The Witches of Chiswick Page 5

  “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.”

  5

  Will looked at his dad.

  And Will’s dad looked at Will.

  “Go on then,” said Will’s dad. “See who it is.”

  “No,” Will gave his head vigorous shakings. “It might be a man with a gun.”

  “I didn’t order a gun,” said Will’s mum, addressing her considerable husband. “Did you order a gun?”

  “Of course I didn’t order a gun, woman. Why would I order a gun?”

  “I mean,” said Will, now getting a bit of a shake on, “that it might be the murderer with a gun.”

  “Good point.” Will’s dad nodded chins towards his spouse. “The lad has a good point. You answer the door, woman.”

  “No,” said Will. “Don’t anyone answer the door. Perhaps they’ll just go away.”

  The door chime chanted its corporate ditty once again.

  “I’d best go,” said Will’s mum. “Whoever it is will wear out the battery.”

  “No, Mum, please.” Will rose from the soon-to-be-suppering table and flapped his slender hands about. “Don’t answer the door. I have a very bad feeling about this.”

  “You’re just being silly.” Will’s mum laid aside her ladle and smoothed down the besmutted frontispiece of her gorgeous gingham housecoat. “I will answer the door.”

  “No!” Will did leapings. He leapt from the table and he leapt in front of his mum. “I can’t let you do that.” Will turned to face the front door. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  “It’s me, Will,” came the voice of Tim McGregor. “Let me in, you silly sod.”

  “Phew,” went Will, in the way that one does. “Hold on Tim, I’m coming.”

  Will’s mum shrugged her sizeable shoulders. Will’s dad said, “Serve up the vitals, woman.”

  Will opened the front door. “Tim,” he said. “It’s really good to see you.”

  “Good to see you too, Will. Why the delay? Were you having –?” Tim made certain gestures about his trouser regions.

  “Don’t be crude,” said Will. “Come in.”

  “Thanks.” Tim took a step into the Starling household. “Oh, I’ve brought this chap with me,” he said. “Met him in the lift. He was asking for you.” And then Tim didn’t say any more, as he was suddenly buffeted from his feet and hurtled forward, barging into Will and bringing him to the floor.

  A terrific figure now stood framed in the doorway. Well above six feet in the height of him and broad across the naked shoulders. The cropped hair on his head was black and so too were his hooded eyes. All black these were, and horrible to look upon. His face was a mask of bitter hatred, bushy brows drawn towards a nose of the aquiline persuasion, improbable cheekbones and a mouth that was a bitter, corded line.

  The torso of this being fairly heaved with muscle and all around and about the gargantuan frame hung bullet belts and a fearsome collection of antique weaponry.

  In his right hand he held a twenty-first-century phase plasma rifle (with a forty-watt range, naturally).

  A hideous smell accompanied this monstrous personage. A rotten-eggy smell, the smell of sulphur, of brimstone, of that now legendary biblical pit that lacks for a bottom.

  The terrific, black-eyed, evil-smelling figure glared down at the two young men struggling upon the floor, and then across to Will’s mum and dad.

  “William Starling?” he asked in a deeply-timbred voice of the Germanic persuasion. “Which one of you is William Starling?”

  “Now just you see here,” said Will’s mum, taking up her ladle once more. “You can’t come bursting into people’s accommodation, in a state of half undress, tainting the air and waving your fearsome weaponry about.”

  “You?” asked the terrific figure, levelling his weapon at Will’s mum, a red laser dot from its sight making a caste mark on her forehead. “Are you William Starling?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Will’s mum. “Have you been drinking?”

  “You?” the weapon swung in the direction of Will’s dad.

  The laser dot appeared upon his forehead.

  “Err …” went Will’s dad. “Well, actually …”

  “No,” Will scrambled to his feet and fluttered his hands about. “He isn’t William Starling. There isn’t any William Starling here.”

  “Where is the painting?” asked the terrific figure. “Tell me now, or all die.”

  “Painting?” said Will’s dad. “What painting?”

  “The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke.”

  “Ah,” said Will. “That painting.”

  “That.” The weapon now swung towards Will. The little red dot marked his forehead.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Will, his hands fluttering again. “I know where it is. Just don’t harm my family. Please don’t shoot anyone.”

  “Give me the painting, now.”

  “I don’t have it here. It’s hidden. I can take you to it.”

  “What is this all about?” asked Will’s mum, fanning at her nose with her ladle. “What have you been up to, Will? Something naughty, I’ll bet.”

  The weapon was once more pointing at Will’s mum.

  “Please stay out of this,” Will told her. “Be quiet.”

  “That’s no way to speak to your mother.” Will’s mum waggled her ladle.

  “Silence,” ordered the terrific figure, fixing Will with a horrible black-eyed stare. “The painting must be destroyed. Take me to it, now.”

  “I can’t.” Will now made pleading gestures. “The place where it’s hidden is closed until Monday.”

  “Now, or I shoot the woman.”

  “No.” Will flung himself to his knees. “Please don’t do that.”

  “Now,” the figure ordered once again.

  “Can I just go?” asked Tim. “I’m nothing to do with this.”

  “He can get us in.” Will rose slowly and pointed at Tim.

  “You bastard!” said Tim.

  “He’s going to shoot my mum.”

  “Well, I suppose I could get you in. It’s hidden in the archive, I suppose.”

  “It is.”

  “Now!”

  “He’s lying to you,” said Will’s dad, heaving himself out of his chair. “He doesn’t know about any painting. I’m the real Will Starling and I know where it is.”

  “No,” shouted Will, fingers a-flutter. “No, Dad, no.”

  “The boy doesn’t know anything,” said Will’s dad. “The painting’s hidden right here, in this housing unit.”

  Will’s eyes widened. “What?” he managed to say.

  “It’s inside the air-conditioning system. You can see for yourself.”

  “Where?” asked the terrific figure.

  “Up there.” Will’s dad pointed to the grille in the ceiling above the home screen. “I’ll get it for you, if you w
ant.”

  “What are you doing, Dad?”

  “Let me deal with this, Will. It’s all my fault. I’ll get the painting.”

  “But …”

  “Leave this to me.” Will’s dad struggled to manhandle his chair towards the home screen and the air-conditioning duct above it.

  “What is he doing?” whispered Tim.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” whispered Will.

  Will’s dad huffed and puffed.

  “Out of the way.” The terrific figure, slung his weapon across his broad left shoulder, strode to the chair and snatched it from Will’s dad. He flung it down in front of the home screen, climbed onto it, reached up and took hold of the ceiling grille that covered the air-conditioning duct.

  With a speed, quite remarkable for one of his corpulence, Will’s dad swung a foot and kicked the chair out from beneath him.

  The terrific figure tumbled to the floor, bringing down the grille and a section of ceiling. Will’s dad flung himself on top of the fallen figure.

  “Sit on his legs woman,” he shouted. “Squash the smelly blighter. Hurry!”

  Will’s mum hurried and did as she was bid.

  “Phone for the DOCS, lad,” Will’s dad told Will. “Tell them we’ve captured a murderer.”

  Will’s mouth hung open.

  “I’ll do it,” said Tim, and he did.

  “Come in here, polluting the air and menacing my family,” cried Will’s dad, his beefy buttocks pressing down upon the back of the fallen figure. “I’ll teach you to mess with the Starlings.”

  The fallen figure struggled, but was quite unable to rise.

  “My dad,” whispered Will. “My dad did that.”

  “They’re on their way,” said Tim, replacing the receiver. “They’re just up two floors. They’re coming right down.”

  The fallen figure lurched, all but up-ending Will’s dad.

  “More weight needed,” called that man. “Tim, Will, help us keep this stinker down.”

  Will climbed onto his father’s shoulders. Tim sat down in Will’s mum’s lap.