Murder Comes Calling

by C. S. Challinor

  “And if you write on your forehead, won’t the letters appear back to front and the wrong way round?” Malcolm asked. He mimicked writing the letters M, N, and P on his forehead. “The P could even be the number nine.”

  “I’ve never written on my forehead.” Rex tried the same experiment. “Depends which side you start from, I suppose.”

  “Then there’s the mirror effect,” Malcolm said. “Like on the front of ambulances which say, ECNALUBMA, so that when you read the word in your rear view mirror it appears normal.”

  “In this case, the letters appeared normal to the naked eye?”

  “Exactly as though someone else had written on the bodies. Except for the N, which was the wrong way round, or flipped, if you will.”

  “N, as in your middle initial. Remind me what it stands for again. Nigel or Norman?”

  “Norman.”

  “Strange that one letter should appear different.” Rex gave a perplexed sigh. “Wish you could have at least taken a photo. Are you sure you remember correctly?”

  “Perfectly sure.”

  “Good. Report all this to the police. Tonight.”

  “Just give it two days. Then I’ll go to DCI Cooper myself. I won’t even involve you.”

  “Two days can make a huge difference in a case. The police need this information. I don’t suppose you know through the grapevine if the house agent has actually confessed to the murders?”

  “Not that I know of.” Malcolm threw up his hands. “What else could M-N-P stand for, if not my name?” he asked in a pleading voice. “Can’t we at least find an alternative to present to the police first? What if Chris Walker wanted to implicate me?”

  “Why would he?”

  “I don’t know. I never had any dealings with him.”

  “But you met him?”

  “Briefly. Mostly I just saw him around the community going about his house-selling business.”

  “M-N-P. could be an acronym for something. And you’re sure aboot the letters?” Rex demanded again.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “One thing occurs to me.” Rex leaned back in his recliner, cupping his mug of coffee in both hands. “If this house agent has no criminal past, I don’t see how he could have executed four very different methods of murder so flawlessly. I’d say our killer was a pro.”

  Malcolm nodded agreement. “But Walker could have a violent past. At first I thought it couldn’t be him, but who else would know my initials? These agents look through databases and phone books for prospects.”

  “You need to stop being so paranoid.”

  “Well, you have to admit, it’s a horrible coincidence, Rex.”

  “It is, but we can’t let it cloud our thinking.”

  “Can you find out from the police what they know?”

  “You’d be in a better position to do that. You’ve liaised with them in your professional life.”

  “I’d rather keep a low profile in view of, well, you know.”

  “Your perversion of justice? Aye, well, we need to rectify that pronto.” Rex tipped the dregs of his coffee down his throat and reached for his jacket.

  “Wait. Please,” Malcolm pleaded. “There has to be a way out.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “But if we can find out whether Chris Walker is the right man or if someone else is responsible, we might not have to bring up the letters at all.”

  “The police have far greater resources than we do to look into forensic stuff,” Rex objected. He paused in thought. “However, I do have a contact who might prove useful in procuring information, if necessary.”

  “Oh, aye?” Malcolm asked hopefully. “A legal acquaintance?”

  “A law clerk by the name of Thaddeus, who hasn’t failed me yet. But that doesn’t solve the problem of your interfering with the crime scenes.”

  “I know. I feel a huge responsibility in this case. That’s why I called you. I want to make sure the police convict the right person. In any case,” Malcolm added in desperation, “going to the police with our information doesn’t in any way guarantee Walker’s release, if he’s in jail.”

  Our information, Rex repeated to himself, mentally fuming. Malcolm was all but including him in his deplorable actions. “What exactly do the police have on Chris Walker?” he asked. He left his jacket on his lap, pausing for an answer before putting it on to accompany Malcolm to the police station.

  “They haven’t even released his name to the media. All I know is culled from local gossip. Mrs. Parsons in Otter Court knows the receptionist at the firm Walker owns, and she told Lottie the fact the victims all had their properties listed with him—including Valerie Trotter, although she alone wasn’t murdered in her home—made the detectives suspicious. That and the fact they would have invited him into their home without a second thought.”

  “There must be more to it than that,” Rex said. “House agents aren’t in the habit of murdering their clients. They rely on them for their commissions. Perhaps the detectives found something troubling in his background check: Time in prison or a psychiatric institution. I wonder if any other seller will be targeted while he’s under police scrutiny. That would be his best defence.”

  Malcolm gave a sigh of relief. “That’s why I needed you here. To map it all out objectively.”

  The word “map” reminded Rex of something. “Why is it Notting Hamlet is so hard to find?”

  “I don’t know. Some pranksters keep moving the signs about or removing them altogether. We have an undesirable element around here. Loud bikers and dogs.”

  Rex was amused to hear bikers and dogs put in the same category, but Malcolm appeared deadly serious. “Is that why so many homes are up for sale, assuming the spate of For Sale signs predates the murders?” he asked his friend.

  “Seven. Ten per cent of the total number of homes. But you know what people are like. Sheep. They suddenly get scared they’ll miss out and get left behind. But a high volume of signs devalues the properties. The homeowners are all trying to undercut each other.”

  “Chris Walker must have been in clover—before he ended up in hot water.”

  “Oh, he was exploiting the situation, telling everyone it was time to move out and get into a newer property. The sellers, quite frankly, can’t tolerate the increase in noise pollution.”

  “That bad?”

  “Dogs barking like you wouldn’t believe. Motorcycles with modified pipes that sound like Boeing jets. And it used to be such a peaceful community,” Malcolm said wistfully. “A lot of homemakers and retirees with time to spend on their gardens and organize neighbourly events like barbeques and fêtes on the green … Jocelyn was very involved.”

  “She was a remarkably gifted woman,” Rex reminisced along with him.

  “It’s not the same without her. Not just for me. All of Notting Hamlet suffered when she passed away.”

  “I remember her funeral was very well-attended.”

  Malcolm indicated Rex’s jacket lying in transit across his lap. “Can we at least wait until morning?” he asked, looking lost and dejected.

  Rex took pity on his bereaved friend. “Fair enough,” he relented. “It’s getting late and I’m ready for bed.”

  “I’ll show you around the Hamlet tomorrow, give you a better picture.”

  “That would be helpful. Shame you don’t have a dog we could walk. It would be a good way to meet people and get information.”

  Malcolm reacted cheerfully to the suggestion. “Mr. Olson, who’s currently bedridden, has a nice black Lab that needs walking. The neighbours take it in turns to help out.”

  “I like Labs. And I need the exercise. What’s the dog’s name?”

  “Magic.”

  “Well, let’s see what magic he can conjure up for us,” Rex said. They would certainly need it. It appeared someone didn’t want any sellers leaving Notting Hamlet and preferred to see them dead.

  FIVE

  MAGIC PROVED TO BE getting on in year
s, much like his owner, but like most Labradors was eager to please and obediently followed Rex on his lead, his black tail wagging obligingly. Malcolm had gone to “turn himself in” as he put it, and almost two hours later had not returned. Before leaving, he had given Rex a tour of Notting Hamlet in his car, pointing out where the murders had taken place. Police tape still girded the homes of Ernest Blackwell, Barry Burns, and Vic Chandler, a reminder that crime had made multiple visits to Notting Hamlet.

  The community was essentially T-shaped, with a cul-de-sac at each end of the top bar. A square, referred to as “the green,” stood in between the cul-de-sacs, bucolically named Badger Court and Otter Court respectively. These backed onto the River Ivel, a tributary of the Great Ouse, and contained the most prestigious properties, due to the water views, though even with all the rain this part of the river was narrow, as Rex had noted from his bedroom window. Barry Burns and Vic Chandler had met their deaths in Badger Court, Malcolm’s cul-de-sac west of the square. Mostly surrounded by evergreens, it afforded privacy and shelter from the wind, not to mention ample cover for an intruder bent on murder.

  The developer had continued his wildlife theme by designating the street leading from the square to the entrance as Fox Lane. This, the sole vehicle access to the community, was approached from the south side by Notting Hamlet Road, which ran through open countryside, the fields and gently undulating hills interspersed with copses of bare trees. As far as developments went, Notting Hamlet had been well-planned, and its drawback of residing off the beaten track had no doubt been exploited as a selling point to those seeking peace and tranquillity in a rural setting. This much Rex had been able to ascertain from his car tour with Malcolm.

  His friend lived four houses into Badger Court on the river side. As Rex stood with the dog on the overgrown bank contemplating the Ivel winding away to a thread, the wind buffeted him in sporadic gusts. The frigid blasts ruffled the glassy surface of the water into sharp waves that, after each onslaught, resolved into a slow current downstream, carrying along twigs and litter and sodden leaves. A cold, fusty odour came off the river, adding to the inhospitable atmosphere. The air, laden with humidity, promised more rain. Drowned in uniform grey, the horizon beyond the barren fields and misty meadows blurred into an ashen sky as fog enveloped the landscape.

  Continuing his reconnoitring expedition along the banks, Rex saw nothing of interest, except for a few squirrels, which the black Labrador didn’t even attempt to pursue. Malcolm was one of Magic’s regular walkers, and Rex, who had always wanted a dog, had been glad to take over, especially as he harboured ulterior motives. However, due to the inclement weather, he had yet to meet anyone else out with their dog, though he heard strident barking erupt from a house on Fox Lane as he passed by with the Lab. Magic did not respond to the provocation. The home of the vociferous canines stood three doors down from Ernest Blackwell’s, towards the northern end of the row of detached homes.

  The rain of the night before had left a sheen on the roofs and roads. The front lawns remained sodden, while puddles glistened at the foot of the driveways. The chill damp permeated Rex’s exposed skin, and he adjusted the soft wool scarf around his neck, which was still stiff from his drive from Scotland the day before.

  Where the devil had Malcolm got to, he wondered, glancing at his watch. Had he been arrested for withholding evidence? Rex had insisted on accompanying him to the police station in an unofficial capacity, but Malcolm had convinced him he would be fine and would call on his mobile phone if the detective in charge of the case proved “unsympathetic.” Unsympathetic, Rex echoed, with a shake of his head. Clearly, Malcolm did not comprehend the enormity of his actions.

  Magic’s tail was beginning to flag and the dog was looking at him in a questioning way, as if to ask if they were going to walk much further.

  “Right, old boy, home!” Rex announced, taking pity on the poor animal.

  Magic cocked his ears at the word “home” and gave a short, high-pitched bark. Rex felt less enthusiastic. While the walk had provided him with much needed exercise and a useful perspective regarding the layout of Notting Hamlet and its points of access and egress, he had failed to run into any of the residents as he had hoped. Then, just as he was crossing the street in the direction of Mr. Olson’s house, he spotted an elderly woman in a heavy tweed coat and blue bonnet, carrying a string bag of groceries.

  “Morning,” Rex called out. “Not the best weather to be oot and aboot, is it?”

  “Ghastly,” she replied. “You must be Malcolm’s friend from Scotland. He mentioned you’d be staying for a few days.”

  Rex did not know what else Malcolm had told her and so did not volunteer any information beyond his name in the form of an introduction.

  “Lottie Green,” the woman reciprocated, shaking his outstretched hand with her mitted one. She stooped to pat the dog. “He’s a love,” she said. “Nice you’re doing a neighbour a good turn. I’m taking some shopping to Mrs. Marbles. She’s bedridden too, from a stroke.”

  While she prattled on, Rex thanked his lucky stars that he had chanced to meet the person who’d spied Ernest Blackwell through the window. He was wondering how best to elicit information without revealing his vested interest in the case when she spared him the trouble by asking, “I suppose you heard about our murders?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Thank goodness they caught the killer, or I wouldn’t be out on the street by myself. Of course, my house is not up for sale. That was the connection, you see.”

  Magic sat down patiently on the damp pavement, tongue lolling and drooling.

  “Aye, most curious. And Malcolm said you were the first person to find the body, or, at least, alert anybody.”

  “I was,” Lottie said with relish, her wizened rosy cheeks putting Rex in mind of an old apple. “I’ve been interviewed many times by the police and the media, even got on the telly! Of course, I had no idea it was a murder at the time. Ernest had a weak ticker, so at first I thought it was a heart attack. And he was a martyr to his arthritis, too. If I hadn’t seen his feet sticking out from under the piano, who knows how long it would have been until someone found him? And Valerie Trotter. Or the other two. Malcolm went to tell Barry about his friend’s death, and found him dead as well! And Vic Chandler, and all!” Bundled up against the cold, the elderly woman appeared impervious to the damp chill, and yet Rex, in good conscience, could not keep her chatting on the street any longer.

  “Here, let me help you with your bag,” he offered, holding out his arm.

  “Oh, no need. It’s not heavy. Just a few tins of soup, a loaf of bread, and some greens. And where is Malcolm? I saw him leave in his car early this morning.”

  “He, ehm, went to the police station.”

  “He’s a key witness, of course, and, being a doctor and all, the police must have a lot of questions. I suppose they’re busy making a case against the house agent and have to get all their facts straight. No one understands why he did it. Two old men and a woman who never hurt a soul in their lives. Vic Chandler served in Belfast, so he probably did, but only in the line of duty.”

  “Aye. Most mysterious. Did you know them well?” Rex asked, careful to dissimulate the extent of his curiosity, though Lottie seemed happy to gossip. He began to entertain the suspicion that she had peeked through a pair of net curtains and sought him out on the street. At this point, Magic yawned and hunkered down on his forepaws, as though resigned to an extended conversation between the humans.

  “Well, they’ve all lived here as long as I have, going on twenty years,” Lottie said. “Ernest was very sociable, but I got the impression he was not someone you’d want to cross. Barry now, he was a nice man, a bit of a dandy. Essex boys, both of them, with a gift of the gab, though Barry wore a hearing aid and didn’t always hear right.”

  “And the other two?”

  “Vic was younger, somewhere in his late fifties. Kept himself fit. He’d been in the army, done a few tours in
Northern Ireland. Had a nasty scar down his face and a missing pinkie. Now, Valerie was a bit loud, if you know what I mean. Loud voice, loud makeup, but her heart was in the right place.”

  “Did they all know each other?” Rex asked casually.

  “Not more than anyone else, that I know of. As I told the reporters, we’re a friendly community, for the most part. Were. The residents near the entrance on Owl Lane are riff-raff and we don’t like to include them, but it’s hard to ignore that street.” Lottie wrinkled her tiny nose. “But that problem is nothing compared to the murders. Oh dear, those have really put Notting Hamlet on the map!”

  “I wonder how many more For Sale signs will go up,” Rex said. “I’ve counted six or seven on my walk and, curiously, one was turned around, facing towards the house. And I’ve seen a home with the windows shuttered up, so I thought it was vacant, but a man came out and scowled at me when I walked by!”

  “The man at forty-five?” Lottie asked, pointing up the street. “He’s a strange one. Doesn’t say much except to complain about the dogs next door. Says their barking drills through the walls. I admit, the one dog makes you want to grit your teeth, its bark is so ear-piercing. It’s not even a big dog. Couldn’t tell you what breed it is. Mr. Woods is in a right hurry to move, especially now, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “I’d be too. Terrible business. But it looks like the police got their man,” Rex trolled.

  Lottie took the bait. “Can’t un-ring the bell though, can you? I mean, four murders. Notting Hamlet will never be the same again. The victims had to have known who they were opening the door to. They’d not have thought twice about letting their house agent in.”

  Rex nodded, but he knew there had to be more evidence than that to book Chris Walker. As far as he knew, the house agent hadn’t been arrested yet. “You didn’t happen to see anything unusual the day of the murders? I mean, before you saw Ernest under the piano?”