The Witches of Chiswick by Robert Rankin

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