Water stains on the drab green interior walls and a pervasive whiff of mildew attested to leaks in the old structure. A couple of constables milled about the premises while Rex waited to be taken in to see Malcolm after giving his statement. He occupied his time by reading through the draft chapters from John Calpin’s book until the desk officer finally directed him to the first interview room down the hall, where Malcolm sat at a table with a severe-looking man sporting a rigid salt-and-pepper moustache.
“Chief Inspector,” Rex greeted him with a brisk nod, having been notified of Cooper’s presence by the desk officer.
“Did you cut yourself shaving?” Malcolm asked, spotting the sticking plaster on Rex’s neck.
“No, Malcolm. A vicious gang member stuck a knife in my throat.”
Rex had returned to the house briefly to dress his wound and to call Ken Penworth out of a meeting to warn him that his life was in danger.
Malcolm swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Are you all right?” he gasped in dismay.
“Oh, aye. I just saw my life flash before my eyes.” This was not far from the truth, but Rex tried to make light of the event for his friend’s benefit. Malcolm, it appeared, had enough to worry about. “I understand you’re in here for perverting the course of justice.” Rex pulled up one of the stark chairs and took a seat opposite Detective Chief Inspector Cooper. “Where’s your lawyer?” he asked his friend seated beside him at the metal table.
“I waived my right to one. I was waiting for you.”
Rex curbed his exasperation. “I left you a message. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“That must have been after Cruikshank took my phone. Hopefully I’ll get it back unless he tossed it.”
“Cruikshank?” Malcolm asked in surprise.
“Darrell. He murdered his four old associates in Notting Hamlet, but he didn’t kill John Calpin. The MIR gang have that dubious honour.”
“Mr. Patterson has been telling me about this John Calpin and the MIR gang,” the detective intervened. “Quite honestly, I thought it was a load of bollocks. But I just got through a quick interview with your assailant and it seems he and his Russian friends are all in it together, and an Ivan Dragunov ordered the hit on the Cruikshank gang.”
“But what about the word MIR daubed in blood on the victims’ foreheads?” Malcolm asked Rex. “Why would Darrell Cruikshank have done that?”
“It’s their signature,” Rex said. “He was acting on behalf of the Russian mob, although I don’t think it took much arm-twisting.”
“I thought blood was thicker than water,” his friend remarked.
“Not in this case. Darrell is bitter about the way his family hung him oot to dry. His uncles got off with far worse crimes than he was charged with. They had the best counsel money could buy. Darrell, on the other hand, was penalized for not helping the prosecution make a case against them. Something he now regrets.”
“This time around,” the detective put in, “he’s prepared to give up Ivan and his gang, even though he’ll never be a free man again. The most he can expect are prison privileges.”
Rex showed DCI Cooper a page from his notebook. “This is what Mr. Patterson inadvertently rubbed off when administering to the victims, the Russian gangland symbol, MИР.”
“Not that inadvertently. That the letters shown here and described by Mr. Patterson constitute his initials did not escape my attention in spite of the back-to-front N.”
“Did you make the Russian connection?” Rex asked.
“We might have if we’d had the benefit of this vital piece of information from the start,” the inspector fumed.
“Surely Cruikshank’s confession exonerates me,” Malcolm said to the detective.
Cooper regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “Not from tampering with evidence. That’s a very serious offense, Mr. Patterson. You, of all people, with your background in forensic pathology, should know that.”
“Yes,” Malcolm said, slumping his shoulders, contrite as could be.
“We found traces of the letters,” the detective informed Rex. “But not enough to be distinguishable. Your friend here is looking at up to ten years in prison.”
“I know,” Rex said with an apologetic grimace. “If I were his lawyer, I’d plead emotional stress and utter stupidity. If you need further evidence of who was involved, I have it here.” He brandished a stapled sheaf of paper from his briefcase.
“What’s that?” Malcolm asked.
“It’s from Calpin’s manuscript detailing how ‘Fred the Spanner’ Forspaniak bombed the Dragunovs’ car, killing four of Ivan’s close family members, and how Ivan vowed retribution. Calpin led him to his enemies’ hiding place, and Ivan orchestrated the hit on the enforcer and the other three victims after waiting twenty years for revenge. The journalist sealed his own fate at the same time. This other chapter details MIR methodology, including the stamping of their name in blood on their victims. Almost to my detriment, I unwittingly lured Darrell Cruikshank back to Notting Hamlet. Now we have the whole picture.” And how satisfying that was, Rex thought.
“Am I free to go?” Malcolm asked the detective wearily. “I’ve been here over two hours.”
“I could keep you a lot longer before I have to charge you. And charge you I should.” Cooper stroked a tip of his moustache in quick succession. A brief pause. “Fine. You can go, for now, but don’t leave the country.”
Rex bid the detective a cordial goodbye. “Mr. Patterson has not been himself since his wife’s death,” he uttered under his breath after Malcolm had left the interview room. “I think the murders in his community triggered his stress and anxiety and caused him to behave irrationally.”
“And, granted, he did come to me with a full confession,” the detective acknowledged. “I’ll do what I can. No guarantees. Thank you for your assistance in this case. The Bedfordshire Police are profoundly grateful.”
“Thank Malcolm. He brought me down here.”
Rex found his friend in the lobby. “Pub?” he suggested.
“Thought you’d never ask. I could murder a pint. It’s no fun being on the other side of the law. Do you think Cooper will press charges?”
“If he does, I’m hoping he’ll make a case for leniency.”
On the walk to the King’s Head, Rex filled Malcolm in on the details of his ordeal at the house.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Rex. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this in the first place.”
“I’m glad you did. Truly.” So long as the rest of the Dragunov gang were caught.
“Is the house a mess?” Malcolm asked.
“Just your study. Someone knocked over your cup of tea and ruined your editions of The Lancet.”
“That was me. I heard a loud, ominous rap at the door and panicked. I knew it couldn’t be good.”
“You’re lucky it was the police and not Darrell Cruikshank. The Russians were on their way. Hopefully, they’ll be apprehended before they can carve anyone else up.”
“Poor John Calpin. He got too close to the truth.” Malcolm gave an agonized sigh. “Let’s eat at the pub. I don’t fancy going home just yet. What if Stroganoff and his gang are waiting for us there?”
“Dragunov, Malcolm. By the way, it seems they have a local informant.”
“I know. DCI Cooper told me.”
The two men paused for a gap in the traffic before crossing the road to the thatch-roofed pub. Rex couldn’t wait for his pint.
“I thought at first of the Leontiev family across the river, but Cruikshank said within the community. I’m thinking Mr. Woods on Fox Lane.”
“The chem teacher who poisoned the dog?” Malcolm shook his head.
“We don’t know for certain that he did. But if he was spying on the residents, he wouldn’t have wanted it yapping away every time he left his house, especially at night.”
“I’ve seen him walking about Nott
ing Hamlet, but he rarely speaks to anybody,” Malcolm said as a patron opened the door to the King’s Head, releasing a waft of beery fumes.
Rex followed his friend to an isolated booth. “If he’s oot of a job, he may have been tempted by a bribe from the Russians until he can sell his house.”
“Stands to reason. But you’re wrong.”
“How do you mean?” Rex asked in surprise.
“Lottie Green is the informant, according to Cooper, who presumably got it from Darrell Cruikshank.”
“Our Lottie? Your cleaning lady?”
“The same. The busybody who is always on some neighbourly errand and who knows everything that goes on in the Hamlet. Who better? She knew what we were up to, and what happens? The Russian mob turns up on my doorstep. Lottie apparently succumbed to pressure or some form of compensation. Or perhaps she fancied herself as a double agent.”
“She did a good job,” Rex said in a constrained voice, wondering how he would ever be able to trust an old biddy again.
Malcolm waved to the young female server from their previous visit. Rex ordered a Guinness and Malcolm a pint of bitter, and they decided on the fish and chips. Rex decided he deserved a bit of stodge after all he had been through that day. Lottie’s perfidy was harder to digest. He preferred to assume she had not known about the Russians’ involvement when she saw Ernest lying under the piano. But had she been spying on the old man? She couldn’t have realized what she was getting herself into, otherwise she would never have told him about the BMW, Rex reasoned. At least her gossip regarding that and the name Frankie had been reliable and had set him on the right course.
“When the residents discover the murders were a mob killing and not random—a bunch of criminals getting their just desserts—they’ll feel safer,” he told Malcolm. “Hopefully the properties will start selling. And now that the publicity has put Notting Hamlet on the map, perhaps the signposts will be restored.”
“I expect it was vandals, or else the Cruikshank gang seeking anonymity. At least you got rid of one undesirable element in the neighbourhood. Wish you could get rid of the bikers.”
Their drinks arrived, and the two men attacked them.
“No place is perfect, Malcolm. Are you going to call on Charlotte? Perhaps flowers this time?”
“Why not? I can bring her up to speed.” Malcolm put his head in his hands and groaned. “I’ll be so glad when this is all over.”
“Me too,” Rex said, thinking he’d be relieved to get home safe and sound.
TWENTY-FOUR
A WEEK LATER, REX sat in his chambers in Edinburgh during a tea break, reading a newspaper. The arrest of the prominent members of the MIR Gang had made national headline news. Ivan Dragunov’s enterprises in East London and Essex had been raided and found to front activities ranging from protection rackets and wholesale distribution of recreational drugs to prostitution and human trafficking. The members were now awaiting trial. Darrell Cruikshank was awaiting sentencing.
The media gave the Bedfordshire Police glowing reviews for wrapping up the five related murders. Randall Gomez, exploiting his fifteen minutes of fame, had recounted his tale of heroism to any reporter who would listen, and listen they did. He told them he’d almost sold Kev Cruikshank his timeshare in Spain. Rex’s part in cracking the case was made public knowledge, and his phones had not stopped ringing. It had been a long week.
Helen was flying home with Julie that day after completing their cruise to Gran Turk, the Dominican Republic, Curaçao, and Orangestad in Aruba. His fiancée’s text messages had described alternately lush and rocky islands, colourful Dutch architecture and wedding cake mansions, tree monkeys and exotic birds, Caribbean beaches and glitzy marinas. It all seemed so far away and unreal.
No doubt Helen would say the same of his adventure. And, hopefully, forgive him for not going on the cruise. Rex smiled in eager anticipation of taking the train down to Derby on Friday to see her and enjoy a weekend without mobsters or murder.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Bloomington, Indiana, and now living in Florida, C. S. Challinor was educated in Scotland and England, and holds a joint honors degree in Latin and French from the University of Kent, Canterbury, as well as a diploma in Russian from the Pushkin Institute in Moscow.
Table of Contents
Copyright Information
dedication
acknowledgments
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
about the author
Murder Comes Calling Page 17