Murder Comes Calling (9 page)

The rain had stopped and the air felt clear and bracing. A few stars glimmered in the night sky. He stopped suddenly and gazed into space, deep in thought, going back and forth in his mind, weighing possibility versus improbability. Moments later, he resumed his walk at a more brisk pace while drawing the phone from his pocket. His idea seemed like a long shot, but one never knew where an investigation might lead.

twelve

By the time Rex
returned to Malcolm’s house and had removed his coat, his friend was setting the kitchen table and had opened one of the bottles of red wine purchased from the supermarket.

“What’s the occasion?” Rex asked, glad not to be eating on his knees in front of the television that evening.

“I decided the food you bought deserved a proper table. There’s a film you might like on Channel Four later on. I thought we could have dessert in the sitting room.”

“Fine by me. What’s the film?”

“A courtroom drama with, uh, I forget his name. But something that might be right up your alley. How did you get on at the Ballantines’? I take it they were in since you were gone awhile.” Malcolm folded a pair of blue cotton napkins and placed them on the side plates.

A savoury aroma arose from the oven, and a loaf of crusty French bread stood on the counter ready to be sliced. Rex did the honours.

“I was able to speak to both Sandra and Rick,” he replied. “They were quite forthcoming, but couldn’t shed any light on the foreign couple. They send their regards, by the way.” Rex couldn’t remember if they had or not, but it seemed the appropriate thing to say. “Rick Ballantine mentioned he’d worked with you on the project to have an electronic gate put in at the entrance.”

“That was a year ago. Never got off the ground. Met with some resistance from the biker crowd.”

“So I heard.”

“That element didn’t exist when Jocelyn and I moved here seven years ago. Ah, well. Shall I take out the cheese?” Malcolm asked, opening the refrigerator. “Dinner will be another twenty minutes.”

“Grand. I’m famished.”

Malcolm set a wedge of Stilton and a slab of aged cheddar on a cutting board, which he placed on the table along with a tub of margarine.

“No butter?” Rex asked. “And don’t start on aboot saturated fats.”

“I’m a pathologist, not a dietician. The only time I’m interested in the contents of a person’s stomach is to determine approximate time of death by the rate of absorption of those contents and where they might have eaten their last meal.”

“Enough said.” Rex poured the wine and sat down at table, where Malcolm joined him.

“I didn’t know what to do with the box of chocolates you bought, so I put them in the fridge.
Belgian
chocolates,” Malcolm emphasized. “Really, you shouldn’t have,” he said coyly. “Seriously, though. Who are they for?”

“For you, numpkins. To take to a certain lady.”

“Who? You don’t mean Charlotte?”

“Why not?” Rex tucked into his bread and cheese.

“I think it was you she was interested in. It was the same at uni. Why do women like big, burly redheads?”

“Beats me. But methinks you exaggerate. Anyhow, I thought if you took them over as a thank you, you might insert into the conversation that you’re widowed and I’m engaged.”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm said pensively. “I’m out of practice. She might be offended.”

“Or flattered. After all, you’re single, financially stable, and in pretty good shape. What more could a woman ask for?”

“They ask for a lot, if you ask me. You’re lucky to have Helen. Attractive and fun, and with a good head on her shoulders.”

“Charlotte strikes me as being the same way,” Rex said.

“Look, old chap. You’re here to work on a case, not match-make!” And yet Malcolm could not conceal his pleasure at the prospect of doing some courting. “It’s hard starting again, isn’t it?” he said.

“It is. It’s not the crazy-carefree love of our youth. It’s a more mature and secure emotion. At least, it is with Helen.”

“I’ll see how I feel tomorrow,” Malcolm allowed.

“You do that.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“So what else did you talk about over at the Ballantines’?” his friend asked.

“Their lad, Will, mostly. They have concerns regarding a friend he’s spending time with. I gather this Alex’s parents are from a part of the former Soviet Union that is home to some Islamist extremists, and Sandra caught her son logged on to what sounds like a terrorist website.”

“They’re right to be concerned. Look what those two brothers did at the Boston Marathon in the name of Islam.”

“Radical Islam,” Rex corrected. “Islam is generally a peaceful religion.”

“I’m glad I’m not a parent. Who knows what kids get up to these days? You may think they’re safe in their room, but the Internet gives them access to all sorts of people you wouldn’t want in your home. The parents could put spyware or whatever on Will’s computer to monitor what he’s doing, but I suppose kids are wise to that. Most of them are more technologically savvy than their parents.”

“Fortunately I never had to go through that with Campbell.”

“Are you worried about him living in the States?”

Rex munched on a piece of bread before replying. “Not unduly. I never feel under threat when I visit him in Florida.”

“Isn’t that where the nine-eleven terrorists took flight training? I tell you—nowhere is safe. Not Europe. Not even Notting Hamlet. Oh, I say. Talking about Campbell, am I not his godfather? I fear I’ve been sorely remiss in his regard.”

Rex waved away his concern. “He’s a full-grown man now.”

“We were very proud that you and Fiona chose us, you know. Jocelyn was the one who remembered the birthday cards and presents at Christmas. I’m hopeless at all the social niceties. I hope Campbell knows I’m here for him if he needs me. He’s the closest to a son that I have.” Malcolm spoke with feeling. “You know, with Jocelyn gone, I’m all at sixes and sevens.” He set down his napkin and stared glumly at his plate of crumbs.

“And likely to remain feeling that way unless you start getting oot more.” Rex refrained from telling his friend that part of his reason for making the trip from Edinburgh was because he was worried about him.

“Sometimes I feel this awful, screaming loneliness,” Malcolm confided. “It’s getting easier, but sometimes I still find it an effort to get out of bed in the morning.”

“Here, have some more wine.” Rex topped up Malcolm’s glass and, to distract him from his gloomy mood, said, “While I was walking back from the Ballantines’ house, a thought struck me concerning those three letters. I’d like to hear what you think.”

“The letters that resemble my initials? You haven’t come to the conclusion that I put them on the victims’ foreheads myself, have you?” Malcolm joked.

“Well, of course it occurred to me,” Rex said with a smile. “But why would a sane man do such a thing: wipe off the evidence he left, and then confess?”

“I hope the police see it that way. And so your theory is?” The oven timer went off as Malcolm spoke. “Just a sec. Let me concentrate on getting dinner on the table first.”

Rex was amused to see his friend wrap a floral apron around his waist and don oven gloves. “Aye, most fetching,” he said.

Once the main course was in front of them, Rex resumed. “I wrote those letters down. Somewhere.” He searched the pockets of his corduroys. “After what the Ballantines told me regarding Will and his friend, I looked at the letters in a different light.” He turned the piece of notepaper to face Malcolm. “What if the middle letter is not a back-to-front
N
?”

“What else could it be?”

“It could be from the Cyrillic alphabet, pronounced
E
in Russian. What if the letters are the word
MIR
?”

“But the letters were M-N-P, same as my initials,” Malcolm insisted, looking at Rex in confusion.

Rex tapped his forefinger on the lined paper. “The third letter, which we took to be a
P
, is an
R
in Russian.
MIR
is the phonetic version of the letters you found on the victims.”

“As in the space station Mir, you mean?”

“Correct. ‘Mir’ means world and peace in Russian.”

“World and peace? Isn’t that an oxymoron? There’s conflict breaking out all over the globe, not least in the former Soviet Union.”

“Regardless, I don’t think that’s a dyslexic
N
for Norman,” Rex said, underlining it on the paper. “Not when, combined with the other letters, it spells the Russian word for peace and world.” If he was right and the police had been apprised of this evidence from the beginning, it would put a different complexion on things. At the very least, it was an alternative explanation for Malcolm’s initials.

“Since when do you speak Russian?” Malcolm asked.

“I don’t. I remembered seeing the Cyrillic letter we thought was a strange
N
somewhere. I imagine it was hearing about a Russian connection twice in one day that did it.” Rex had also discovered on his Google search that upper and lower case were the same in Russian. He felt rather pleased with himself. “This is very good, by the way,” he said, pointing his fork at his food.

“Thank you.”

“Charlotte mentioned a possibly Slavic accent. And then we have Will’s friend who has family from a part of the world where the official language is Russian.”

“Should we inform the police?” Malcolm asked, evidently relieved there was another significance to the sinister letters than his own incriminating initials.

“I’d like to pursue this potential clue just a wee bit further first, just to be sure. It may be coincidence the letters spell a Russian word. Much as I dislike coincidences.” Rex wondered whether to reveal the extent of his findings to Malcolm at this point. Even after having had a little time to ruminate on the discovery, his theory still seemed fantastic. He was not sure how his friend would react, but Malcolm read his mind.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” he pressed.

“Aye, maybe. As I was scrolling down the matches for ‘MIR,’ I discovered that a gang working out of northeast London in the eighties and nineties used that as their gang name. The Russian version.”

“How ironic—a peaceful gang!” Malcolm emptied the bottle of Cabernet into their glasses. “Are you seriously suggesting a Russian gang was responsible for our Notting Hamlet murders? Oh, I say, did they bloody their victims in the same way?” he asked with avid interest. “But why would they kill people here?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“I feel a chill running down my spine,” Malcolm said, sitting up in his chair and staring at Rex in shock.

“I admit I felt goose bumps when I came across the gang’s name.” Such a sensation often meant Rex was onto something. “However, it’s a very tenuous lead at this point, so let’s keep it under our hats for now.”

“The Russkies
here
?” Malcolm exclaimed. “Nobody’d believe that.” He shook his head in doubt. “Do you really think so?”

“Or a copycat.” Rex sighed and looked at his friend. “So, Malcolm, if you’d left the letters alone, the police might have drawn similar conclusions.”

“At least now they know about the letters,” Malcolm rebutted sulkily. “What if Walker is connected to the Russian mob?”

“Perhaps he is, and the police are one step ahead of us. I hope the evidence you supplied belatedly isn’t thrown oot for being tampered with.”

“Okay, I get it, Rex.” Malcolm bristled in his chair. “You don’t need to keep on about it. What possessed me, I don’t know. I just want to make things right.”

Rex twiddled the stem of his glass, staring into the remaining wine, which he could not fail to compare to the colour of blood. “Well, the best way to do that is to get at the facts so we can present irrefutable evidence.”

“It’s time for the film. Do you want to take a break from the case?”

“You go ahead. I’d like to do some more research. Leave all this,” Rex told his friend, sweeping his hand over the table. “I’ll clear up. I can think things over at the same time.”

“Well, if you insist.” Malcolm hesitated. “Thank you for everything. You’ve always been a loyal friend.”

“Och, get away with you!” Rex said with an embarrassed laugh. “You’ve been the same to me.”

“Look at us now!” Malcolm joked. “A couple of old duffers at war with the Russian mob!”

A sobering thought if true, Rex thought, with further misgivings at getting involved in the case.

thirteen

The next morning the
sun made a shy appearance, lifting Rex’s spirits after a restless night thrashing the case over in his mind. Malcolm had prepared them each a mug of bedtime Horlicks, which they had drunk in the parlour while they reminisced about their college days. Yet the hot malted milk had not helped calm Rex’s overactive brain. Normally a deep sleeper, he had been woken by a thud coming from inside the home. Not accustomed to Malcolm’s house, he had lain awake for a while in the fussily floral guest bedroom, listening out for further creaks and bumps and wondering what the noise had been, before falling asleep again.

At breakfast he asked Malcolm about it and he replied he hadn’t heard anything. Rex told his friend he would stop by Mr. Olson’s and offer to take Magic for a walk. The improved weather was sure to bring residents out of their homes this weekend morning after being cooped up for days because of the rain. Malcolm, eager to do some work in the garden, heartily agreed.

“If you’re sure you don’t need me,” he reiterated. “I might run to the garden centre in Godminton. I could make some enquiries into who sold or rented Yvonne Callister her house while I’m at it. I haven’t been able to find any other unsolved murders in Bedfordshire matching Chris Walker’s M.O. so far. That’s if he is our Notting Hamlet killer.”

Yvonne Callister was the woman found strangled in her home four years ago, Rex recalled Malcolm telling him. “Aye, you do that. It might be easier if I wander around here on my own. I don’t have a fixed plan.”

Leaving the house, he saw Win Prendergast in his front garden and waved. They exchanged comments about the weather and Rex said he was going to take Mr. Olson’s dog for a walk.

Prendergast rested his pruning shears on the hedge and nodded his head self-importantly. “Now there’s an irony. If someone had offed Mr. Olson, it would have been a mercy for the poor old sod. Not in the brutal fashion Ernest and Barry were done away with. I don’t mean that. No, with some painless poison. Euthanasia.”

“Not sure such a poison exists. At least, not in my experience.”

Prendergast’s protruding eyes bulged all the more. “Malcolm said you were a Crown prosecutor. I’ll bet you’ve seen all sorts of goings-on.”

“Indeed I have.” Rex gave the neighbour a friendly nod and set off down the driveway. As he passed Barry Burns’s home, he noticed that the For Sale sign had been dug up, leaving a square hole in the lawn. Rex wondered if family would claim the property, and whether Mr. Burns had made a will.

Walking on to Fox Lane, he mentally reviewed the notes he had written up the night before based on his online research and he went over in his mind what steps he could take to confirm or refute his new theory regarding the Russian gang.

Mr. Olson’s caregiver, dressed in blue scrubs, flashed his gold teeth at Rex upon opening the front door. Magic barked in short bursts and vigorously wagged his black tail.

“Would you care for some tea before you head out, Mr. Rex?” the young man sang out politely.

“I just had coffee, but thank you. How is Mr. Olson today?”

“Well enough. I’ll sit him in the garden later, air him out a bit.”

“Best take advantage of the weather while it lasts,” Rex agreed, attaching the leash to the dog’s collar.

Magic trotted ahead on the path and, once on the sidewalk, availed himself of the first tree. The radio in Malcolm’s kitchen had forecast highs in the fifties that day. Already the sun warmed Rex’s face and lent a welcoming aspect to the neighbourhood, brightening such greenery as was evident and bathing the timber-fronted fa
ç
ades in mellower hues.

People emerged from their homes as though from hibernation, cautiously peering out of doorways and blinking in the sunlight. The sky, washed of clouds, hung pale blue. An unseen mower started up down the street, while across the road a woman draped a pair of bath mats over a wrought-iron bench to dry.

Rex sauntered back up Fox Lane with the dog, glancing into the front gardens and windows, further acquainting himself with the street where two of the four victims had been murdered. Few signs remained of the event he felt sure the residents would sooner forget. He decided to take Magic up to the top of the “T,” where he let him loose to nose along the riverbank behind Malcolm’s house. A pungent odour of damp earth and dead leaves permeated the mild autumn air. Rex spotted his friend clipping his yew hedge in his shirtsleeves and then turned his attention to the fields on the other side of the sluggish stretch of river.

The Ivel narrowed to fordable depths at certain points along its course, as he discovered coming upon an angler in waders in one spot and a couple of boys throwing rocks in another, in an attempt to bridge the low banks festooned with reeds. Rex could hear the splash of the stones on the water’s surface, swiftly followed by a soft thud as they landed in the riverbed, attesting to the shallowness of the stream.

Beyond the river and flat expanse of fields, a farm shrouded in mist the day before came into sharper focus. The property consisted of a stone cottage and several outhouses, along with an assortment of machinery and what appeared from this distance to be large pails and metal storage tanks. Rex decided to return with Malcolm’s binoculars when there were no people about on the river. The pretext of bird-watching might appear weak to any observer, since only crows were visible, circling above the leafless trees.

Further up the murky green ribbon of water, a muddy path cut from the other side directly to the farm. Rex called the dog to heel and, leading him away from the river, traversed the grass square between the two cul-de-sacs. Turning onto Otter Court, he ran into the same lanky teenager from the day before hunched in his charcoal hooded jacket. He was walking from the direction of the Ballantine house, wavy chestnut hair flopping over half his face. Surmising this was Will from Malcolm’s confirmation of his description, Rex held his course. However, upon drawing closer, he saw that Will was wearing earphones. Nonetheless, Rex nodded and said hello, and was greeted by a tightly mouthed “hey” or “hi” delivered in a flat monotone. Rex stared after him, repressing a feeling of antipathy for the boy, who continued on his way in his odd, springing gait and suddenly veered onto the green, presumably en route to the Leontiev farm across the river. As far as Rex knew, there was nothing else back there to distract or amuse a boy of Will’s age and interests.

Man and dog circled the cul-de-sac and proceeded down Fox Lane, where Lottie accosted them on the street in a spinach green cardigan closed with horn buttons. Grey wisps of hair lifted in the breeze around her weathered face.

“You’ll never guess what,” she said, stooping to pet Magic. “One of the dogs at forty-seven was poisoned! Its owners took it to the vet last night.”

Magic flopped at Rex’s feet, panting after his exertions, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“How do they know it was poisoned?” Rex asked.

“The symptoms. The vet said to look for any household chemicals lying about the home or garage. The owners couldn’t find anything and demanded an autopsy. It’s a shame, but I can’t say I’m all that sorry, because it was a very loud and aggressive dog. Not that big, but with a bark that set my teeth on edge.”

“And someone else’s teeth, presumably.”

“It would attack other dogs. Not like Magic here,” Lottie said, fondling his black ears. “You’re a nice, quiet doggie!”

“Any suspects?”

“Too soon to say.” Thereupon, the elderly woman clammed up her lips as though she knew something but didn’t want to speak out of turn.

“I’ll tell Mr. Olson, in case that dog wasn’t the only target. Unless, of course, it was not deliberate.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was. There was a prowler last night,” Lottie whispered urgently, glancing about them. “Mrs. Jensen was looking out her bedroom window. This was at about two in the morning and she couldn’t sleep. She saw a man loitering between the street lamps, and then he vanished.”

“Did she give a description?”

“She thinks he was wearing a black balaclava and perhaps a dark jacket or coat. She said it was too dark to be absolutely sure.”

“Not identifiable then,” Rex said with a disappointed sigh.

“But definitely a man judging by his size and the way he walked, she told me. Her husband will keep watch tonight. If he turns up again, they’re going to call the police.”

“Do you have any idea who it might be?” Rex probed.

“I may have my suspicions,” Lottie replied with exasperating reticence. “But I don’t want to finger-point prematurely.”

Either she did know something, Rex surmised, or else she was pretending in order to garner attention. He decided not to press her on the question of the prowler’s identity. “Where exactly does Mrs. Jensen live?” he asked instead.

He looked up the street to where Lottie pointed and saw the Jensen home was located almost opposite Charlotte’s. Something slipped in his chest. What if the killer had not finished targeting the home sellers of Notting Hamlet? It could be Ms. Spelling was next on the list. And what about the handyman, Randall Gomez, who appeared to have taken an interest in her? The man, by all accounts, had an eye for the ladies. Single ladies. He’d been seeing Valerie Trotter, apparently. Was he stalking Charlotte? Or was someone else?

At that moment, Rex saw a car reversing out of Charlotte’s garage. He waved as she drove by and she waved back with a friendly smile. Lottie said goodbye and continued up the street.

If the chemistry teacher, whom Malcolm had told him was always complaining about the dog, had poisoned the animal at number forty-seven, he wouldn’t have needed to be out prowling across the street since he lived next door to the murdered pet. Such were Rex’s thoughts.

“Nice day,” a female voice called behind him.

He spun around to find a woman of late middle years in pink polka dot gardening gloves standing in the garden adjacent to that of the murdered Valerie Trotter. She flexed her back as though she had been bending or crouching in an uncomfortable position. Fading copper curls coiled about an angular face that wrinkled around the eyes and mouth as she smiled.

“A good day for gardening,” he agreed.

The woman rested her gloved fists on her hips. “The rain has brought out the weeds.”

“It’ll do that,” Rex said, nodding and smiling back at her.

“Is that Mr. Olson’s dog?”

“It is. I’ve been acting as dog-walker. I’m staying at Malcolm Patterson’s in Badger Court for the weekend.”

“Oh, bother. There’s another one.” The woman sunk to her knees and yanked a nettle up by the roots. “I can’t abide them,” she said, stuffing it into the plastic bag at her feet and straightening up again. “We had another Scottish gentleman in the neighbourhood a month back. John Calpin, I think his name was. I have his card somewhere. A young writer. I don’t suppose you know him?”

“I don’t think so.” Rex drew closer to the fence so he would not have to continue raising his voice to be heard. Magic dragged himself up from the asphalt and plopped down again when Rex stopped.

“Said he was looking for his birth mother and had an inkling she might be living in Notting Hamlet,” the woman told him. “He didn’t know her name, only that she’d be in her late forties. I felt sorry for the young man and invited him in for a cup of tea. That was before the murders, of course. Now I’d think twice about letting a stranger into my home.” She shook her curly head. Rex waited for a “Whatever is the world coming to?” but it never materialized.

“Were you able to help him?” he asked.

“I know a few women who fit that description, but I don’t know everybody around here.”

“Your neighbour was around that age, wasn’t she?”

“It’s funny you should say that. I thought of her first. She looked the type to have had a child out of wedlock, if you’ll forgive my saying so. She was a bit brassy—not to speak ill of the dead. A nice woman for all that, always pleasant when we ran into each other. Gives me a chill to think what happened to her. Fortunately, it happened in the house up the street and not next door.” The woman glanced in the direction of Ernest Blackwell’s property. “Killed along with the owner. The other two murders took place on Badger Court, as you’ve probably heard. Isn’t that where you said you were staying?”

“Aye, and it was my friend Malcolm who found them.”

“That’s right!” The woman shook her head in disbelief. “Just terrible. But I suppose Malcolm Patterson is used to dead bodies. Better it was him who saw what happened to Ernest Blackwell than Lottie. She only saw part of his body on the floor, not the blood.”

“Did my fellow Scotsman ever find his mother?” Rex asked, anxious to return to the previous topic.

“I don’t know. I suspect he may have thought it was Valerie Trotter. He was parked across the street opposite her house, staring out his car window as though he might be contemplating buying the property, as I thought at first. Now I realize he may’ve been waiting for a glimpse of her. But at the time I wondered if he was lost and went over to ask if I could help him.”

“Was he driving a bluish green BMW?” Rex asked.

“No, a dark red hatchback that looked like it had a lot of mileage on it. Why do you ask?”

“Someone mentioned seeing an unfamiliar BMW on this street.” Rex did not mention it had been spotted on the day of the murders. “Were you able to tell him much about Valerie Trotter?” he asked with kindly interest.

“Only that she’d been living next door for nineteen years—almost as long as I have—and worked as a bookkeeper. He asked about her friends, and I told him I thought she might be seeing another resident, Vic Chandler, though I only saw them together occasionally. If they were an item, they never flaunted it.”

Rex did his best to conceal his surprise. Valerie seeing Vic? He thought she was seeing the handyman. “Vic Chandler was another of the victims, wasn’t he?” he asked, knowing full well that he was.

The woman nodded knowingly. “And he had his home up for sale as well. All four victims did. I thought Vic and Valerie might be planning to move into a new place together.”