Murder Comes Calling

by C. S. Challinor

  Malcolm reached out his hand and introduced himself. “I was thinking of putting in a new kitchen. I gave your wife my particulars.” The woman in question had taken the screaming child back into the house and closed the door. “I heard you’d done some work for Ernest Blackwell and others in the neighbourhood, and wondered if you might be able to provide some references.”

  “You won’t get a reference from Ernest any more than I’ll get my pay cheque. He’s dead, mate. Don’t you watch the news?”

  Malcolm pursed his lips before speaking. “Of course I do. I take it you didn’t get paid?”

  “Oh, he was good for it, was old Ernest. Never forgot stuff like that, but his death was what you might call untimely. I’d all but completed a plumbing job for him, and next thing I knew someone had done the poor geezer in with piano wire. He loved all those music hall tunes, did Ernest. He’d be playing them while I worked. He’d always make me a cup of tea and we’d have a good old natter. He was partial to Jaffa cakes; I suppose because the sponge and orange jam was easy on his dentures.” Randall stroked away a tear from the corner of his eye. “Poor old bugger. Didn’t deserve that.”

  “I’m sure the others didn’t either,” Rex said with a commiserating sigh. “Did you know them well?”

  “Vic and Barry? Well enough. Barry was a character, too. Hard to have a conversation with, though, on account of his hearing aid. I kept telling him he needed a new one. I didn’t do much work for Vic Chandler. He could fix most stuff himself, but he didn’t have a head for heights and wouldn’t go up a ladder. That’s when he’d call me. I put up his satellite dish.”

  Rex felt Malcolm bristle beside him.

  “And Valerie Trotter?” Rex enquired.

  “What about her?” Randy asked defiantly. The man took a long pull of his rollie.

  “My friend’s been following the case,” Malcolm said on Rex’s behalf. “He didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”

  “Right, well, about this job you want doing,” the handyman said. “I could come round and give you an estimate, bring some samples. I did Vera Murdock’s on Fox Lane. Came out lovely,” he said with a cocky air. “She’ll give you a reference all right.”

  “Terrific.” Malcolm gave Randall Gomez his phone number and suggested he come by early the following week.

  The two men got back in their car as Randall stood by, watching.

  “Not sure he believed you,” Rex told Malcolm as he made a U-turn on the street.

  “Well, I hope you’re satisfied. I told you it would be a waste of time.”

  “Maybe,” Rex said.

  “I don’t trust that chap, or his slattern of a wife.”

  “Och, she wasna that bad!” Rex retorted in Scots vernacular, as he often did when indignant. “She probably does not get much time to herself what with a wee bairn and two other children.”

  “You wouldn’t find their sort in Morningside,” his friend replied snobbily, referring to Rex’s genteel neighbourhood in Edinburgh.

  “That’s as maybe. Well, let’s stop by the Ballantines’, see if they’re home yet.”

  However, as they approached the two-story home in Otter Court, no lights were visible, contrary to what one would expect on such a dull autumn afternoon had someone been home. Leaving Malcolm in the car, Rex hurried up the path to the door and rang the bell, which chimed deep within the house, the high note followed by a lower, more resonant tone. He imagined the empty air surrounding the bereft furniture and abandoned spaces waiting for the family to bring the rooms back to life.

  He waited a moment longer and rapped with the iron knocker. Only the dead silence responded.

  _____

  “I expect they’re still at work,” Malcolm said as Rex ducked into the car beside him.

  “I was hoping the lad would be back from school. Does he drive?”

  “Probably, but I don’t know if he has a car. I don’t come into this cul-de-sac very often. I sometimes see his upstairs light when I turn into mine.”

  “What do the parents do?” Rex asked, driving back to Malcolm’s house.

  “I think she’s a teacher. Rick’s an accountant, commutes to Bedford. That may be another reason for wanting to move, so he can be closer to work.”

  “I got their house agent’s number off the sign. David Gleeson. I’ll see if the house was shown to a young couple. Any chance you could call DCI Cooper and elicit some more information?” Rex had to admit he was feeling pretty stumped at this point.

  “I was at the station only this morning,” Malcolm objected. “It would look like I’m pestering him. And I doubt he’d tell me anything more than he already has.”

  Rex pulled into Malcolm’s driveway and stopped the car. He sighed dispiritedly. Four corpses and little in the way of meaningful clues.

  “You’ve only been on the case since yesterday evening,” Malcolm consoled him as he unbuckled his seat belt. “We’ve made some headway. We now know from Chris Walker’s receptionist that he has form. And we also know the young couple didn’t go through his office and probably never met him. So they wouldn’t be able to give us any information about him. It’s not a lead, but at least we know it’s a dead end. Perhaps you’ll have more luck with David Gleeson.”

  While his friend unpacked the groceries, Rex put on the coffee, using the Colombian roast he had purchased at Sainsbury’s. At least Malcolm didn’t stint on the heating, and the kitchen felt nice and toasty compared to the damp cold outside.

  When Malcolm went to watch the cricket on television, Rex settled at the kitchen table with his notepad, where he added Lea’s and Randall Gomez’s names to the list of people he had spoken to and jotted down the salient points of his and Malcolm’s conversations with them. He already had Lottie Green and Charlotte Spelling. Wasn’t Lottie short for Charlotte, he idly wondered? Those two residents, along with Win Prendergast, Malcolm’s neighbour, and Randall were the only residents he had met so far. Mr. Woods at number 45 Fox Lane, who had slammed the door in his face, barely counted.

  Next he called Gleeson, the Ballantines’ house agent, and got his voicemail. As he finished leaving a message, his cell phone signalled an incoming text. It was from Helen:

  Arrived safely in Miami. Recovering from jet lag but getting ready to hit South Beach and see the Art Deco. Boarding the Breeze tomorrow afternoon. So wish you could have come with us!! Julie sends her love. xxoo

  Rex sent her a reply saying he had travelled to Bedfordshire for a long weekend to help out an old friend, and told her he missed her.

  While TV sports commentary and civilized ripples of applause, interspersed with Malcolm’s own cheering and booing, emanated from the living room, Rex transferred his attention to the newspaper crossword puzzle and had the blanks filled in within thirteen minutes according to the wall clock. Would the Ballantines be home yet? Finishing his coffee, he decided to find out, since there was little else he could do at this point.

  Poking his head around the living room door, he told Malcolm he was going out and glanced long enough at the screen to note the score and the white-clad players positioned around their wickets on the green.

  “Right-oh,” his friend replied with a quick glance round, engrossed as he was in the cricket match. “We’re winning,” he crowed.

  “So I see.” Rex stepped back into the hall and put on his scarf. Confirming that his keys were in his pocket, he opened the door to a dark view of the front yard and driveway. A light mist sprayed his face. He reached back for his brolly. It was not far to the other cul-de-sac, and he decided to walk.

  He had got as far as Barry Burn’s old house when his cell phone went off in his pocket to the chorus of “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond.” He paused under a streetlight and saw it was a local number. “Rex Graves,” he answered, seeking shelter under a sycamore tree.

  “Mr. Graves, this is David Gleeson of EuroConnect Properties returning your call.”

  “Thank you so much. I was calling with regard to a pr
operty in Notting Hamlet.”

  “The one on Otter Court?”

  “Right. I wanted to know if you’d had a young foreign couple by the name of Jones or Garcia interested in it.”

  “No. No interest at all yet, but that’s hardly surprising. I’ve had calls from one or two other residents in Notting Hamlet wanting to put their homes on the market, but I’m reluctant to accommodate them at this time.”

  “Because of the murders, no doubt,” Rex said, shifting his position under the tree for better cover.

  “Well, yes. I advised them to wait for the dust to settle. Plus, Notting Hamlet is largely Chris Walker’s turf. I don’t want to be seen as poaching his clients.”

  “And the Ballantine property?”

  “Different kettle of fish. Rick’s firm handles my finances, and I know him personally. You asked if a young couple had an interest in his house? News to me.”

  “An acquaintance of mine has a home listed with Chris Walker and had such a couple come by, but they seem to have vanished into thin air.”

  “I suppose Mr. Walker’s had other things on his mind, if what I hear is true. It’s a regrettable situation for his clients, but I can hardly step in and take over.”

  “Are you acquainted with him?” Rex asked.

  “Not well. My business operates out of Bedford. We cater to a more international crowd. Perhaps you could try Covington’s. They’re in Godminton. It’s only them and Walker now. Home Sweet Home closed its doors over a year ago.”

  Rex thanked Mr. Gleeson, who was beginning to sound impatient. Ending the call, he continued on his way. He felt certain he would get no more joy from Covington’s. Charlotte Spelling’s suspicious couple were proving impossible to trace.

  ELEVEN

  THE EVENLY SPACED STREETLIGHTS reflected off the puddles in the gutters, leaving pockets of darkness in between the pools of illumination. Rex pulled up his coat collar and slanted his brolly against the drizzle coming down with dreary persistence. While the knuckles of his right hand holding the brolly stem dripped water, his other was warmly ensconced in his pocket.

  A few cars pulled into driveways and were swallowed by garages. Lights dotted the windows of the uniform homes he passed. Occasionally, voices and barks sounded from within, muffled by the walls and the insulating rain. He could not recall the sun having made the ghost of an appearance all day.

  Once or twice, a curtain twitched and a face peered out into the gloom. He walked on and crossed into Otter Court, where the houses featured the same deep-set, small-paned windows and exposed beams across tan stucco, skirted by a brick basement. All sat in fenced-in gardens with their squares of lawn, shrubs and bushes cast in shadow. As on Badger Court, the north row backed onto the river, invisible from the street.

  Rex’s spirits soared when he saw the lights on downstairs at the Ballantine house, which stood at the far end of the cul-de-sac on a corner lot. A silver car was parked to one side of the driveway. At least one person was home.

  He strode up to the front door and rang the bell, immediately aware of a movement in the drapes to his right. A minute later, a footfall sounded on the other side of the door, which remained resolutely closed. He held his business card in front of the peephole. The door finally opened as far as the chain would allow, and a bespectacled female face narrow in structure and framed with lank, brown hair, appeared. Her voice quavered, “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Ballantine? My name is Rex Graves. Sorry to bother you when it’s dark. I called on you earlier and no one was home. I’m a friend of Malcolm Patterson’s on Badger Court.”

  “I know Dr. Patterson. The widower?”

  “Correct. I wanted to ask if any people have come to view your house. Malcolm and I are conducting an independent inquiry into the murders. I spoke to your house agent, David Gleeson, just now and he said no one had expressed an interest so far, but I wondered if anyone might have come to you direct.”

  “With so many murders, you can see why I’m hesitant to open my door,” the lady of the house explained without yet making a move to open it further.

  Rex could certainly understand her reluctance and said as much. “Let me call Malcolm on my mobile, so he can vouch for me.” He pulled out his phone, praying that Malcolm would not ignore his call so he could continue watching the cricket match.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” the woman declared. “I’ve seen you about with him. Please come inside.” She unhooked the chain and invited him into the living room. Dressed in slippers, a pleated skirt, and a buttoned cardigan, she stood with her arms folded tightly across her flat chest. Rex towered over her. “You must think me rather trusting to let a stranger into my home after what’s happened,” she said. “But in spite of your size, you look quite harmless.”

  “Thank you. I think.” He smiled at the petite woman before him.

  “And you’re not quite a stranger, if you know Malcolm. I saw on your card that you’re an officer of the law.” Seemingly satisfied that he posed no danger, she said brightly, “I always treat myself to a sherry on Friday nights. Care to join me?”

  “I would, thank you.” Rex took a seat on the nearest armchair while she crossed to an antique buffet table and poured sherry from a decanter into two small, bell-shaped glasses.

  She handed him one and sat down opposite him.

  “Mrs. Ballantine—”

  “Sandra.”

  “Sandra. You must think me very nosy coming round asking questions.”

  She tugged on her cultured pearl necklace. “I thought the killer’s been apprehended. That other house agent …”

  “Chris Walker. I don’t know that he’s been arrested. Malcolm and I are just trying to get supplemental information. As you are no doubt aware, it was my friend who found the bodies.”

  Sandra visibly shivered as she held the sherry glass between her knees.

  Rex apologized for upsetting her. “Malcolm and I were at Edinburgh University together,” he elaborated. “He was studying medicine while I was getting my law degree. I occasionally get asked to investigate murder cases.”

  “So you’re helping the police,” Sandra said.

  “In a manner of speaking.” For all he knew, the police might construe his and Malcolm’s actions as outright interference.

  More at ease now, Sandra sipped her sherry and Rex did the same. It was a bit on the sweet side for his taste, but much appreciated nonetheless after his cold walk.

  “You asked about visitors, but no one’s come to see the house. Mr. Gleeson told us he’d had a couple of people call asking for information, but they were weeded out as having no more than a morbid curiosity. He told us to hang on.”

  At that moment, Rex heard the clang of the garage door, and Sandra jumped in her armchair. “That must be my husband. I wasn’t expecting him so early.” She looked at Rex as though working up the nerve to ask him to leave.

  “Grand,” he said. “I wanted to talk to him too.”

  A man with smarmy good looks stepped into the living room and stopped abruptly when he saw Rex. “I didn’t know we had company,” he said, eyeing his wife.

  “This is Rex Graves, QC, a friend of Malcolm Patterson’s, whom you worked with when trying to organize that automated gate for the entrance.”

  “I know who Malcolm is,” her husband cut in. “You might perhaps have asked Mr. Graves if he wanted to remove his wet coat.”

  Sandra glanced at Rex in apology. “Oh, I didn’t think—”

  “I’m not staying long, and I’m sorry to impose.” Rex turned to Mr. Ballantine, who was loosening his tie. “I was telling your wife I was interested in the Notting Hamlet murders.”

  “Aren’t we all.” Rick busied himself at the buffet table.

  “Mr. Graves was asking if anyone had come to see our house, and I said no.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s so.” Her husband returned with a tumbler of liquor on the rocks. The ice rattled as he took a seat beside his wife on the sofa. Rex noted there was no
physical contact between them. “I commute to Bedford practically every day,” Rick Ballantine said. “It’s a long haul in bad traffic. If I work late I kip on the divan at my office.”

  Rex noticed Sandra stiffen. I see, he thought to himself with a degree of irony. It wasn’t that long of a drive.

  “And we want to be closer to the city so our son can get more involved in after-school activities. It will be the same distance for my wife to travel to work. But it looks like we’ll be stuck here for the time being, at least.” Mr. Ballantine took a slug of his drink. “Nothing like a string of murders in a remote community to give buyers cold feet.”

  “Is that why you wanted to put in a gate at the front entrance?” Rex asked.

  “That was before. Malcolm and I, and a few other residents, got a petition out, but a handful of homeowners resisted because of the expense. Obviously it had to be a unanimous decision, since everyone would have to be equipped with remotes or the keypad code.”

  “Was there some concern for safety at the time?” Rex asked.

  “We were mainly thinking about break-ins. There’d been a spate of petty theft. Bicycles and tools, that sort of thing. There’s a wall around the community and we thought it would be an idea to close it off completely.”

  “But no wall at the back, just the river,” Rex said. “And not a very daunting one at that.”

  “True. In any event, putting a gate in now would be a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”

  “It would not have impeded a menace from within the community,” Rex pointed out while Sandra continued to sip at her sherry, more nervous now that her husband was home.

  “Like the biker gang on Owl Lane?” Rick Ballantine asked. “There’s a menace for you. It’s likely they were responsible for some of the stuff going missing. They were the most vocal in opposing the gate. Wouldn’t have been fair to give them access when everyone else had to chip in.” Ballantine suddenly looked at his wife. “Where’s Will? I didn’t see his light on upstairs.”