“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.”

4

The headquarters of the DOCS had plenty of high-tech state-of-the-art equipment. There were heaps of holographic how’s-your-fathers and digital directory doodahs. There were even some inter-rositors, which were powered by a complicated process involving the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. Most of it however had long since ceased to work, and that which still did so, did so at irregular intervals.

Officer Denton was au-fait with the running of all the equipment that still worked. She possessed the necessary operational skills and had certificates to prove it. Not that any of her comrades had ever expressed a desire to see them. Officer Denton set to the task of tracking down the killer.

“This should be a challenge,” she told Chief Inspector Sam, “but not much of one. We’ll soon have him.”

“I fear not for this,” said her superior. “Would you care to take us through the method you will be employing?”

Officer Denton put aside her nail varnish and blew on her fingertips. “As you are well aware,” said she, “at any given time it is possible for us to locate any given person. No one can travel without being iris-scanned. Folk are constantly scanned in their housing units by iris-scanning systems installed within their home screens.”

“Which is not something known to the general public,” said Sam, tapping his nose in a significant fashion.

“Naturally not, sir. But if the scanners actually happen to be working, 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 laminated splinters, pictures torn from the walls and shredded. The polysynthetic carpeting had even been ripped from the floor.

“These places depress me,” Sam said.

“Why so, sir?” asked Officer John.

“Because I grew up in one of these. Crowborough Tower, Tooting sector. Five hundred and nineteenth floor. South-facing, which was fine on Thursdays, of course. But they’re all the same. On the rare occasion that there is a crime and I have to visit the crime scene, it’s always like going home to the unit I was brought up in. It’s almost as if every crime is committed in my own front room, against one of my own family. Do you understand what I’m saying?”