opened the door.”

“Shut up!” said Sam.

And Officer Denton shut up.

Amidst further poppings and crackles of static and the voice of the now legendary Dennis Waterman saying, “We’ll have to turn over his drum, guv”, a deep-timbred voice with a rich Germanic accent said, “William Starling?” Another voice said, “Yes, that’s me.” The first voice said, “Give me the painting.” William Starling said, “What painting?” The first voice said, “The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the voice of William Starling. “I’ve never heard of such a painting.”

And then there were sounds of a struggle.

And then there were sounds of gunshots.

And then.

“Switch it off,” said Sam.

And Officer Denton switched it off.

Sam glanced once more about the devastation. “This doesn’t make any sense,” said he. “The murderer was here. His voice left an audio trace. He entered this room. What do you make of it, Denton?”

“Don’t know, sir. But the voice of the murderer doesn’t sound right to me; it sounds like a recording.”

“It is a recording, you buffoon.”

“No, sir. It sounds like a recording of a recording, or a synthetic voice. It doesn’t sound human.”

“A robot?” said Sam. “Is that possible?”

“What I love about this day and age,” said Will Starling’s mum, as she ladled foodstuffs onto plates, “is that anything is possible.”

Will Starling’s dad looked up from the breakfasting table that was now about to prove its worth as a suppering table. “More old toot heading our way,” he warned his only son.

Will grinned up at his ample mother. “What do you have in mind, Mum?” he asked.

“Well take today for instance,” said Will’s mum. “I went upstairs to visit your Uncle William. And you’ll never guess what.”

“I know I won’t,” said Will’s dad. “Because I’m not even going to try—”

“Shot dead. Full up with holes. Blood and guts all over the place,” said Will’s mum. “What a surprise that, eh?”

“Eh?” said Will.

And “Eh?” said Will’s dad too.

“Bang bang bang,” went Will’s mum, miming gun-firings with her ladle and getting foodstuffs all down her front. “Dead as dog plop in his breakfasting area. I called it in to the DOCS.”

“What?” went Will.

And “What?” went Will’s dad too.

“Well, it was the right thing to do. I’m an honest citizen and it’s an honest citizen’s duty to report a crime.”

“Uncle Will?” said Will. “This is terrible.”

“I never cared for him much,” said Will’s dad. “Big thighs, he had on him. Not that mine are small, but his were far too big for my liking.”

“But murdered.”

“I didn’t go in,” said Will’s mum. “The front door was open, I could see his body clearly enough and the place was a right mess.”

“Always was,” said Will’s dad. “Those big thighs bumping into furniture.”

“So I went along the corridor to your other Uncle Will’s to call the DOCS.”

“How many Uncle Wills do I have?” Will asked.

“Loads,” said Will’s dad. “It’s a family name. Most of them live here in this tower. Can’t be having with them, myself. All those big thighs and everything.”

“But I didn’t go in there either,” said Will’s mum, “because guess what, his door was open too and he was lying dead on his floor, all full up with holes. Blood and guts splattered all over the place.”

“Your Uncle Wills are getting fewer by the minute,” said Will’s dad.

“What?” said Will.

“Same enema,” said Will’s mum.

“It’s not enema,” said Will’s dad. “It’s M.O. Modus Operandi. An enema is something completely different.”

“I know exactly what an enema is,” said Will’s mum. “I used to do ballroom dancing.”

“Eh?” said Will.

“Don’t ask,” said Will’s dad.

“But my other Uncle Will,” said Will, “was shot dead too?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Will’s mum. “And what are the chances of that happening, eh? It seems that anything is possible in this day and age. Which is why I love it so much.”

“So did you phone the DOCS from that Uncle Will’s?” Will asked. “Well no, because I didn’t want to walk on any vital evidence or anything, so I went further along the corridor to another of your Uncle Wills to make the call and guess what.”

“Do you see a pattern beginning to emerge here?” Will’s dad asked his son.

“He was out,” said Will’s mum. “But your other Uncle Will who lives next door was in.”

“So you made the call from there?” Will asked.

“No, because his door was open and he was—”

Will made strangled gagging noises in his throat.

“Are you all right, son?” Will’s dad asked.

“How many of my Uncle Wills have been murdered?” Will managed to ask.

“Oh, I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions,” said Will’s mum. “They might have committed suicide. It might be a religious thing. A millennial cult, or something.”

“Suicide?” Will spluttered. “But you said they were full up with holes. So they must have been shot more than once.”

“Well there were four of them.”

“Four?”

“I gave up,” said Will’s mum. “I came home and made the phone call from here. I only notified the DOCS about the first Uncle Will, or perhaps it was the second one, I forget. I didn’t want to go bothering them with too many deaths all in the one day.”

“This is terrible,” said Will. “My uncles.”

“I’m getting confused here,” said Will’s dad. “Was it big-thighed Uncle Will, or the one with the pointy head, or …”

“Both of those,” said Will’s mum. “And the one with the funny thing on the end of his nose.”

“Oh he’s not one of ours,” said Will’s dad. “He’s another Will Starling, different clan altogether.”

“He didn’t have the thing on his nose when I saw him,” said Will’s mum. “Mind you, he didn’t have the nose either. Shot right off it was.”

“Stop!” shouted Will, rising from the soon-to-be-suppering table. “You must call the DOCS at once. Notify them of these other murders.”

“I’ll do it later,” said Will’s mum. “The supper’s getting cold.”

The front door chime of the Starling household chanted a corporate ditty.

“Now I wonder who that might be,” Will’s dad wondered. “Go and answer it, son.”