“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.”