Murder Comes Calling (12 page)

The twins had golfed together, no one suspecting their blood relationship. Valerie, the erstwhile Sylvia, had visited Ernest for lunch that fateful day, a natural thing for a daughter to do, and had maintained ties, romantic or purely friendly, with the fictional Vic Chandler, whose photo clearly denounced him as Fred, the main intimidator and enforcer for the Cruikshank Twins.

Rex had to hand it to them. The four members of the Essex gang had pulled off quite a coup maintaining their anonymity for two decades in a small community where everybody made it a point of knowing everybody else’s business.

While continuing to scour the Internet for further information, his cell phone bleeped. A text message from Helen reported she and Julie had boarded the flagship they were cruising on from Miami to the Southern Caribbean. Accompanying photos of their ocean-view cabin boasted a picture window and two bathrooms. More luxurious and spacious than Malcolm’s guest bedroom, Rex noted. He responded, and they continued to exchange messages until the bulb in the Tiffany light above the kitchen table went out, leaving only the under-cabinet strip lighting as illumination. Not a problem for reading his phone or computer screen, but a strain on his eyes for his notes, written in his small, precise hand.

When Helen signed off, he got up to look for a replacement bulb, checking first under the sink among the various detergents and sponges, and then in the laundry room. After searching without luck, he thought about calling Malcolm, but ultimately decided not to interrupt his date for something so trivial. The next most likely place he could think of was under the stairs so he made for the hall.

The cupboard lit up with the pull of a string and revealed a narrow, cobwebby space in which he was forced to bow his head. As he was rummaging among the shelves for the spare light bulbs, a dark woollen garment fell to the floor. Picking it up, he was so shocked to see what it was that he inadvertently banged his head on the low ceiling and swore, both from pain and the disturbing surprise of what he had found. He held in his hand a black balaclava.

sixteen

Rex placed the balaclava
on the kitchen table, anxious to ask Malcolm about it as soon as he returned from the pub. Unable to concentrate fully on his research, he heated up a carton of soup and cut two thick slices of bread. It seemed pointless to spend more time exploring a gang angle to the murders if Malcolm knew more than he let on. Rex could not begin to comprehend what his friend was doing skulking about the neighbourhood at night wearing a ski mask.

He clung to the hope that his friend had not worn it. And yet, it had been at the top of the pile of scarves and gloves in the stair cupboard, and Rex was almost certain he had heard a noise in the house late the previous night, something falling, perhaps, or a door slamming shut. The exterior kitchen door stuck a bit and required a shove to open and close properly. And the kitchen was directly beneath his guest bedroom. “Oh, Malcolm, what is going on?” he asked himself.

He had not mentioned the balaclava to his friend, since Mrs. Jensen had not been absolutely certain about the person’s clothes. If he had divulged this detail, would Malcolm have hidden the bonnet? That would have been a sure indication of guilt. How would he react when he saw it on the table? Rex recalled too that his friend hadn’t wanted to tell Charlotte about the prowler at first. Some of Malcolm’s behaviour had been dodgy, not least his wiping away of potentially crucial evidence. How involved was Malcolm, in reality, in the Notting Hamlet murders? Rex grew increasingly uneasy.

He poured himself a glass of wine, resolved to reserve judgement until his friend got home. Hopefully, Malcolm could supply a believable explanation for his nocturnal escapade, or else be able to convince him he had not worn the headgear at all.

Mercifully, he did not have long to wait. As he was clearing away the dishes from his light supper, he heard a car engine in the driveway and the garage door open with a jarring clang. He prepared himself. When Malcolm walked in from the laundry room leading from the garage, Rex was drying his wine glass and summoning all his composure.

“All right?” Malcolm asked, smiling. Rex noticed he was wearing a dark jacket and grasping a rolled-up newspaper, which he held up, failing to notice the balaclava on the kitchen table. “You’ll never guess what.”

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex said. “How did it go with Charlotte?”

“Quite well, I think. We have quite a lot in common, actually. She likes sci-fi and Thai food. Didn’t ask me in for a nightcap, though. I think I’ll have a glass of that Beaujolais.” Malcolm deposited the newspaper on the counter while he opened an upper cabinet and reached for a wine glass.

“What’s in the paper?” Rex enquired, still troubled by the balaclava, but curious as to why Malcolm would have the
Sun
newspaper on him. He knew about his friend’s aversion to the tabloids, so for him to pick one up and bring it home meant it must contain something momentous.

“It was left on our table at the pub. I wouldn’t ordinarily have glanced at the
Sun
, but something caught my eye.”

“Well?” Rex asked while Malcolm silently poured them both a glass of wine, filling the one Rex had dried and left on the workspace.

“Your journalist John Calpin has been murdered, that’s what.”

Rex grabbed the newspaper. It took only a minute to read the story, which was graphic in content and sensationalistic in style. “Dear God,” he said, looking at Malcolm.

“Didn’t you watch the news?” his friend asked.

“I haven’t left the kitchen all evening. This is most disturbing.” Rex slapped the paper back down on the counter. “The vicious nature of Calpin’s murder bears the hallmark of the ones committed here.”

“Only worse,” Malcolm said. “The murders are all personal in nature, aren’t they? I’d go so far as to say revenge killings. I wonder if Calpin’s murder had anything to do with his snooping around Notting Hamlet asking after his birth mother.”

“I’d say it has everything to do with it, but I don’t think he was really trying to find his birth mother. That might have been a ruse. I think he was on to something. Something big. I think in the course of his research on the Cruikshank gang, he discovered they might be living in Bedfordshire. He was doing research for his book on British mobsters, remember, and the question of where the gang disappeared has always been something of a mystery. Presumably, not everyone bought the story of their absconding to Australia.”

Malcolm concurred with a grave nod. “Someone found out what John Calpin was up to and abducted him. According to the
Sun
, he was first reported missing in Glasgow three weeks ago, but a grown man going missing doesn’t usually make headline news.”

“Especially reporters, who are prone to taking off at a moment’s notice to follow a story,” Rex added. “It’s only now his body’s been found so horrifically mutilated that we’re hearing aboot it. I think he unwittingly led his assassin here and the killer lost no time making sure the four victims couldn’t leave Notting Hamlet and disappear again.” He took a much-needed gulp of wine. The body count was mounting.

“Calpin may’ve been tortured to give up their whereabouts before he could publish his findings. It almost put me off my dinner when I read about it,” Malcolm said with a pained expression. “And you know I’m not normally squeamish. The article doesn’t say if he was dead before he had his eyes plucked out of their sockets, and all the rest of it.”

“It says he was shot execution style, so hopefully he talked and died before they went to work on him. The removal of his eyeballs and other body parts may have been symbolic.”

“A statement.” Malcolm nodded, gazing into his glass of red wine. “A sort of variation on ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’ And write no evil.”

“Aye, they would have been sending a clear message. A journalist needs his ears, eyes, tongue, and hands to report. The extensive mutilation can’t have been simply to prevent identification, since there’s no mention of his teeth going missing as well.”

“If he hadn’t been dredged up from the river, no one would have known what happened to him. Mind you, the water wasn’t very deep. The Glasgow police are saying they think it was a professional hit. I caught that on TV at the pub.” Malcolm wandered towards the table and stopped short when he saw the balaclava. “I could’ve sworn I put that under the stairs.”

“You did. I retrieved it.”

Malcolm looked at him in confusion, his face colouring. “Why?”

“Mrs. Jensen thinks her prowler may have been wearing a balaclava,” Rex explained, striving to keep his tone neutral. “I needed to replace the bulb in this lamp and, not wanting to disturb you at the pub, I searched high and low and finally found a spare, along with this ski mask.” He set down his glass on the counter and calmly folded his arms while he waited for Malcolm to explain.

His friend expelled a long breath. “Well, you caught me out. Nothing gets past you, does it, Rex?” he said with reproach.

“I just cannot credit it,” Rex burst out, succumbing to his pent up emotion. “First, tampering with evidence, and now this! What were you doing? Are you trying to get yourself arrested?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about Charlie. I kept seeing that pervert, Randall Gomez, when I closed my eyes. I convinced myself she was in danger, either from him or from some other person hell-bent on killing any resident selling their home. I decided to go out and do a recce of the neighbourhood, and see who else might be out and about at that hour. I needed to reassure myself Charlie was safe and no one was trying to break in.”

“Here I am working diligently on your behalf, and you’re out at some ungodly hour playing silly beggars!”

“I know, but I feel so useless. I need to be doing something!” Malcolm clenched his fists in impotent rage. “The police still patrol the community, but less and less frequently.”

“We are doing something, Malcolm. But if you’re so concerned aboot preventing crime in the community, start up a neighbourhood watch, why don’t you? Don’t go around lurking in the shadows in a black balaclava!”

Charlotte’s joke about the masked action man delivering chocolates was not so wide off the mark after all, Rex thought wryly, even though Malcolm made for an unlikely Milk Tray candidate. “Why did you wear this?” He lifted the ski mask and let it fall back on the table.

“It was ruddy cold last night, and I didn’t want to take my car in case it was recognized.”

Rex sighed in despair. “You’re your own worst enemy, Malcolm. Don’t go wandering around at night again. Please.”

He wondered if he should get hold of Mrs. Jensen and tell her she and her husband didn’t need to keep watch tonight. It was not yet nine; not too late to call. However, that would involve revealing the identity of the nitwit in the ski mask and perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to maintain a vigilant eye on the street.

“I won’t wear it again at night,” his friend promised. “Charlie assured me her alarm system is guaranteed to keep intruders at bay. A distress signal connects directly to the switchboard at Godminton Police Station.”

“It could take the police fifteen minutes to get here in the best of conditions.” Rex was tired of explaining the obvious. Enough had been said that night about the case. “Why don’t you tell me aboot your evening with the lovely Charlotte,” he said, still exercised with Malcolm, but ready to change topic. “You didn’t discuss the article with her, did you?” he asked, suddenly anxious that Malcolm might have been loose-lipped after a few drinks at the pub.

“When she saw my reaction, she wanted to read it. She was horrified, but didn’t understand the significance. She just saw it as another murder, although more brutal than most. And the fact the victim was so young and clean-cut made it worse.” Malcolm glanced at the paper, which showed a photo of the victim. “All I said was the story might have some bearing on our case. That’s all. I didn’t get into the specifics and I thought it better not to call you about it in her company, which, in any case would have come off as rude. Actually, she seemed more interested in asking about you. What your interest in the Notting Hamlet carnage was, and so on. I told her you were gaining a reputation for solving murder cases.”

“Oh, Malcolm, you didn’t.” Rex gazed ruefully at his glass. “It’s not a good idea to draw attention to ourselves,” he chided his friend. “Especially after this.” He pointed to the newspaper, which clearly indicated that, if John Calpin’s death was connected to the Notting Hamlet murders, the killer or killers were still at large and not slowing down. “It would be interesting to know if our house agent visited Glasgow,” he added. “But somehow I doubt it.”

Chris Walker was looking more and more like an innocent man. And the killer more and more like a monster.

seventeen

The next day on
a sunny and blustery morning, Rex set out to Geraldine Prather’s house on Fox Lane carrying the newspaper Malcolm had brought back from the pub. He had gone back and forth in his mind about whether to show her the article and finally decided he should, since it had been she who had told him about John Calpin in the first place. But for her, he would never have known about this latest victim’s connection to Notting Hamlet.

There was only one way to find out what Calpin had known, Rex decided, and that was to contact his editor at Penworth Press. Something in the unpublished book might reveal information about the Cruikshank gang or the rival Russian operation that merited five murders and point him in the right direction. For the present, he felt he had to console Geraldine Prather, who had taken a sympathetic interest in the young man.

He had stepped onto the road to cross over to her house when a bicycle swerved in front of him and skidded to a stop. It was a lime green Peugeot racing bike with drop handlebars, the front basket piled with folded newspapers. The rider, a boy of about fourteen with a ferrety face and tawny hair tousled by the stiff breeze, asked, “You a rozzer?”

A stuffed canvas bag slung across his thin chest revealed more Sunday papers.

“Do I look like a policeman?” Rex had to admit he could pass for an inspector in his walking shoes and heavy overcoat, his trimmed reddish beard lending an air of maturity, his pale complexion suggesting a job that mostly confined him to an office.

“People are saying you been asking questions ’bout the murders.” The lad’s voice, not fully broken, was alternately hoarse and fluty.

“I’m an advocate in Scotland. That’s a barrister here. You have something to tell me?”

“Depends, dun’it?”

Rex took the hint. “A bit of extra money to supplement your round—if you have valuable information.”

The boy wiped his nose on the back of his hand and looked around the street. It was still early and the residents were presumably taking advantage of a Sunday lie-in and a late breakfast.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Never you mind.”

“Didn’t your mum ever tell you to watch your manners?” Rex asked evenly, for it took more to rile him than a snivelling brat.

“I don’t have no mum, do I? I live with my uncle Bill.”

“Would that be Big Bill, leader of the local motorcycle club?”

“How’d you know?” the boy asked, eyes narrowing.

“Like you said, I’ve been asking a lot of questions. Did the police question you?”

“No. I don’t like rozzers. None of my family does.”

Probably because they lived on the wrong side of the law, Rex reasoned. If they sold weed, they might well indulge in other illicit activities they didn’t want the police knowing about.

He took a deep and patient breath. “You seem like a sharp lad. Did you see anything of interest the day of the murders? But it was a Thursday, so you were probably at school.”

“Wasn’t. I was riding up here on my bike.”

Rex refrained from asking why he had been playing truant. The important thing was that the boy might have seen something. “And?” he prompted. He pulled a crisp
£10
note from his wallet.

“Two tenners, mister.”

“This for starters. We’ll see what your information is worth.”

The boy took the money and zipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Oi, where’s my paper?” an unshaven man in a blue-striped dressing gown bellowed from his doorstep.

The boy wheeled his bike around Rex, plucked a newspaper from his basket, and winged it towards the house where it landed with a slap on the path. He had a good arm for such a skinny lad, Rex noted. Clasping the front panels of his dressing gown together in one hand, the man bent down and retrieved the paper, and went back inside his house.

Just as Rex was wondering if the boy was going to renege on their deal and take off with his cash, he circled back around and planted his scuffed trainers on the ground, on either side of the pedals.

“There was this shiny new Beamer, yeh? A cross between blue and green, just gorgeous. It was driving slowly up the street. Next thing I knew, the back window rolled down and an old geezer gave me this look. Right freaky. His eyes were hidden by shades, and it wasn’t even sunny that day. I was thinking I should get home before it rained, as I was off school with a cold.”

“What else can you tell me about this man?” Rex asked with
mounting interest.

“He was wearing a fur hat with flaps over his ears and was smoking one of them fat cigars. I got out of there quick and headed home. They would’ve had to do a U-y to chase me, and I’m dead fast on my bike.” The boy sounded breathless by the end of his account, his eyes stretched open from the relived fear of his encounter.

“How old was the man, exactly?”

“He was a fossil. He had wrinkly cheeks and red streaks on his nose. Oh, yeh, and he was wearing leather gloves and a thick coat.”

“Who else was in the BMW?”

“Just him in the back. The windows were tinted and I couldn’t see who was driving, but there was somebody sitting in the passenger seat.”

“And that’s all you saw?” Rex asked. A car passed behind him, but he didn’t look ’round, focused as he was on the teen, who was beginning to fidget as his gaze drifted down the street where he had yet to deliver his papers. “What time was this?”

“Late morning, wan’it?”

Rex produced a twenty from his wallet and held it out to the boy. His story corroborated Lottie Green’s and provided a description of one of the occupants of the vehicle. There was no reason to doubt the additional details.

The boy’s eyes widened at the sight of the extra money.

“Here’s my card, in case you remember anything else.”

“My name’s Danny.”

“Take care, Danny.” Rex strode on to Geraldine Prather’s house with a light step and a lighter wallet.

When she opened the front door he saw she was teary-eyed and clasping a tissue. She wore a green cr
ê
pe de Chine blouse over slacks, and pale pink ballet shoes, a chic transformation from her gardening clothes of the day before. Her fading copper coils were pinned back from her temples, her lipstick and powder in place, yet her expression was distraught.

“I’ve caught you at a bad time,” Rex apologized.

“I was on my way to church when I saw the story about John Calpin.” She indicated the rolled newspaper in Rex’s hand. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

“I was not sure if you’d heard. My friend picked this up at the pub last night.”

“Come in,” she said briskly in an obvious effort to pull herself together. “I put some coffee on.” She led him into the living room, where the walls and soft furnishings were decorated in deep jewel tones, with a few choice antiques interspersed among the sofas and chairs. The house plan was the same as Charlotte’s, but it projected a more formal feel. White plantation blinds filtered light from the windows and broke up the view of the front garden and street into narrow horizontal strips.

Rex made himself comfortable in one of the embroidered wing armchairs while Geraldine Prather left the room to prepare the coffee. He reread the article in the
Sun
and hoped the version in her paper was less lurid. She returned with a porcelain coffee pot and matching crockery on a tray, which she deposited on a lacquer table beside him.

“I lost my husband to a stroke.” She filled two cups and invited Rex to help himself to cream and sugar. “It must be worse when you lose someone to a violent death. Dreadful that John was only identifiable through his dental records.” Her hand trembled as she lifted the jug of cream. “The paper said he was the son of Robert and Elspeth Calpin, but didn’t mention if he was adopted. But it probably wouldn’t, would it? The parents must be heartbroken.”

“I have a son in his twenties. It’s never easy to lose a child, but when they’re just starting out in life and beginning to fulfil their potential, it must be especially hard. I made enquiries. John Calpin was evidently very talented. He had a book in the works.”

“A novel?” Geraldine asked with keen interest.

“Non-fiction. An investigative piece on notorious British mobsters. True crime, I think they call it.”

“Will it still be published?”

“Might depend on how far along he was with it.”

“I wonder if his adoptive parents know he was searching for his birth mother. Seems such a tragic coincidence they should both end up murdered—if it was my neighbour, Valerie.”

“Perhaps not a coincidence,” Rex remarked, without, however, wishing to reveal too much.

“Whatever do you mean?” Geraldine asked.

“Do we know for a fact he was trying to find his birth mother? It might have been a cover for something else he was investigating in Notting Hamlet.”

“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Prather looked disappointed that the young man might have lied to her. “I never connected the dots,” she said. “What with him being murdered up in Glasgow.”

“Well, it’s just conjecture on my part,” Rex hastened to add. “As a prosecutor, I tend not to accept coincidence at face value.”

“There was no reference in my paper to the murders here. Was there in yours?”

“None. I’m assuming the police are not aware John Calpin was in Notting Hamlet.”

“Should I contact them?”

“I would. I’m looking into the matter myself, and I will be contacting the police regarding a few other matters that have come to light. Malcolm asked me to look into the case. It was an opportunity to spend some time with him and see how he was faring. He took his wife’s death very hard.”

“I knew he was a widower. So very sad. How did she die? I forget.”

“A fall down the stairs. She suffered from migraines. She was having a bad spell and lost her balance.” Rex remembered Jocelyn as rail thin and delicate, yet energetic for all that. “She broke her neck.”

Geraldine Prather touched a hand to her mouth. “Poor man. To lose his wife in such a senseless way. But there’s no right way to lose someone, is there? I’ve always thought the stairs in these homes were rather steep. I’m always careful to hold on to the bannister, and I have pretty good balance. I used to be a dancer.”

Rex smiled and gestured to her footwear. “I noticed the ballet shoes.”

“I always wear flats, out of habit.” She smiled in turn, much recovered, it seemed, from when he had first arrived. “You know, I find it reassuring that you’re staying in Notting Hamlet. You have a very reassuring presence.” She smiled again. “I’m not saying the police haven’t been very thorough, but I have difficulty believing it was that house agent. Everyone I’ve spoken to says he’s their main suspect. But I expect the police have to produce somebody to prove they’re doing their job.”

“Murder cases can take time. If the police have insufficient evidence against Chris Walker to charge him, they have to release him within ninety-six hours, and they have to make a special application to detain him that long. But they’ll keep him under close surveillance if they still suspect him of the murders.”

Geraldine shook back her tight copper curls. “I don’t know what to think. I just don’t see what motive he would have had,” she said with puzzlement in her voice. “And he didn’t strike me as a particularly shady character on the few occasions I spoke with him. Will you let me know as soon as you find out anything concrete?” She stared at Rex over her coffee cup, a worried look in her eyes. “Do you think it’s safe to stay here?”

“I can’t really advise either way. If I were you, though, I would consider getting away for a while, if only to avoid the stress of the situation.”

“I have been thinking about taking a holiday,” Geraldine said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Thailand.”

“Do you know Charlotte Spelling up the street? She runs a travel business called Get Up and Go, which I believe caters to last-minute bookings. I have her number, if you’d like it.”

“I would indeed. Thank you. It seems like divine providence.” Geraldine set down her cup and tapped her knees. “Bangkok, here I come!”

Rex declined her offer of more coffee and they exchanged numbers. As he left, he promised to keep in touch.

The walk back to Malcolm’s house helped to clear his head, which was a hive of mental activity, his thoughts buzzing to and fro and always returning to the central theme of proving who had committed the murders—all five of them. For he had little doubt they were related.