Robert Rankin - The Witches of Chiswick

“Multiple gunshots,” said Officer John, straightening a seam in her stocking.

“A gun!” Sam made clutchings at his heart. “Which one of you lent this murderer your gun?”

Officers patted their weapons.

“None of us,” they all agreed.

“Then how could a murderer have a gun? Only we have guns, and even ours don’t work properly most of the time.”

“Perhaps he constructed one,” said Officer Denton. “If you recall the case of Digby Charlton, ‘The Cheltenham Chopper’, he constructed his chopper from cheese.”

“Somewhat before my time,” said Sam.

“And mine also,” said Denton. “But the essence of good DOCS work is always to be well informed. I, for instance, have studied—”

“What did your informant tell you?” Sam asked Officer John.

“The informant is a performance artist, sponsored by an investment corporation. He is employed to play the part of a derelict and lie in alleyways, looking wretched and saying things such as ‘if only I’d invested my capital with such and such a corporation, I wouldn’t be in the mess I am now.’ He says it to passers-by, you see.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” said Officer Doggart Tenpole Tudor. “I wonder if there are any vacancies?”

“You’ve never really been committed to this work, have you, Tudor?” asked Sam.

“Oh it’s not that, sir. I just like to get out and about once in a while. Get a bit of fresh air when there’s any going.”

“There hasn’t been lately,” said Sam. “But go on, Higgins, what did this performance artist have to say for himself?”

“He said he was lying in an alleyway in Chiswick last night, when he saw what he described as ‘a real bright light’. Then, out of the light, right out of nowhere, this big naked man appeared. The performance artist said that the naked man’s eyes were completely black and that he ‘smelled something rotten!’ And he stole the performance artist’s trousers.”

“Another crime,” said Sam. “No, hang about, who got murdered?”

“The owner of an antique weapons shop across the road from the alleyway. The performance artist saw it happen. The big, smelly, black-eyed, naked man, well, naked but for the trousers, shot the proprietor with one of his own antique weapons.”

“I think we’ve solved the mystery of the murder weapon,” said Officer Denton. “One up to the DOCS I think.”

“Buffoon,” said Sam. “So, is that it? Is that all your informant had to say?”

“No, sir, apparently then the half-naked, big, smelly, black-eyed man, now hung all about with antique weaponry, came out of the antique weapons shop, crossed the street, turned around and tossed a hand grenade into the shop, blowing it all to pieces.”

“There goes the crime-scene evidence,” said Officer Denton.

“Shut it!” shouted Chief Inspector Sam. “What else did he say, Higgins?”

“He said that the murderer returned to the alleyway and shook my informant about and demanded information.”

“Asked the right chap then,” said Officer Denton, giggling foolishly. “Information from an informant.”

“Shut it!” shouted Sam once more. “What information?”

“He wanted to know the year,” said Officer Higgins.

“The year?”

“That’s what he wanted to know. My informant told him and the big man flung him to the ground. Knocking him unconscious, he’s only just come to.”

“That’s assault, probably GBH,” said Officer Denton. “That brings the crime tally up to three. This big, near-naked, smelly, black-eyed fellow is a regular one-man crime wave.”

“Officer Higgins,” said Sam Maggott. “Exchange clothes with Officer Denton. He can be the token woman for the next month. Perhaps that will shut him up.”

“I’ll bet it won’t,” said Officer Denton.

“It damn well better,” said Chief Inspector Maggott. “Or I will be forced to—”

But his words were cut short by the ringing of Officer John Higgins’s telephone.

The hand of Officer John took to hovering just above the receiver.

“Well, answer it, man,” cried Maggott.

“But it might be more bad news. Wouldn’t it be better if we just pretend to be out?”

“What, with a maniac on the loose?”

“I’m really not keen,” said Officer John.

“Denton, you do it,” ordered Sam. “This needs a woman’s touch. Go to it. Hurry up.”

Officer Denton took up the receiver. “DOCS. Policewoman Denton speaking,” she said.

Words tumbled into Denton’s large-and-unshell-like.

And presently she too replaced the receiver.

“So, what is it, Officer?” Sam demanded to be told.

“It’s another murder, sir. A body has just been found in a Brentford housing unit. Chap by the name of Will Starling has just been shot to death.”

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.”