“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 façades 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.”
“What’s happening about her house now? I see the sign’s still there.”
The woman removed her gloves and shook off the loose earth. “I haven’t a clue. Nobody’s been round that I know of. But it can’t just stay empty, can it? Somebody, if not the bank, will claim it. And yet,” she said, frowning in thought, “I seem to remember Valerie saying she paid cash for it.”
Magic, patiently dozing in the sunshine until now, uttered a faint whine at Rex’s feet and shifted into a sitting position, clearly keen to get off home. Rex patted his sleek black head, thinking of a way to see John Calpin’s business card. He could admit he was conducting a private enquiry. After all, it was no real secret and word was bound to get around, but he should have done so upfront. Now it was too late. Finding that people spoke more freely in casual conversation, he hadn’t wanted to put the resident on her guard.
“Did you try to contact the young writer after Valerie Trotter’s death?” he asked innocuously.
“I thought about it, but finally decided he’d probably see it on the news. What a shock it must have been if he thought Valerie was his mother!”
>
“Indeed. Ehm, if you like, I could contact him when I get back to Edinburgh. Did he say where in Scotland he hailed from?”
“Glasgow, I think. It’s kind of you, but it would probably be better if the call came from me. Yes, I might just do that. He’s been rather on my mind since her murder.”
“Well, let me give you my card,” Rex said. “I’d be interested to hear the rest of the story.”
She fished out a pair of reading glasses from the deep pockets of her housecoat. “Rex Graves, QC,” she read aloud.
“At your service,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Geraldine Prather,” she reciprocated.
He bid her goodbye and took Magic home, eager to return to Malcolm’s and relay the strange coincidence of a young writer by the name of John Calpin seeking out a woman who had turned up dead a week later.
FOURTEEN
“THIS TAKES OUR INVESTIGATION in a new direction, doesn’t it?” Malcolm said gleefully after Rex had filled him in on his encounter with Geraldine Prather.
The two men sat at the kitchen table over tea and ginger-nut biscuits as the sun peeped through the top half of the window above the red gingham curtain.
“I imagine the police questioned Ms. Prather after Valerie Trotter’s murder, since they lived next door to each other,” Malcolm continued. “I wonder if she told them about your fellow countryman asking all those questions.”
“I should have asked. But I hadn’t told her I was actively interested in the case. I don’t want too many people knowing.”
“It’s only a matter of time. Gossip is as rife here as in any other community.” Malcolm nibbled on a biscuit. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That being?”
“That this man murdered his mother and her lover in a fit of rage over being abandoned at birth?”
Murder Comes Calling Page 10
