The Witches of Chiswick by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

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