Read The Witches of Chiswick for Free Online Page B

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