“I have the Oak,” Malcolm put in with a modest cough. “Most of the homes on Badger Court are Oaks.”
“Perhaps they liked the fact that Ernest’s house backs onto woods,” Rex pointed out.
“It’s possible. But, all put together, it seemed strange. I mean, for one thing, she didn’t look like she was from Argentina. And him, apart from the hair and eyes? I don’t think so.”
“The world had become a very migratory place,” Malcolm opined. “Even the UK.”
Rex was well acquainted with his friend’s conservative views, which were hardly relevant to the inquiry. “But Ernest appeared to have no such suspicions?” he asked Charlotte.
“No, he just seemed happy to have a potential buyer. I’ve had no bites. Even less likely to now,” she said ruefully.
“How was Chris Walker as a house agent?” Rex asked.
“Pleasant enough. I’ve never had any issues with him. Who would have thought?” Charlotte hugged her arms and shook her dark locks. “The times he sat on that sofa where you’re seated …” she said, pointing her head in the men’s direction. “Doesn’t really bear thinking about. I’d like to switch agents, but I have an agreement with the firm. In any case, it’s not like Chris Walker’s been convicted, is it?”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Rex said.
“But, in a way, I hope it’s him. Otherwise it means the killer is still at large, and I might be next!” The colour drained from Charlotte’s face. “That’s if it’s true only sellers are being targeted. What if it’s some crazy person in Notting Hamlet who doesn’t want anybody to leave?”
“If the police are interested in Chris Walker, there’s probably good reason,” Malcolm attempted to reassure her.
“But why? Why would he murder four of his clients? It doesn’t make sense!”
Rex had to agree, but he kept quiet. Presumably, the police were equipped with more information than they had released to Malcolm. “Do you know a handyman by the name of Randy?” he asked Charlotte.
“Handy Randy?” She almost laughed. “I’ve seen him about the neighbourhood. He drives by and leers at me from his van. He thinks he’s God’s gift. Why do you ask?”
“I understand he did odd jobs for the four victims.”
“Oh, I see.” She looked pensive—and worried. “Do you think I’m in danger?”
“Are you all alone here?” Malcolm asked solicitously.
“Well … yes. I’ve thought about going to stay with a friend, but it’s difficult when my home office is here.”
“Do you at least have secure locks? An alarm?” Malcolm asked.
Charlotte nodded, and made a visible effort to cover her panic. “Listen, can I offer either of you anything to drink? Tea, coffee, Scottish malt?” she asked Rex.
Tempted as he was by the whisky and the mellow ambience of the room, he declined, and Malcolm followed suit.
“We’ve probably taken up enough of your time,” Rex said warmly and stood up. Malcolm did likewise, though more reluctantly. Rex shook Charlotte’s hand at the front door and expressed his thanks for her helpfulness and hospitality.
“You will let me know if you come up with anything?” she asked.
“Most assuredly.”
She opened the door, fitted with a Chubb lock and the thick safety chain, and the men huddled into their coats against the damp cold. Rex turned on the path to bid Charlotte goodbye again before she closed the door.
“Why did you refuse a drink?” Malcolm asked, clearly disgruntled, as the two men made their way down the driveway.
“I felt bad aboot accepting her hospitality when we’re not here in an official capacity, as you intimated.”
“I did not.”
“You said you were the forensic medical examiner.”
“I said I was an FME,” Malcolm corrected him.
“You implied you were the FME. And you’re really a forensic pathologist.”
“I didn’t want to scare her off.”
“You wanted to impress her?”
“Well, dealing only with dead bodies is not generally considered glamorous.”
Amused, Rex pulled his friend’s arm in the direction of the cul-de-sacs. “Let’s try the third ‘For Sale’.” This was the only property listed under a different real estate broker than Walker & Associates. “Then we’ll go for some pub grub.”
“And a drink,” Malcolm approved, trotting after him. “Ever since Charlie mentioned booze, I’ve had a craving. It’ll help chase away the chill.”
Rex duly noted the “Charlie” and smiled to himself. “Do you know the sellers on Otter Court?” he asked.
“The Ballantines. Rick and Sandra, and their teenage son. Name’s Will, I think. Don’t see him about much. He’s a bit of a loner. Likes to stay inside playing video games, especially the violent ones, according to his mother.”
“I might have seen him this morning, heading through the green towards the river. A pale, lanky lad, with an unruly mop of chestnut hair?
“That’s him.”
The sign in the front yard of the Ballantine house, which stood on a pie-shaped lot towards the end of the cul-de-sac, depicted two interlocking silver triangles. The name EuroConnect was printed in bold letters beneath. Rex pressed the doorbell, but no one answered the chime.
He knocked once, twice. “Nobody’s home,” he said, conceding defeat. “I’d like to know if the foreign couple swung by here. This is a four-bedroom, by the looks of it.”
“Yes, it’s an Oak. You can tell by the dormer window. I think that’s Will’s bedroom. I often see his light on late at night.”
Rex didn’t think of his friend as a night owl, yet refrained from asking what he was often doing out late. Malcolm was a grown man, and it was better than thinking of him spending all his evenings in with TV dinners. Rex gazed up at the dormer window and pictured the teenager alone in his room intent on his video games. His own son had been more into sports and girls at that age. He’d been an only child, too. Rex decided to call Campbell that evening and see how things were going with his graduate studies and life in general.
“The Ballantines are moving so Will can be closer to kids his age and, hopefully, integrate better,” Malcolm informed him as they walked back to Badger Court. “There aren’t many teenagers here.” A light drizzle began to fall and they popped open their umbrellas.
“You said ‘integrate.’ Antisocial tendencies?” Rex asked.
“Maybe not ‘anti,’ but none. I’ve never heard more than a mumbled ‘hello’ from the lad. And you can barely see him through all that hair falling into his face. Grungy is the word I’d use to describe his appearance. I pity his parents, really.”
“It could be a passing phase,” Rex said as they entered Malcolm’s driveway. “Take my car to the pub?” he asked his friend.
“Fine. I’ll navigate.”
“You’ll have to. I don’t want to get lost again. You can point oot the signs that should be there.” In this godforsaken place, he almost added.
EIGHT
INSTALLED IN A BOOTH at the King’s Head with their pints and shepherd’s pie, Rex listened as Malcolm remarked how good it felt to be away from Notting Hamlet for a spell enjoying a late lunch. Rex had to agree. He found the community depressing, though whether more from the serial murders or the dismal weather, he could not be sure. A fire blazed in the hearth and horse brasses and old photographs of local scenic spots covered the walls, providing a genial atmosphere of welcome and warmth.
“So, to recap,” Rex said looking around the lounge to ensure no one was within earshot, “the estate agent is as of now the main police suspect and we have discovered the existence of a pair of foreigners who might be posing as homebuyers.”
“Perhaps they have nothing better to do than dress up and go looking at property they can’t afford. Bet you a second pint the fur and diamonds are fake.”
“Let’s see if we can learn anything from the sales office.”
On the way to the pub, they had driven past Chris Walker’s premises on the High Street in Godminton, a small market town of old and the closest to Notting Hamlet.
“And I’d like to try the Ballantine house again when we get back.”
“Or we could just phone. I have Rick’s number somewhere,” Malcolm said. “I wonder why they went with a different estate agent,” he added, a forkful of cheesy mashed potato poised before his lips.
“Would you retain the services of a house agent whose properties have been the scenes of four grisly murders?”
“I suppose not.” Malcolm put the food in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Though Walker hadn’t been arrested then.” He swallowed and washed down the potato with his pint of bitter.
“He hasn’t been arrested at all as far as we know,” Rex pointed out. “His name hasn’t even been released to the media. We only have it on hearsay that it’s him the police are interested in.”
“I had it confirmed this morning,” Malcolm reminded him. “When DCI Cooper told me about the wet shoeprint on the mat. Perhaps his name will be on the evening news.” He swiped the paper napkin across his mouth with relish.
Clearly, Malcolm didn’t want the police releasing Walker and detaining him instead on the basis of the destroyed blood evidence. “Even so,” Rex said, getting back to the Ballantines. “I wonder how much Rick and Sandra’s motivation to move was prompted by the murders. You said they’d been wanting to find a different environment or special care for their son?”
“Will is not special needs, exactly,” Malcolm said. “It’s just a bit isolating for him in the Hamlet. No kids of his age.”
Rex had not seen many of the residents, but from what Malcolm had told him, the demographic seemed stagnant: a lot of retirees, and not many young commuters or entrepreneurs working from home. Families with small children were few and far between. Until the epidemic of selling fever, there had not been much transition in the community. No new blood, as Malcolm had put it.
“You mentioned some undesirable people in Notting Hamlet,” Rex said, reaching for his Guinness. “I want to get as complete a picture as I can of the community.”
“Yes, along Owl Lane, running parallel to Notting Hamlet Road. Three of the houses have a least one motorcycle. The owners are always tinkering with them, parts and accessories littering the driveways. Quite unsightly, really. As are the owners.”
“How do you mean, exactly?” asked Rex, who had a soft spot for bikers since being involved in a murder investigation in Key West.
Malcolm shook his head censoriously. “Scraggly hair, tattoos, which are mostly covered up in this weather, mercifully. Some of the designs are downright offensive. And most of them don’t look like they’ve bathed in weeks,” he muttered in distaste. “They drink beer in one or other of their driveways or in the garage when it’s raining and jeer at the passers-by.”
Rex listened to Malcolm’s tirade with mild amusement while he finished the remnants of his pie. “Lowers the tone,” he remarked with a sardonic smile.
“Too right it does! You have to go through the street to get in and out. No avoiding it. I suppose it’s a blessing they’re down by the entrance where most of us can’t hear them revving their engines, but sometimes they swarm around the neighbourhood on their rigs, scaring the living daylight out of the residents.”
“Do these people work?” Rex asked.
Malcolm almost choked on his bitter. “Not that you’d notice. Most of them aren’t gainfully employed. I suspect they deal. Weed,” he whispered, his eyes swivelling around the lounge, although the only clientele sat at the bar and at one of the end booths. “Don’t mention to anyone I told you this,” he said nervously. “I don’t want to end up dead.”
“You mean, like Ernest Blackwell and the others?”
Malcolm stared at him. “You know, I never seriously considered them in connection with the murders.”
“Why not?”
Malcolm scratched the back of his grey head. “Garrotting, carbon monoxide poisoning, electrocution …”
“Quite the repertoire, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed. Sort of sophisticated in a macabre sort of way. And no prints.”
“You don’t associate that level of professionalism with your biker friends?”
Malcolm shook his head, hesitantly at first, then more vigorously. “No, I just can’t see it. Except for the bludgeoning.”
“But if they tinker all day long with their bikes, they’re probably pretty handy in all sorts of ways.”
“I suppose.”
The server came by to sweep up their empty plates and asked if they wanted dessert. Upon Malcolm’s request, she listed the puddings. Rex, resolved to order only a coffee, felt his willpower give way at the mention of treacle tart.
“And I’ll have the banana split,” Malcolm ordered. “Everything is homemade here,” he told Rex, as though in justification of their lack of self-discipline.
“Who would the bikers sell to?” Rex asked when the young girl had left their table. “Not to a community of retirees, surely?”
Malcolm thought for a moment. “They may have customers within the community or else further afield. I don’t know everybody in the Hamlet. There are about a hundred and fifty residents, not all of them retired. And then there are the outlying villages and Godminton.” He gave Rex an overview of the area.
“Aye, it’s isolated enough around here for them to grow their product under minimum security.”
“Until the police swooped in to investigate the murders,” Malcolm pointed out. He coughed in warning as the server approached and placed their desserts before them.
“Thanks, lass,” Rex said, looking in appreciation at the gooey treacle on pastry and the small jug of custard.
“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Malcolm said, staring after her before tucking into his pudding.
“They’re all pretty at that age,” Rex said, “or at least know how to make themselves so.”
“That Charlotte was charming, I thought.” His friend scooped up a spoonful of banana and ice cream. “Took a fancy to you,” he added when he received no comment from Rex.
“Aside from the fact I’m engaged to a woman who is perfection personified, I make it a habit not to let charm blind or bedazzle me in an investigation.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be married in the spring?” Malcolm asked.
“That was the plan. But it came around so fast we decided to postpone until we were less busy. Helen wants a big wedding. It’s her first and she wants it to be perfect. It’s going to require a lot of organization.”
Malcolm nodded. “It’s difficult when you’re both working and live in different parts of the UK.”
“Aye, but we make it work.” Rex set down his spoon. “Why don’t you pursue the charming Charlotte? She’s divorced and you’re a widower. It’s been three years. Charlotte might have flirted with you had you been the one not wearing a wedding ring.”
His friend twisted the gold band on his finger. “Not sure I’m ready to move on yet. How long was it before you got over Fiona?”
Rex sighed heavily. “It was a long time,” he conceded. He had lost his wife to breast cancer when his son was fifteen. It had been an excruciating period in their lives.
“But now you have Helen,” Malcolm said on a more cheerful note.
“And we have four murders to solve,” Rex said in like vein, throwing down his napkin and looking around for the server so they could settle their bill. It was time to call on Walker’s office and see what they could find out about the mysterious couple who had expressed interest in the property belonging to the late Ernest Blackwell.
NINE
REX MANAGED TO FIND on-street parking in front of the firm owned by Chris Walker. Photos of properties surmounted by brief descriptions lined the window. None, he noted, were located in Notting Hamlet. Those must have been taken down. In a bare space in the glass, he saw the blurry reflectio
n of a solidly built man with reddish hair and beard, his neck swaddled in a scarf. He blinked at his image and caught Malcolm’s beside him, greyer, thinner, and shorter. A lot of time had passed since their university days.
The door chimed brightly as they entered. Behind a partition at the far end of the office bobbed the heads of a couple of people whom Rex took to be sales associates. From a reception desk angled in the narrow space in the foreground, a buxom bleached blonde enquired in an ingratiating voice whether she could be of assistance. Her nametag, pinned to a ruffled crimson silk blouse, read “Lea.”
“I hope so,” Rex replied with what he hoped was his most amiable smile. “It’s regarding the homes for sale in Notting Hamlet.”
The woman’s face darkened around her creased blue eyeshadow. “Are you reporters?” she demanded, casting a look at Malcolm. Her hand reached for the desk phone.
“No, nothing like that,” Rex assured her, assessing the lay of the land. He surmised the office had been besieged by the media and nosy members of the public in weeks past. “I’m trying to locate my daughter.” This was the story he had concocted with Malcolm on the way to Chris Walker’s premises in the event they encountered resistance, a story designed to elicit sympathy and the most information possible. Rex’s inherently honest nature rebelled at resorting to subterfuge, but an innocent man’s freedom might be at stake and he had to help his friend out of a legal jam.
“I don’t see how I can assist you there,” the receptionist said in a relenting tone, her assumed one of formality failing to disguise her broad country dialect. Then, unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “Is she missing then? I have an adult daughter myself.”
“Aye,” Rex said, sighing deeply into his muffler. “The police won’t help us because she’s of age, but she took up with an undesirable character and I need to get her back home before she throws her life away. This is my old friend Malcolm, who’s kindly helping me.”
Murder Comes Calling Page 6
