Robert Rankin - The Witches of Chiswick

“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.”