The Witches of Chiswick (3 page)

Which might have appeared a rather odd thing for him to say, had it not been for the fact that Will held in his hands
The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke
.

And it did have to be said that he had rather enjoyed the sounds of the Rothko that he had substituted for Dadd’s masterpiece being stomped to smithereens and then bagged up.

A large smile now appeared upon the face of Will Starling. And a sigh of relief escaped from his lips.

“I no longer need to steal this painting,” said Will to himself. “All I have to do is hide it somewhere here, recatalogue it under a different name, and tell no one. Job done, I think.”

And that was that really. Except of course that it wasn’t. For Will was now greatly intrigued: hugely, greatly intrigued. Why did the painting have to be destroyed? And what was this Sisterhood, that had the authority to come into the Tate’s archive and do the destroying? What kind of power did this Sisterhood have? And what was this business of “the other past”, all traces of which were being eradicated? Will was very hugely greatly intrigued. And as he had seemingly got away with saving the Dadd, well, why not try to find out what all this was really about?

Will rehung the Dadd amongst some French Impressionists that he had previously checked on his screen. Assured that it would be safe there for the time being, he took himself off to the staff canteen.

It was Will’s intention to get himself very close to the two female iconoclasts and listen in to their conversation, but sadly, this was not to be.

Will joined the food queue, and Tim McGregor joined Will.

“Hi, Will,” said Tim in a jovial fashion. “How are you doing?”

“Very well, Tim,” said Will, taking up his tray and preparing to load it.

“You look a bit hyper,” said Tim. “Not been up to anything naughty, I trust?”

Will grinned at Tim. Tim was all of Will’s height, big of hair and beard and of a medium build that was neither fat nor thin. Tim was Will’s bestest friend. They’d been to corporate school together and remained close ever since. Tim, a gifted computer programmer, was presently in Forward Planning at the Tate; his influence had got Will his job.

Tim was a practising Pagan – possibly, for all Will knew, the very last practising Pagan there was. Paganism had never really made it to the big time when it came to religions, and now even the big-time religions were nothing more than memory. Those that had not been absorbed and altered by corporate sponsorship had been consigned to the web pages of history: Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, all had vanished from the Earth, along with The Church of Branson, The Church of Elvis, The Church of England, Knotee (a string-worshipping cult) and, most recently, Roman Catholicism.

That the Church of Rome should have been dropped by its corporate sponsor had come as a bit of a shock to its millions of followers, and also to Will, who had been considering giving it a go because he’d heard that a lot of nice-looking girls of an easy-going disposition frequented its youth clubs.

Tim had explained to Will that he, Tim, had been made privy to “certain sensitive information” regarding the Church of Rome losing its sponsorship, information, which came to him via “certain contacts in the know”.

According to Tim’s contacts, a serious scandal centring upon St Peter’s of Rome had caused the sponsors to pull out.

Will had listened wide-eyed and open-mouthed while Tim explained the situation. Apparently it was down to the many incorruptible bodies of the saints housed in the catacombs beneath St Peter’s, which were not altogether what they appeared. It had always been accepted by the Church of Rome that a would-be saint must have three attestable miracles to his (or her) account before his (or her) death. And upon later exhumation, the body must not have decayed: that is, it should remain inviolate and incorruptible.

The problem was that there is another order of dead person that does not rot in the grave. The vampire.

And thus it was that many of the so-called saints interred beneath St Peter’s were in fact vampires. And these had, over the years, upon their many night-time forays in search of sustaining blood, managed to infect most of the clergy. And the infection had finally reached the Pope.

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you as suspicious,” Tim had said to Will, “how over the years Popes have lasted for so long and grown so very, very old? And how when they go out in public they are always inside Pope-mobiles with polarised glass windows or heavily shielded from sunlight beneath great big awnings and suchlike?”

Will had scratched at his blondy head. “Not really,” he replied.

“Well it’s true,” said Tim. “A team of Fearless Vampire Killers, a special division of the SAS trained for such action, abseiled down into St Peter’s and the Vatican and exterminated the lot of them: the Pope, the cardinals, monks and nuns and choirboys. Of course it wasn’t on the newscasts, but these things never are. Stuff like this happens all the time; it’s just that we never hear about it.”

Will had shaken his head and shrugged. It sounded as good an explanation as any. Will wondered whether he might apply to join the SAS Vampire Division. It sounded like an exciting kind of job.

“What are you doing at the weekend?” Tim asked.

“Nothing much,” said Will, anxiously looking towards the now distant topknots of the female iconoclasts.

“Fancy something a bit different?” Tim asked.

“Not really bothered,” said Will, scooping random foodstuffs onto his tray.

“You’ll love this, a dose of the old time travel.”

“A dose of
what
?” Will ceased his foodstuff scoopings.

“I’ve got some Retro,” whispered Tim. “Half a dozen tabs.”

“That stuff’s illegal and it doesn’t really work, does it?”

“Keep it down.” Tim fluttered his fingers. “It does work, you can really go back into the past with it. In your head.” Tim tapped at his temple. “It allows you to access ancestral memories. They are inside your head, you see. The memories of your father before you were conceived. And your grandfather too. Depends on how much Retro you take.”

“And you really can access your father’s memories?”

“They’re inside your head, cellular, part of your genetic code. You don’t just inherit your father’s looks and hair colour, you get his memories too. But you can’t access them without chemical assistance.”

“I have my doubts about this,” said Will, helping himself to further foodstuffs. “Do you know anyone who’s actually taken Retro?”

“Well, no,” said Tim.

“And anyway, if my dad’s memories are in my head, I’d prefer that they stay somewhere hidden. I don’t want to know, thank you very much.”

“But you’d find out about all his dirty doings. Imagine, you could remember how he shagged your mum and conceived you.”

“What a hideous thought. No, thank you very much indeed.”

“Please yourself,” said Tim. “But I’ve got six tabs. That’s three each. You could go back to your precious Victorian era.”

“What?” said Will.

“It’s all inside your head,” said Tim. “Or at least that’s the theory. I’m going to take the drug on Saturday night. If you’re not interested, I’ll let you know how I get on. But you’re missing out on something special, I’m telling you.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” said Will. “But listen, can we talk later? There’s someone I have to see.”

“Don’t go near them,” said Tim. “If they even suspect that you’re listening in to their conversation, you’ll be in real trouble.”

“What?” said Will, all but dropping his tray. “What are you saying?”

“I saw you,” whispered Tim. “Those corridors down to the archive are constantly scanned. My department takes care of that. I received a memo this morning that two dignitaries were coming to inspect the archive. I was to monitor them as far as the archive security door and then erase their images from the scanning program. And I did, but guess who I caught sneaking down the corridors before they did?”

“Oh no,” said Will. “So I’m in big trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” said Tim. “I erased you too. But don’t go near them. They’re
big
trouble.”

“So who are they?”

“So what were
you
doing in the archive?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Will.

“Well I can tell you this.
Don’t
go down there again. And
don’t
go near those women. Do we understand each other?”

“We do,” said Will. “Can I buy you lunch?”

“You can,” said Tim. “And I’ll expect you at my housing unit at eight o’clock sharp on Saturday night. Try not to get yourself into any trouble before then, okay?”

“I’ll try,” said Will. “I’ll try.”

Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday came and went and these days were very dull indeed for Will. Dull they were, and worrying too. Will worried for the painting. Would someone uncover his hiding place? A cleaner, or a restorer, perhaps? Or would the iconoclastic women return? Might they have found out that they’d destroyed the wrong painting? Would investigations ensue? His fingerprints and DNA would be upon the Dadd. He should have worn gloves. He should never have got involved at all. Perhaps it hadn’t been a risk worth taking. Will perched on the edge of his seat in a permanent state of tension. Will worried and fretted and worried some more. Gladys worried for Will.

“You’re not yourself, little manny,” she told him, reaching forth a podgy hand to stroke at his arm. “Come out with me this evening, I’ll cheer you up.”

“Thanks,” said Will. “But no thanks.”

“But Friday night is Rock Night at the Shrunken Head. Your kind of thing, Will, Retro Rock, twentieth-century stuff. The Apes Of Wrath are playing and Violent Macaroni and Foetus Eater, and Lawnmower Death, and The Slaughterhouse Five.”

“Not my cup of coffee,” said Will. “But Tim McGregor in Forward Planning loves that kind of business. And between you and me, I think he’s somewhat enraptured by you. He keeps mentioning your name in the canteen.”

“Really?” Gladys primped at her lemonly-tinted toupee. “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely,” said Will. “But don’t tell him that I told you.”

“No, I won’t.”

Will twiddled his computer rat and viewed more boring Rothko. Dull dull dull it was, and Will remained as worried.

He worried until it was time to go home. Then he went off home, still worrying.

And he did have good cause to worry. Crime was hardly commonplace in these days after the day after tomorrow. And the reason for this was the almost superhuman efficiency of the Department of Correctional Science.

A one hundred per cent clean-up rate.

In former unenlightened days there had been a “police force”, armed officers of the law who pursued and arrested malcontents. These were “brought to justice” and then housed in prisons. This had proven to be a most inefficient system. Many malcontents managed to evade capture. Others, although captured, evaded prison, through the intercession of barristers working on their behalf. Others, who had actually ended up in prison, had their sentences cut for “good behaviour” and returned once more to a life of crime.

In the year 2050, however, a visionary appeared on the scene in the shape of a certain Mr Darius Doveston. Mr Doveston was a geneticist. In fact it was Mr Doveston who had first formulated the Retro drug. Mr Doveston’s theory was that criminality was inherited. Dishonest parents passed on their dishonesty to their offspring, who inherited it through their genes and through “learning by example”. Mr Doveston proposed a cure for crime. It would take fifty years, he said, but when the fifty years were up, there would be no more crime – because there would be no more criminals.

Mr Doveston’s solution to the crime problem was simplicity itself. And history does record that the simple solution (dramatic as it sometimes must be) is often the most effective.

His solution was the compulsory sterilisation of all first-time offenders. If villains couldn’t breed, reasoned Mr Doveston, then they couldn’t breed more villains.

It was, of course, a stroke of pure genius.

But there are always those with motives of their own who will find something to complain about, even with such a stroke of genius as this. There was a vast public outcry. Sterilisation was some kind of punishment, went this outcry, but not much of one. Those sterilised villains would inevitably continue with their villainy. In fact, embittered as they might well be by their sterilisation, they might even broaden the scope of their villainy. And having to wait fifty years for a crime-free society? That was far too long!

Mr Doveston gave the matter some further thought.

Perhaps he had been a trifle hasty. He reconsidered and then drew up a plan, which pleased everyone, with the possible exception of the criminal classes.

Mandatory death penalty for first-time offenders.

Mr Doveston submitted his proposal in the form of a Private Member’s Bill to the House of Commons. Within two weeks of it being passed and put into the statute books, the crime figures virtually halved. Within two years, crime was all but non-existent in the British Isles.

Which is why Will had good cause to worry.

And had Will known what was presently on the go at the Department of Correctional Science, he would have had even more cause to worry. But for quite another reason.

The DOCS was housed only a short tram ride from the Tate, just across the long poisoned Thames, in a magnificent black structure of obsidian and tinted glass, rising a mere three hundred storeys, fashioned to resemble an old time policeman’s helmet. Most of its floors were now given over to recreational areas, casinos, corporate whorehouses and shopping malls. The actual DOCS occupied the three hundredth floor. It was run by a team of five men, one of whom was a token woman.

The head of the department, the Chief, was a black man by the name of Trubshaw. The tradition that a black man should always fill the role of police chief, was a long one, dating back to 1970s America, where, although in real life an impossibility, in the movies it was inevitably the case. It was a “Hollywood” thing.

Beneath the Chief was the Chief Inspector, a white man named Sam Maggott, and beneath Sam, four policemen, one of whom was a token woman. The role was taken on a rota basis. This week Officer John Higgins was the token woman, and Officer John Higgins was on the telephone.

“What?” she was saying. “What? What? What?”

Words poured into the ear of Officer John, words of a distressing nature. At length the stream of words ceased and Officer John replaced the telephone receiver. “Damn,” she said, and “damn and blast.”

Chief Inspector Maggott looked up from his doings, which were of the crossword persuasion and examined the young Officer, a vision in blue serge damask and dainty high heels. “Did I hear you say ‘damn’?” he enquired.

“You did, sir,” said Officer John, adjusting her wig.

“And what would be the cause of this damning?” Sam Maggott jiggled his girth about and rippled a jowl or two.

“It would seem, sir, that we have a crime on our hands.”

“A crime?” said Maggott. “A
crime
?”

“A crime, sir. The first of the year and a big one too. A murder by the sound of it.”

“
A murder
?” Sam’s flesh rippled in many directions. “We haven’t had a murder since—”

“Third of Apple,
[3]
twenty-two o-seven,” said Officer Denton Colby, who was good at that kind of thing.

“Fifteen years ago,” said Sam. “This is most upsetting. Are you certain that it wasn’t just an accident, or something?”

“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.”