Murder Comes Calling (8 page)

Arrived safely in Miami. Recovering from jet lag but getting ready to hit South Beach and see the Art Deco. Boarding the Breeze tomorrow afternoon. So wish you could have come with us!! Julie sends her love. xxoo

Rex sent her a reply saying he had travelled to Bedfordshire for a long weekend to help out an old friend, and told her he missed her.

While TV sports commentary and civilized ripples of applause, interspersed with Malcolm’s own cheering and booing, emanated from the living room, Rex transferred his attention to the newspaper crossword puzzle and had the blanks filled in within thirteen minutes according to the wall clock. Would the Ballantines be home yet? Finishing his coffee, he decided to find out, since there was little else he could do at this point.

Poking his head around the living room door, he told Malcolm he was going out and glanced long enough at the screen to note the score and the white-clad players positioned around their wickets on the green.

“Right-oh,” his friend replied with a quick glance round, engrossed as he was in the cricket match. “We’re winning,” he crowed.

“So I see.” Rex stepped back into the hall and put on his scarf. Confirming that his keys were in his pocket, he opened the door to a dark view of the front yard and driveway. A light mist sprayed his face. He reached back for his brolly. It was not far to the other cul-de-sac, and he decided to walk.

He had got as far as Barry Burn’s old house when his cell phone went off in his pocket to the chorus of “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond.” He paused under a streetlight and saw it was a local number. “Rex Graves,” he answered, seeking shelter under a sycamore tree.

“Mr. Graves, this is David Gleeson of EuroConnect Properties returning your call.”

“Thank you so much. I was calling with regard to a property in Notting Hamlet.”

“The one on Otter Court?”

“Right. I wanted to know if you’d had a young foreign couple by the name of Jones or Garcia interested in it.”

“No. No interest at all yet, but that’s hardly surprising. I’ve had calls from one or two other residents in Notting Hamlet wanting to put their homes on the market, but I’m reluctant to accommodate them at this time.”

“Because of the murders, no doubt,” Rex said, shifting his position under the tree for better cover.

“Well, yes. I advised them to wait for the dust to settle. Plus, Notting Hamlet is largely Chris Walker’s turf. I don’t want to be seen as poaching his clients.”

“And the Ballantine property?”

“Different kettle of fish. Rick’s firm handles my finances, and I know him personally. You asked if a young couple had an interest in his house? News to me.”

“An acquaintance of mine has a home listed with Chris Walker and had such a couple come by, but they seem to have vanished into thin air.”

“I suppose Mr. Walker’s had other things on his mind, if what I hear is true. It’s a regrettable situation for his clients, but I can hardly step in and take over.”

“Are you acquainted with him?” Rex asked.

“Not well. My business operates out of Bedford. We cater to a more international crowd. Perhaps you could try Covington’s. They’re in Godminton. It’s only them and Walker now. Home Sweet Home closed its doors over a year ago.”

Rex thanked Mr. Gleeson, who was beginning to sound impatient. Ending the call, he continued on his way. He felt certain he would get no more joy from Covington’s. Charlotte Spelling’s suspicious couple were proving impossible to trace.

eleven

The evenly spaced streetlights
reflected off the puddles in the gutters, leaving pockets of darkness in between the pools of illumination. Rex pulled up his coat collar and slanted his brolly against the drizzle coming down with dreary persistence. While the knuckles of his right hand holding the brolly stem dripped water, his other was warmly ensconced in his pocket.

A few cars pulled into driveways and were swallowed by garages. Lights dotted the windows of the uniform homes he passed. Occasionally, voices and barks sounded from within, muffled by the walls and the insulating rain. He could not recall the sun having made the ghost of an appearance all day.

Once or twice, a curtain twitched and a face peered out into the gloom. He walked on and crossed into Otter Court, where the houses featured the same deep-set, small-paned windows and exposed beams across tan stucco, skirted by a brick basement. All sat in fenced-in gardens with their squares of lawn, shrubs and bushes cast in shadow. As on Badger Court, the north row backed onto the river, invisible from the street.

Rex’s spirits soared when he saw the lights on downstairs at the Ballantine house, which stood at the far end of the cul-de-sac on a corner lot. A silver car was parked to one side of the driveway. At least one person was home.

He strode up to the front door and rang the bell, immediately aware of a movement in the drapes to his right. A minute later, a footfall sounded on the other side of the door, which remained resolutely closed. He held his business card in front of the peephole. The door finally opened as far as the chain would allow, and a bespectacled female face narrow in structure and framed with lank, brown hair, appeared. Her voice quavered, “Yes?”

“Mrs. Ballantine? My name is Rex Graves. Sorry to bother you when it’s dark. I called on you earlier and no one was home. I’m a friend of Malcolm Patterson’s on Badger Court.”

“I know Dr. Patterson. The widower?”

“Correct. I wanted to ask if any people have come to view your house. Malcolm and I are conducting an independent inquiry into the murders. I spoke to your house agent, David Gleeson, just now and he said no one had expressed an interest so far, but I wondered if anyone might have come to you direct.”

“With so many murders, you can see why I’m hesitant to open my door,” the lady of the house explained without yet making a move to open it further.

Rex could certainly understand her reluctance and said as much. “Let me call Malcolm on my mobile, so he can vouch for me.” He pulled out his phone, praying that Malcolm would not ignore his call so he could continue watching the cricket match.

“Oh, that’s all right,” the woman declared. “I’ve seen you about with him. Please come inside.” She unhooked the chain and invited him into the living room. Dressed in slippers, a pleated skirt, and a buttoned cardigan, she stood with her arms folded tightly across her flat chest. Rex towered over her. “You must think me rather trusting to let a stranger into my home after what’s happened,” she said. “But in spite of your size, you look quite harmless.”

“Thank you. I think.” He smiled at the petite woman before him.

“And you’re not quite a stranger, if you know Malcolm. I saw on your card that you’re an officer of the law.” Seemingly satisfied that he posed no danger, she said brightly, “I always treat myself to a sherry on Friday nights. Care to join me?”

“I would, thank you.” Rex took a seat on the nearest armchair while she crossed to an antique buffet table and poured sherry from a decanter into two small, bell-shaped glasses.

She handed him one and sat down opposite him.

“Mrs. Ballantine—”

“Sandra.”

“Sandra. You must think me very nosy coming round asking questions.”

She tugged on her cultured pearl necklace. “I thought the killer’s been apprehended. That other house agent …”

“Chris Walker. I don’t know that he’s been arrested. Malcolm and I are just trying to get supplemental information. As you are no doubt aware, it was my friend who found the bodies.”

Sandra visibly shivered as she held the sherry glass between her knees.

Rex apologized for upsetting her. “Malcolm and I were at Edinburgh University together,” he elaborated. “He was studying medicine while I was getting my law degree. I occasionally get asked to investigate murder cases.”

“So you’re helping the police,” Sandra said.

“In a manner of speaking.” For all he knew, the police might construe his and Malcolm’s actions as outright interference.

More at ease now, Sandra sipped her sherry and Rex did the same. It was a bit on the sweet side for his taste, but much appreciated nonetheless after his cold walk.

“You asked about visitors, but no one’s come to see the house. Mr. Gleeson told us he’d had a couple of people call asking for information, but they were weeded out as having no more than a morbid curiosity. He told us to hang on.”

At that moment, Rex heard the clang of the garage door, and Sandra jumped in her armchair. “That must be my husband. I wasn’t expecting him so early.” She looked at Rex as though working up the nerve to ask him to leave.

“Grand,” he said. “I wanted to talk to him too.”

A man with smarmy good looks stepped into the living room and stopped abruptly when he saw Rex. “I didn’t know we had company,” he said, eyeing his wife.

“This is Rex Graves, QC, a friend of Malcolm Patterson’s, whom you worked with when trying to organize that automated gate for the entrance.”

“I know who Malcolm is,” her husband cut in. “You might perhaps have asked Mr. Graves if he wanted to remove his wet coat.”

Sandra glanced at Rex in apology. “Oh, I didn’t think—”

“I’m not staying long, and I’m sorry to impose.” Rex turned to Mr. Ballantine, who was loosening his tie. “I was telling your wife I was interested in the Notting Hamlet murders.”

“Aren’t we all.” Rick busied himself at the buffet table.

“Mr. Graves was asking if anyone had come to see our house, and I said no.”

“Unfortunately, that’s so.” Her husband returned with a tumbler of liquor on the rocks. The ice rattled as he took a seat beside his wife on the sofa. Rex noted there was no physical contact between them. “I commute to Bedford practically every day,” Rick Ballantine said. “It’s a long haul in bad traffic. If I work late I kip on the divan at my office.”

Rex noticed Sandra stiffen. I see, he thought to himself with a degree of irony. It wasn’t that long of a drive.

“And we want to be closer to the city so our son can get more involved in after-school activities. It will be the same distance for my wife to travel to work. But it looks like we’ll be stuck here for the time being, at least.” Mr. Ballantine took a slug of his drink. “Nothing like a string of murders in a remote community to give buyers cold feet.”

“Is that why you wanted to put in a gate at the front entrance?” Rex asked.

“That was before. Malcolm and I, and a few other residents, got a petition out, but a handful of homeowners resisted because of the expense. Obviously it had to be a unanimous decision, since everyone would have to be equipped with remotes or the keypad code.”

“Was there some concern for safety at the time?” Rex asked.

“We were mainly thinking about break-ins. There’d been a spate of petty theft. Bicycles and tools, that sort of thing. There’s a wall around the community and we thought it would be an idea to close it off completely.”

“But no wall at the back, just the river,” Rex said. “And not a very daunting one at that.”

“True. In any event, putting a gate in now would be a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”

“It would not have impeded a menace from within the community,” Rex pointed out while Sandra continued to sip at her sherry, more nervous now that her husband was home.

“Like the biker gang on Owl Lane?” Rick Ballantine asked. “There’s a menace for you. It’s likely they were responsible for some of the stuff going missing. They were the most vocal in opposing the gate. Wouldn’t have been fair to give them access when everyone else had to chip in.” Ballantine suddenly looked at his wife. “Where’s Will? I didn’t see his light on upstairs.”

“He’s with Alex.”

“Alex Leontiev? You know how I feel about him hanging out with that boy.”

“He’s his only friend around here.”

“I just don’t like it.” Ballantine rolled the cut-glass tumbler back and forth between his palms. “He’s an Islamic militant,” he told Rex. “And what are his parents doing stuck on that farm?” he asked his wife. “They barely speak English and I don’t see them growing anything. One of the farms on the other side of the river,” he explained to Rex.

“It’s almost winter, Rick,” his wife pronounced in clipped syllables.

“Can’t you grow turnips in winter?” he asked. “Oh, what do I know?” Ballantine shrugged and downed the rest of his liquor. He looked as though he were contemplating a refill.

“Have you been to the farm?” Rex enquired.

“Once or twice, to collect Will. Never got out of the car. It’s mucky out there and they keep a couple of German Shepherds as guard dogs that might actually be full-blooded wolves, by the looks of them. They’re not tied up. A trespasser is going to get mauled to death one of these days. And Will told me Alex’s dad has a shotgun. I’ve only ever spoken to the mother through the car window. The father never says anything.”

“She’s very nice,” Sandra told her husband. “She invited me in for tea the other day while we were waiting for the boys to return. She served tea from a samovar. We had no difficulty communicating in spite of her thick accent. There were novels on the shelves by Solzhenitsyn and story collections by Anton Chekhov. I recognized those names in Russian. I teach literature,” she explained as an aside to Rex. “And also lots of textbooks, though I couldn’t make out what they were about.”

“Bomb-making?” Rick snorted in derision.

“I thought maybe farming.”

“How to grow cannabis?”

“Really, Rick. I never knew you were so prejudiced.”

“I’m a realist. We don’t know anything about these people, and I do wish you wouldn’t encourage Will seeing Alex.”

“What makes you think this friend is a militant?” Rex asked in response to Rick Ballantine’s earlier comment.

His hand around the glass, Ballantine pointed a finger at Sandra. “My wife found a recruitment website on our son’s laptop. Training in Dagestan. ‘Kill the infidel and be rewarded with a bevy of virgins in heaven,’ sort of thing. Powerful stuff for a teenage boy.”

“He said he was doing research for a current affairs essay.”

“And you believe everything he says,” Ballantine riled at his wife. “Don’t Alex’s parents come from one of those ex-provinces of imperial Russia where all the dissent foments, either against Russia or the West? Somethingstan?”

“They’re from the Republic of Kazakhstan, which used to belong to the Russian Empire and then the USSR, but is now independent,” Sandra explained in a mild and neutral tone, as though teaching a class. “And, yes, Islam is the religion of about 70 percent of the population, but let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m sure Mr. Graves didn’t come to hear about Will’s friends or your … views.”

Rex could almost hear the word “narrow” inserted in the slight pause between words and sensed the tension between the couple escalate to a new pitch. An argument was evidently brewing, which would no doubt erupt upon his departure.

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I was interested in a couple who, coincidentally, may be Russian. Early thirties or so. They were looking at homes in the neighbourhood three weeks back. A striking blonde in the company of a well-built, dark-haired fellow. Did you happen to see them around? She was wearing a white fur coat, apparently.”

“Fur?” Sandra exclaimed. “In Notting Hamlet? I find that hard to believe!”

“Why do you say that?” Rex asked, remembering Charlotte Spelling’s equally surprised reaction to the woman’s clothes.

Sandra Ballantine shrugged her slender shoulders. “It just seems out of place. Sort of
nouveau riche.
The residents here aren’t like that. We’re just ordinary people.”

Her husband’s tight expression implied that he dissociated himself from the general ordinariness of Notting Hamlet. Rex privately thought the murders had changed that concept. There was, after all, nothing ordinary about four murders all in one day, within less than a one-mile radius.

“I take it then neither of you saw individuals matching that description.” Rex sighed in disappointment and set his sherry glass on the table. He made a move to get up from his seat.

Rick Ballantine raised his hand to stop him. “Even if they were genuine buyers, they would have changed their minds after the murders, don’t you think? And why are they so important? Who saw these people?”

“Charlotte Spelling, who’s selling her house on Fox Lane, and Ernest Blackwell, who told her he’d had a similar-sounding couple, whom he thought might buy his place.”

The Ballantines exchanged intrigued glances. “Ernest Blackwell. The first victim found,” the husband said. “Well, this couple never made their way here, worst luck. Sounds like they might have had the money to buy.”

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Rex said, this time retrieving the brolly at his feet and rising from his armchair. “I was hoping to discover whether they had seen anything untoward, since they visited Mr. Blackwell shortly before he was murdered.” In a final bid for information, he said, “Lottie Green noticed a new, teal-coloured BMW driving up Fox Lane the day of the murders. I don’t suppose either of you noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

Ballantine gazed at the drink in his hand and swirled the melted ice at the bottom of the tumbler. He shook his head in the negative. “Sorry.”

“Ah, well.” Rex thanked them for their hospitality.

Rick remained seated while his wife, who had likewise shaken her head, saw Rex out the front door. He felt sorry for the bookish woman and hoped he was wrong about his suspicions regarding the strained relations between her and her husband, but even as he reached the foot of the driveway, he heard raised voices behind him.