Murder Comes Calling (5 page)

“Don’t know about a grudge,” Malcolm replied. “As far as I’m aware, Randy didn’t have issues with Ernest or the others about not getting paid, for instance. And I never heard any complaints about his work or stuff going missing, and he did a lot of repairs around the community. Anyway, nothing was reported stolen from the victims’ homes. The police questioned the postman, utility workers, all the delivery people coming into the community, people who had left suddenly after the event …”

“Were there any?”

“There were some who went to stay with friends or relatives until the perpetrator was caught. But no really suspicious absences that I know of.”

“Sounds like the police have been quite thorough.”

“They’re still questioning people in the community. Shall I make more tea?” Malcolm asked, lifting the earthenware pot. “This is almost empty and it must be stone cold by now.”

“Aye, why not?”

While Malcolm prepared a fresh pot, Rex ruminated over the lack of suspects other than Chris Walker. And yet, where was the smoking gun? No bloody shoeprints had been found, only a damp one on the front door mat. The house agent might have come by to update Ernest on some potential interest or to discuss a price reduction, or any number of items related to the property.

Rex wished he could eliminate the bloody letters from the equation. However, they must hold some degree of significance if the killer had smeared them on the victims. Vicious murder had clearly been the intent and not burglary. If only Malcolm had not acted out of paranoia and washed the letters away. Rex could not help but feel disappointed in his friend and frustrated that neither he nor the police had a full set of facts.

Malcolm sat down and placed the teapot on the quilted mat. Rex watched, distracted. The ringing of the phone in the hall interrupted his sequence of thoughts. Malcolm jumped up to answer it, panic written all over his face.

“Do you think it’s DCI Cooper?” he asked.

“There’s only one way to find oot.”

“Right.” His friend visibly braced himself and marched into the hall.

seven

Rex heard a hesitant
“Hello?” from Malcolm and then his relieved voice saying, “Oh, Lottie, dear … Yes, he is. One moment. It’s for you,” he called out to Rex. “Lottie,” he said covering the mouthpiece with his hand as Rex approached. “She says she remembered something.”

“Good. Let’s hope it’s something worthwhile,” Rex said under his breath. He took the phone. “Lottie, you have something for me?”

“Well, it might be something or nothing. I was going over our conversation while I was Hoovering the living room and for some reason I remembered some weeks back Ernest saying it was time for him and Frankie to move on. He seemed troubled. This was when I was asking about the For Sale sign in his garden. Soon after that, Barry Burns, Vic Chandler, and Valerie Trotter all put their homes on the market. The first sign to go up was that horrible man’s at Forty-Five Fox Lane. We were all relieved when that happened. Then the woman up the road, Charlotte what’s-her-name, put her house up for sale. After the murders, it was the Ballantines’ home, under a different house agent. I’m sure more will follow.”

Rex was wondering where all this was going when Lottie said, “Anyway, I didn’t know who Frankie was. I thought maybe it was his cat or a hamster. I’d never set foot in his house, so I didn’t know if he had a pet. It could have been a goldfish for all I know. He didn’t have any children. I was about to ask him, but his phone rang and he hurried inside to get it. To my knowledge, no pet was found when the police came to investigate his murder.”

“Frankie could be a woman’s name, couldn’t it?” Rex asked. “Short for Francesca.”

“Shame to change such a pretty name,” Lottie remarked.

“I changed mine from Reginald.”

“In your case, Rex is better.”

“Thank you. And thanks for that bit of information. I’ll ask Malcolm if he knows of anyone by the name of Frankie.” He turned to Malcolm, who shook his head in the negative. “Did you talk to Ernest again after that?” Rex enquired of Lottie.

“About a week later. I recall him telling me he might have buyers for the house. He said he’d had several people look at it, but no real interest until a young couple came along.”

“A young couple?”

“Yes. That’s all he told me. But he seemed pleased. He was eager to move. Something about wanting to be closer to his sister in Cheshire. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. But this couple might be able to give you some information about Chris Walker.”

“Did the police interview them?” Rex asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think to mention it to the police. They were mainly interested in what I witnessed through the window and what happened after that. Does it help you?”

“I’m not sure yet, Lottie, but it’s more than I had before. Thanks again for indulging me in my little hobby.”

“Oh, not at all! I’ll see if I can come up with any more titbits.”

“You might want to contact DCI Cooper about what you told me.”

“Oh, I don’t like
him
! Very superior, that one. Do you suppose the couple have bad things to say about Chris Walker? Oh, I’m sure the police have already questioned everyone connected with him.”

Rex never felt it safe to assume. With very little of his own to go on, he now had a line of inquiry, however tenuous. He warmly bid Lottie goodbye and replaced the handset on the old rotary phone.

“What was all that about?” Malcolm asked, leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed.

“A young couple were interested in Ernest Blackwell’s house. Lottie thought they might have something on Walker. She doesn’t know if the police are aware of them.”

“You think the couple might have seen something?” Malcolm asked. “You’d think they would have come forward if they had.”

“Perhaps they did. Grab your coat. We’re going for a walk.”

“Where to?”

“The other homes up for sale, to see if the owners showed their home to a young couple.”

Malcolm made no effort to move. “But …”

“It’s an angle worth exploring in the absence of anything else. Better take our umbrellas in case it decides to rain again.”

Armed against the weather, the two men turned onto the shining-
wet street, which was deserted, except for a man opposite Malcolm’s house vigorously sweeping under his covered front porch. This had been extended beyond the original plan and tiled. His bristled moustache, resembling the broom he was slamming from side to side, stood out from thirty yards away. He granted them a cordial wave and returned to his task, evidently keen to get on with it without interruption.

“He lives next door to the late Vic Chandler,” Rex noted. “If he were less preoccupied, I’d go over and talk to him.”

“That’s Jerry Macintyre, a retired Chief Fire Officer. He was with his wife at her sister’s in Bedford the day of the murders. They didn’t get back until after the police had arrived. I’ve spoken to everybody on Badger Court. Those who weren’t at work were inside because of the rain. Nobody saw anything.”

“Or maybe didn’t know what they saw,” Rex commented, surveying the backdrop behind Vic Chandler’s old property. “There are a lot of birch and oak trees back there. The killer could have used those for cover. How did Mr. Macintyre get on with his neighbour?”

“Fine, I think. Vic wasn’t a man of many words. ‘All right?’ was his customary form of greeting. He didn’t seek out anybody’s company. Do you think it would be okay to take down that horrendous white dish? Jerry and I were discussing it. He says he can get his hands on a ladder tall enough to reach the roof.”

“No, Malcolm! That would constitute trespassing and vandalism, and you’re in enough trouble as it is. You don’t know who owns that property now, and they might not appreciate you removing the satellite dish.”

Malcolm looked peeved. “He should never have put it up in the first place.”

Without further discussion on the matter, they crossed the cul-de-sac and made their way down Fox Lane, stopping at the shuttered mock-Tudor house whence the scowling man had emerged earlier in the day. The barricaded aspect of the property and the bleakness of the bare garden rendered number 45 less than hospitable. Malcolm told Rex he would wait at the end of the driveway, where a For Sale sign advertised the services of Walker & Associates, as did all the available properties in Notting Hamlet, bar one.

“Not a friendly man,” Malcolm said by way of excuse.

“So you’re letting me go into the fray on my own?”

“He may be more welcoming if you’re by yourself.”

“He wasn’t last time. But it’s too cold to be standing around arguing. What’s his name again?”

“I forget. Sorry. I only know he’s a chemistry teacher.”

Rex referred to his notes. “Mr. Woods, according to Lottie.”

He strode up the cobbled path, which felt uneven underfoot. Loosening the plaid muffler around his neck, he drilled the doorbell. Seconds later, he heard heavy footfalls approach from the inside, followed by a pause as the person presumably looked through the peephole. The door flew open.

“What d’you want?” demanded the red-faced resident, a burly man in his fifties, balding on top.

“I simply wanted to ask a few questions relating to the sale of your house, Mr. Woods. I’m not a detective or a reporter.”

“Are you a buyer?”

“No, I—”

The door slammed in Rex’s face, resulting in a panel of varnished wood mere inches from his nose.

“Charming,” he said under his breath as he turned away and retraced his steps.

Malcolm looked gleeful. “I did warn you.”

“What put a bee in his bonnet?” Rex groused.

“He’s the sort of person who’s irate at the entire world. He’s threatened to throttle the loud dogs next door. It’s been going on for a year. He’s called the police and our local council, and who knows whom else. I suppose, in the end, it was just easier to move, though he must know it’ll be harder to sell his property with those noisy brutes next door, not to mention the murders, and he probably feels trapped.”

“The stress is obviously getting to him.” Rex looked back at the hostile abode.

“You were lucky. I saw him hose down one of our resident Hells Angels who was distributing window-washing flyers. ‘Get off my lawn, you effing lout!’ he yelled, chasing him to his motorcycle and giving that a good dousing, too.”

“I’ll give him a wide berth in future.”

“You should have seen the obscene gesture that long-haired hoodlum made as he drove off on his bike!” Malcolm’s face grew pink with indignation. “It was Wes, Big Bill’s right-hand man. He wears a studded leather dog collar and chains. Oh, how I’d love to round up the whole lot of them and send them packing.”

“Inflict the bikers on someone else?” Rex retorted in good humour. “Come on. Let’s try the next ‘For Sale.’” They crossed the street. “This one looks more appealing, don’t you think?”

Perennials planted in pebbled borders on each side of the path greeted the visitors with their cheerful splash of colour on this dreary grey day. Behind a pair of drawn curtains a lamp palely glowed, holding out hope that someone was home.

“Do you know the owners?” Rex asked Malcolm.

“I don’t.”

“Lottie mentioned a Charlotte.”

“Lottie is a walking directory.”

“She’s an asset in our endeavours,” Rex reminded his friend.

He pressed on the bell and stepped back beside Malcolm. The door opened, catching on a chain. A pair of green female eyes looked out, appraising them with kind interest.

“I’m Malcolm Patterson,” Rex’s friend said, taking the initiative. “I live on Badger Court. This is an old acquaintance of mine, Rex Graves, QC, who’s conducting a private inquiry into the recent murders.”

Rex presented his card through the gap in the door. The emerald eyes flicked over it.

“And what do you want with me?” asked the woman, an attractive brunette in her forties, from what Rex could see of her head. She sounded more curious than alarmed, and Rex explained that he had heard about a young couple looking at Ernest Blackwell’s property and wanted to know if such a couple had been shown hers.

“Maybe,” she said with a teasing twinkle in her eyes. “You’d better come in out of the damp.” She unhooked the chain and opened the door wide. “My bronchitis acts up in this climate. That’s why I’ve decided to move.” She closed the door behind them and gestured to her right. “Go on in,” she invited and followed the two men into a living room where a central ceiling lamp reflected the comforting glow through the window. The decor in tan and peach hues was soothing on the eyes. “My husband will be back any minute,” she added.

Rex had already noticed she didn’t wear an engagement ring or a wedding band. Nor did any photos of nuptials or children adorn the tables or shelves.

She perched on an armchair opposite a sofa and waited for her visitors to take a seat. Although her wavy hair was loose about her shoulders, she was dressed in business attire comprising black slacks and an expensive-looking sweater in a sludgy green that set off her eyes. A pair of high heels lay discarded by the sofa. Through her nylons peeped bright red toenails. She tossed back her dark curls, sending a pair of silver hoops bobbing and glinting in her ears.

“So,” she said, clasping her hands, “why the interest in a young couple looking at Mr. Blackwell’s property?”

“Lottie Green mentioned them as potential buyers for his house,” Malcolm said while Rex continued to mull over the contradiction of a married woman without a ring.

“Not now, surely?” she asked. “I mean, it’s a crime scene. Who’d want to buy a house where two violent murders have been committed?”

“Ghouls,” Rex said.

She smiled.

“You know Lottie?” Malcolm asked.

“I know of her. I don’t have much to do with the neighbours. I run a business from home and I’m often away for meetings.”

“What do you do?” Malcolm wanted to know.

“I have a travel website called Get Up and Go. It’s geared towards last-minute deals for spontaneous travellers. I go out and solicit sponsors and advertisers.”

“Well, anyhow,” Malcolm went on to Rex’s amusement. Usually his friend wasn’t so assertive. “We were keen to find out if this couple had been here and whether you could tell us anything about them.” He glanced at Rex to see how he was doing, and Rex nodded in approval.

“Okay,” the woman said in a hesitant voice. “But I still don’t see what they have to do with the murders. Are you working with the police?”

“I am,” Malcolm replied. “I’m a forensic medical examiner by profession. I went to the station today with additional information, and now this other bit of news has turned up. This couple may know something. We’d like to talk to them. Rex here is really the brains of the team.”

“I should have introduced myself,” she said, turning her attention to Rex and smiling wide enough to produce two charming dimples. “Charlotte Spelling. And my husband won’t be turning up. I don’t have one. Anymore. I just said that before because I didn’t know who you both were, and I was acting out of precaution.”

“I understand,” Rex said.

“Okay, well, I don’t know what you need to know exactly, but a young couple did come by to see my house. They wanted a quiet neighbourhood and so were looking in Notting Hamlet. They saw my For Sale sign and rang the doorbell on spec.”

“Can you describe them?” Malcolm asked.

“A nice-looking couple. She was quite stunning, actually. Blonde, medium height. John and Mary Jones, they said their names were.”

“You said ‘they said their names were,’” Rex queried, picking up on the fact that Charlotte Spelling had not simply stated their names.

She flashed him a look, her gaze lingering on him for a second. “Right. They didn’t sound like a John and Mary Jones.”

“How so?”

“I’m not sure, but they sounded Romanian or Russian—something like that. It wasn’t immediately noticeable, and his accent was rather heavier than hers. He had broad features and cold dark eyes that really stood out in his pasty complexion. He gave me the chills, actually.”

“You are very observant, Miss Spelling,” Rex complimented.

“You can call me Charlie. My friends do.”