Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor Read Free Book Online

Malcolm’s excuses for his behaviour, since he couldn’t take much more of them for now.
    “I suppose he was,” his friend said, gazing into space. “Tall and trim, with a full head of white hair, which he kept longish, probably the way he had it in his younger days. A bit frail, though, and hard of hearing.”
    “So Lottie and your neighbour said. Prendergast waylaid me as I was walking up the driveway,” Rex explained.
    Malcolm nodded and grinned. “What a gasbag. I bet he gave you the lowdown on all the neighbours.”
    “Mainly the victims. And what aboot Vic Chandler? All Win could tell me was that he had no patience for golf and had been in the insurance business. What was he like?”
    “Didn’t know him that well, just saw him from time to time across the street. He liked to potter in his shed round the back of his house. Kept himself to himself mostly. Not very tall, but barrel-chested, with powerful shoulders. And he shaved his head, I think because he was going bald on top.”
    “Injured in Belfast, I hear.”
    “He had a scar on one side of his face that dragged his eye down a bit and gave him a sinister look, and he had a missing finger on his right hand.”
    “A tough-looking character. I remember the picture in the paper. And the woman, Valerie … On the blousy side, you said?”
    Malcolm nodded. “Attractive in a barmaid sort of way. I could see her and Ernest having an affair, at a pinch. Though quite a bit older, he had charisma.”
    He seemed relieved to have the focus off himself, but Rex was not prepared to let his evidence tampering go that easily. “What if the letters have greater significance than you let on to the inspector? Did he notice the connection between them and your initials?”
    Malcolm swallowed down a bite of biscuit. “Not immediately. After all, that middle letter was not a proper N. Later in the interview, though, he asked why Walker might have wanted to frame me.”
    Very astute of the detective, Rex thought. “And you said?”
    “I barely knew the chap. I had one conversation with him when he was putting the For Sale sign in Barry’s garden. I asked if the homes in the neighbourhood had gone up in value in the past year, and he said it depended on how quickly you wanted to sell. Apparently, Barry was in a hurry.”
    “Do you know why?”
    “You’d have to ask Walker.”
    “That might be difficult, considering his situation,” Rex said pointedly.
    Malcolm expelled a long breath. “Look, he confessed to being there that Thursday.”
    “And killing Ernest Blackwell?”
    “No, why would he? If he has a good barrister, he could still go free.”
    No thanks to you, Rex said to himself. “So, if you’re so convinced now he’s guilty, why do you need me?”
    Malcolm shifted in his chair. “I thought you could shed some light on the murders one way or the other, and, to tell the truth”—he glanced quickly at Rex—“my conscience was bothering me. I feel rather better now that I’ve made a clean breast of it at the station but, I’ll admit, I was terrified. Do you think the detective will call me back in?”
    Rex thought it more than probable. No detective, particularly of Cooper’s rank, would risk his reputation and the case by not following up on a lead, however late in the proceedings. And this case was only three weeks old. Where did this leave him in his own investigation, he wondered. What did he actually have to go on, and was his time and effort wasted if Chris Walker was the culprit?
    “We could try to determine why the house agent might have wanted to frame me,” Malcolm said.
    “It would help if there were other suspects. Are there no other people of interest the police could be looking at?”
    “There was a handyman, but he was eliminated when his alibi checked out. He does odd jobs for Mrs. Parsons and told her he was originally the prime suspect, on account of his having done work for all the victims when they were getting their homes