Murder Comes Calling

by C. S. Challinor

  “I would indeed. Thank you. It seems like divine providence.” Geraldine set down her cup and tapped her knees. “Bangkok, here I come!”

  Rex declined her offer of more coffee and they exchanged numbers. As he left, he promised to keep in touch.

  The walk back to Malcolm’s house helped to clear his head, which was a hive of mental activity, his thoughts buzzing to and fro and always returning to the central theme of proving who had committed the murders—all five of them. For he had little doubt they were related.

  EIGHTEEN

  REX RETURNED FROM GERALDINE Prather’s house to find Malcolm, trowel in hand, crouched by the shrubbery between the garage and front door.

  “I’m about ready to come in,” his friend said, glancing up from his work. “Will Welsh rarebit and salad do you for lunch?”

  “Perfect.” Miss Bird had made grated cheese on toast for Rex when he was a boy, and it had remained a firm favourite.

  “Put the kettle on, will you? I’ll be in in a jiffy. Can’t wait to hear what’s new.”

  “How do you know I came up with anything new?” Rex asked in amusement, pausing on the path.

  Malcolm rested his right arm on his knee, the trowel dangling from his hand. “You have that expectant look, as though you’ve come by a new piece of evidence.”

  “Most of my evidence, as you call it, has been hearsay. But you are not wrong.” Rex spied Mr. Prendergast hovering in his front garden and called out a greeting to alert Malcolm of his presence, so his friend would not blurt out anything about the case, which might then travel around Notting Hamlet.

  He spun on his heel and proceeded to the front door. Inside the hall, he shed his outer garments and went to the kitchen to start the tea as Malcolm had directed. His laptop and notepad lay on the oak veneer table where he had left them earlier that morning. Upon sitting down, he committed to paper what Danny had told him.

  Malcolm entered the room while he was still writing. “Well, let’s have it,” he said, turning on the sink faucet. He squeezed a plastic bottle of dish soap on his hands and started methodically scrubbing his nails with a brush.

  “I spoke to the newspaper lad,” Rex informed his friend.

  “Danny? Shifty sort of boy, but a wizard on that bike.”

  “Aye, he did manage to extort thirty pounds from me.” Rex repeated Danny’s account of the old man in the back of the BMW.

  “And you believe him?”

  “The details were very specific and tied in with what Lottie said. I’m thinking the Russian couple were in that car with him. Charlotte’s description of them suggests similarly flamboyant characters. The young woman was wearing a fur coat, and now we have an old man with a shapka on his head.”

  “Did you see Charlotte?” Malcolm asked, drying his hands on a dishtowel.

  “No, but I spoke to Geraldine Prather again, the lady who met John Calpin. The poor woman was visibly affected by the news of his death. She said she was thinking of going on holiday to Thailand, and I gave her Charlotte’s number.”

  “Good thinking. Was Geraldine able to tell you anything more?”

  “No, we just chatted for a while over coffee.”

  “So what now?” Malcolm opened the refrigerator and took out a block of cheddar cheese.

  “How d’you fancy a trip to Luton?”

  “Luton? Not on your neillie. I haven’t been further than Godminton since … I don’t know when.”

  “Since Jocelyn’s death. Malcolm, you’re becoming a hermit.”

  “Why d’you want to go to Luton? Or Lu’n, as they call it there.”

  A large town and borough of Bedfordshire, Luton lay thirty miles north of London. Rex had flown out of its international airport on several occasions.

  “Penworth Press, Calpin’s publisher, is based there.” Rex consulted his notes. “On Reginald Road. I thought I’d try to make an appointment with his editor tomorrow.”

  “Why not just speak on the phone?”

  “I’m hoping to get hold of some of Calpin’s manuscript or material. He must have submitted a proposal to get the book deal. And I’m assuming he supplied his editor with chapters as the book progressed. His subject matter was the Cruikshank gang, among others, and I may be able to offer the editor a quid pro quo based on what I know.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” Malcolm produced a cheese grater from a drawer and set to work.

  “Who might’ve murdered John Calpin. It would make for a more saleable book, from the publisher’s point of view.” Rex sat back in his chair, a pencil see-sawing between his fingers. “And I could furnish details on the Cruikshank family gleaned from what I’ve heard from residents here. It’s worth a try.”

  He paused while he arranged his thoughts in logical order. “Calpin was writing a book on a mobster family who disappeared in the mid-nineties. He came to Notting Hamlet under the pretence of looking for his birth mother. It’s possible Valerie Trotter was his birth mother, but I doubt it. If you discovered your mother was part of a reviled mob under the scrutiny of every law enforcement agency in the land, would you want to be associated with her?”

  “If I was a budding young journalist, I might use it to my advantage,” Malcolm replied. “Perhaps his editor will be able to enlighten you.”

  “Perhaps. I wonder how Calpin found the four of them. They seem to have created very elaborate identities.”

  “Judging by that photo you showed me of Sylvia Cruikshank,” Malcolm said from where he stood at the counter, “Valerie Trotter went for a complete makeover. From brunette to blonde with a new set of thingummies. And no more librarian glasses. I wouldn’t have recognized her if she was my own sister.”

  “I wonder if Ernest’s arthritis was a sham,” Rex wondered aloud. “Not to mention his weak heart and Alzheimer’s. This was the man who used to be known as Kevlar Kev. Then there was Barry’s hearing aid. A useful ploy if you want to pretend not to hear inopportune questions.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “Whaat’s that you say?” he asked in a quavering voice. “And Vic Chandler’s fear of heights, and him chief enforcer for one of England’s most dangerous gangs! They did a fine job of making themselves oot to be a bunch of frail geriatrics, wimps, and vacuous blondes.”

  “Ernest and Barry were getting on,” Malcolm reminded him. “Even mobsters have to retire. I suppose we should call them Kev and Frankie now.”

  “It must be them,” Rex said, clenching his pencil in his fist. “I made a note of Kev and Frankie’s birthdate,” he added, flipping back the pages of his pad. “Ernest and Barry were reported in the media as being two years apart. That can’t be correct if they were twins.”

  “They’d have wanted to conceal that fact to further protect their identity,” Malcolm said.

  “And since they were fraternal twins and not identical, or even the same height, that wouldn’t have posed a problem. I wonder which poor stiffs they stole their identities from.”

  “They’ll be long buried under a pile of concrete,” Malcolm said. “Or else fed a lot of fish somewhere off the Essex coast.” Inured though he was to blood and dissection, the doctor gave an exaggerated shudder.

  Rex stopped flipping back and forth in his pad when he found the twins’ birthdate. “They would have been eighty-two. Kev shaved a year off his age, and Frankie three.”

  “Wish I could.”

  “In any case, looks like their cover was blown by John Calpin, who also ended up dead at the hands of their old arch enemies. The editor’s got to think that’ll sell copies.” Rex paused. “There’s conflicting information as to whether Ivan’s gang was Russian or Ukrainian.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Not necessarily to them,” Rex pointed out.

  “All I know is they have names like Petrov and Vasili, and talk with menacing accents. These corrupt commies infiltrate everywhere. I hope I never have to come face-to-face with one.”

  Malcolm’s limited worldview reflected Rick Ballantine’s. “I’d say t
hese people were capitalists, into whatever markets they could exploit,” Rex said. “For all I know, they might still be in business.”

  “Other than the assassination business, you mean.”

  They continued their speculation over lunch, after which Malcolm cleared the table. Donning a pair of rubber gloves, he cleaned the non-dishwasher safe items in the sink. Rex organized his legal documents on the table. He had brought the briefs with him from chambers to work on over his long weekend away.

  “You can use my study,” Malcolm said, peeling off the yellow gloves. “It’s not as though I use it much anymore, though I have been thinking of applying for a forensic pathologist job I heard about. Working on this case has reawakened my interest. Not that I’ve been much use to you …”

  “Nonsense,” Rex contradicted kindly. “And it’s grand you’re thinking of getting back in the field.” Three years was too long to mooch about the house, he thought. It wasn’t healthy. “And thanks for the offer of your study, but I’ve grown accustomed to working here at the table.”

  “Right-oh. Well, I’ll be in the garage sorting through some old stuff if you need me. And I thought we’d go to Ciao’s this evening. They do divine calamari and chicken alfredo.”

  “Perfect. And maybe a pint at the King’s Head afterwards. Incidentally, why do Bedfordshire natives refer to themselves as Clangers?” Rex asked, recalling his conversation with Malcolm’s neighbour, Win Prendergast.

  “The term derives from a traditional Beds suet pastry by that name, which is half filled with meat and half with jam.”

  “Funny it’s not on the pub menu,” Rex said with a grimace.

  Malcolm grinned back, and Rex felt their old friendship re-cementing after he had raked him over the coals for his acts of naïve stupidity in the case.

  Malcolm left him to his work and Rex absorbed himself in it without further prevarication. The prospect of dining out at the Italian restaurant in Godminton spurned him on, especially as he did not relish another evening in the house. Much as he felt at home in Malcolm’s kitchen, it could do with some remodelling, he mused briefly, before throwing himself back into his court documents for the next two hours. An imminent case at the High Court of Justiciary involved a domestic dispute, where he was tasked to prove that the husband had suffocated his cheating wife. Finishing sooner than anticipated, he returned to the more fascinating case of the Notting Hamlet murders. At that moment the phone rang. He called out for Malcolm and, getting no response, went to answer it himself.

  “It’s Charlotte,” the voice said. “How are things going?”

  “I’ve been taking a short break from our local murders to work on a couple of court cases.” Charlotte made a sympathetic noise at her end. “Shall I get Malcolm?” he asked.

  “Actually, it’s you I wanted to talk to. Geraldine Prather asked me to arrange her trip to the Far East. Thank you for referring her to me. We met this afternoon and I was able to get her a terrific package deal.”

  “I wish you could get away, too.”

  “No chance of that. How long are you sticking around?”

  “Until Tuesday.”

  “Hope I see you before you leave. What’s Malcolm up to?”

  “Rummaging in the garage. He’s been more active and cheerful lately, which I put down to you.”

  “And you, he told me.”

  “All right, I’ll take some of the credit too,” Rex said with a laugh.

  A nice woman, he thought, walking back to the kitchen after the call. He hoped it worked out between her and Malcolm. His friend was just entering from the laundry room, looking dishevelled.

  “I just got off the phone with Charlotte,” Rex told him.

  “Oh. What did she want?”

  “To thank me for putting her in contact with Geraldine and to see what you were doing.”

  Malcolm gave a pleased smile. “Well, I’ve made quite a dent, actually. I have a couple of boxes for Oxfam. Your Mrs. Jensen will be pleased.”

  “Did you throw in your balaclava?” Rex joked.

  “It’s back under the stairs, retired from night duty. Right, I’ll go clean myself up. Will you be ready to leave in half an hour?”

  The doorbell rang just then. Malcolm checked his watch. “I wonder who that could be.” He went to look through the peephole and returned from the front door wearing a wary expression.

  NINETEEN

  “IT’S THAT BIKER, BIG Bill. What should we do?” Malcolm asked, wringing his hands.

  Rex suppressed a sigh, realizing that Malcolm, of his own volition, would not open the door to the visitor. “I’ll get it and make my excuses for you.”

  “Say I’m in the shower. Don’t let him in.”

  Rex strode to the front door and swung it open. Eye to eye with him stood the biker, his tall frame lean and muscular, and clad in supple black leather. He wore an unbuckled helmet covered in stickers and sported a greying blonde beard that outdid Rex’s in sheer volume.

  “You the barrister from Edinburgh?” the man boomed.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Bill Little.” Hence the ironic nickname, Rex thought; though Big Bill’s actual size would have been enough to merit it.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Little?” Rex guessed Danny had given his uncle his business card, but he didn’t suppose this was a purely friendly visit.

  “You spoke to my boy.”

  “I did. And he was amply compensated for it.”

  The man grinned beneath his walrus moustache, displaying a perfect set of teeth. “Good, because I too have some information that might interest you.” He spoke with perfect diction, though his speech was slurred through laziness, or possibly drink or weed.

  Danny had clearly inherited his uncle’s eye for the main chance. “Very kind of you to bring it to me,” Rex told Big Bill. “I’d invite you in, but it’s not my house.” He imagined Malcolm cowering at the top of the stairs, listening with rapt attention.

  Big Bill waved away his concern. He would not feel the cold in his biker gear, Rex thought, but he himself would if he stepped outside. He should close the door to prevent the warm air from escaping, even if it meant Malcolm would no longer be able to hear the exchange. Torn between what to do, he decided to accelerate the conversation.

  “I was getting ready to leave the house, but if it’ll just take a minute,” he prompted.

  The biker removed his helmet in one swift motion, releasing a shock of tawny hair much like his nephew’s, only shoulder-length and streaked with silver. “It concerns a false alibi.”

  Rex considered the information. “Whose? There are only two police suspects so far—correct me if I’m wrong. And one of them doesn’t have an alibi. That leaves the handyman who lives on your street.”

  Smoky blue eyes, crinkled at the outer corners, held Rex’s gaze. “Mr. Graves, I was a Bond Street broker before the stock market crashed in 20008 and I don’t believe in wasting time. Yes, Randall Gomez is the suspect I refer to.”

  “Ex-suspect, I believe.”

  “Well, maybe not.”

  “I won’t waste your time either,” Rex said. “How much are you asking?”

  “A hundred quid. My nephew and I had a good life in the City, but times have changed. I’m not too proud to ask for what I can get.”

  “But as a stockbroker, you’ll understand the value of money better than most.”

  “I understand it can evaporate in a New York nanosecond.”

  “I’m not sure your information is worth anything to me,” Rex stated. “Gomez is not on my suspect list, regardless of whether his alibi stands up or not.”

  Big Bill bowed his head and sighed in resignation.

  “Have you taken your information to the police?” Rex enquired.

  “No, and I don’t intend to. Anyway, from what I gather, you may be making more headway than them in the case.”

  “If I am it’s because certain individuals have not been particularly forthcoming with the
authorities. I’ll give you fifty if what you know is valid and first-hand.”

  “I saw it for myself.” Big Bill waited and Rex nodded for him to continue. “Gomez was outside Valerie Trotter’s house at lunchtime the day of the murders ringing on the bell. I’m sure he has a key, because they, well, you know … but he scarpered when he heard my bike.”

  “I’m told it’s extremely loud. He would have heard you before you turned onto Fox Lane.”

  “That’s as may be, but he acted suspiciously and hurried away from the door.”

  “You actually saw him ring the bell? And you’re sure it was him?”

  “His arm was held out and up. Like this.” Big Bill gave a demonstration. The jacket sleeve rode down his forearm revealing a plethora of tattoos. “And yes, it was definitely him. Plus, his van was there.”

  “He may have lied to the police simply because he didn’t want to reveal the full nature of his relationship with Ms. Trotter, for fear they’d think he’d tracked her down at Mr. Blackwell’s and killed her in a jealous rage.”

  “For seeing that bald bull-neck?” Big Bill suggested.

  So the biker knew about her relationship with Vic Chandler, the ex-enforcer for the Cruikshank Twins. Evidently, the pair had not been careful enough.

  Rex extracted his wallet from his trouser pocket and slid out the money promised. “Your nephew’s information was more valuable, but I’ll follow up on yours, too.”

  “Danny wouldn’t have made that up about the old man in the BMW. He doesn’t have that kind of imagination.”

  “Any chance you know the name of the nursing home in Bedford, which Mr. Gomez was supposed to be visiting the day of the murders?”

  “Sunnyview. Something like that. He said it was one of the nicer ones. It’s this side of Bedford.”

  Rex handed over the fifty-pound note. “Sorry to hear you lost your lucrative position.”

  “Ah, well. It was a rat race. Better off out of it in some ways.” Big Bill held up the cash between two ringed fingers in a gesture of thanks and walked down the path to his orange, polished chrome Harley Davidson 2000cc, pulling the helmet back on his head.