“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.
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 finding
s 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.”
Murder Comes Calling Page 9
