“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 want.”

“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.