Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. S. Challinor
ready for sale. You know, all the deferred maintenance stuff. Chris Walker had told the owners to address the problems up front, so the homes would show better and there’d be no delays later on. So Randall, whom we refer to as Handy Randy, was over at their homes doing some paint and electrical jobs. Ernest and Barry were too old to get up a ladder. And Vic had a fear of heights.”
“A solid alibi?” Rex asked regretfully. A handyman would know the victims’ floor plans and their routines, and would have ready access to the homes. He might even have had an opportunity to copy the door keys or else knew where spares were kept.
“Pretty solid. The day of the murders he was visiting his mother in Bedford, twenty-five minutes away, depending on traffic. The security cameras at the old people’s home recorded his coming and going. That’s what let him off the hook.”
Rex sat back in his chair, deep in thought for a moment. “A whole day is a long time to spend with a senile person. Unlikely they’d be alert the whole time. He could have slipped out a side door for a few hours. An hour to return to Notting Hamlet and back again, and an hour or so more to commit the murders. Aye,” he concluded, “it would take a bit of doing and a good deal of luck not to be spotted. But it’s feasible. What’s this handyman like?”
“Let’s see … mid-forties, a bit rough around the edges, with a swarthy complexion and blue eyes that some women swoon over. Rumour has it he and Valerie had something going on. Him being married with three kids made for juicy gossip.”
“Does he drive a bluish-green BMW?”
Malcolm barked out a laugh. “Hardly. He has an old van.”
“Where does he live?”
“On that row of homes down by the entrance.”
“Oh, so here in Notting Hamlet,” Rex said with interest.
Malcolm sighed in frustration. “I wish Owl Lane didn’t exist at all. It’s an eyesore. You don’t notice so much coming in, but when you leave, you can’t help but see all the junk. The homes are not kept up to the same level as the rest in the community. Some are let out and, well, tenants just don’t take the same pride in where they live, do they? Some of us have tried to get the owners to do something about the detracting aspect of Owl Lane, but most of it falls on deaf ears. The bikers chase off the petitioners. Big Bill’s the worst offender. He runs a motorcycle repair shop out of his garage in flagrant contravention of zoning regulations.”
Malcolm would no doubt have continued to vent had Rex not stopped him. Discussing petty feuds within the community might not be the most effective use of their time, he argued. And yet, the murder of four residents did speak to some form of vendetta. “If we could determine why the victims were killed, it would no doubt help us discover who did it,” he told Malcolm. “We need to learn more about the victims. Who else was or might still be on the police suspect list?” he asked. “Specifically people with a grudge.”
“Don’t know about a grudge,” Malcolm replied. “As far as I’m aware, Randy didn’t have issues with Ernest or the others about not getting paid, for instance. And I never heard any complaints about his work or stuff going missing, and he did a lot of repairs around the community. Anyway, nothing was reported stolen from the victims’ homes. The police questioned the postman, utility workers, all the delivery people coming into the community, people who had left suddenly after the event …”
“Were there any?”
“There were some who went to stay with friends or relatives until the perpetrator was caught. But no really suspicious absences that I know of.”
“Sounds like the police have been quite thorough.”
“They’re still questioning people in the community. Shall I make more tea?” Malcolm asked, lifting the earthenware pot. “This is almost empty and it must be stone cold by now.”
“Aye, why not?”
While Malcolm
“A solid alibi?” Rex asked regretfully. A handyman would know the victims’ floor plans and their routines, and would have ready access to the homes. He might even have had an opportunity to copy the door keys or else knew where spares were kept.
“Pretty solid. The day of the murders he was visiting his mother in Bedford, twenty-five minutes away, depending on traffic. The security cameras at the old people’s home recorded his coming and going. That’s what let him off the hook.”
Rex sat back in his chair, deep in thought for a moment. “A whole day is a long time to spend with a senile person. Unlikely they’d be alert the whole time. He could have slipped out a side door for a few hours. An hour to return to Notting Hamlet and back again, and an hour or so more to commit the murders. Aye,” he concluded, “it would take a bit of doing and a good deal of luck not to be spotted. But it’s feasible. What’s this handyman like?”
“Let’s see … mid-forties, a bit rough around the edges, with a swarthy complexion and blue eyes that some women swoon over. Rumour has it he and Valerie had something going on. Him being married with three kids made for juicy gossip.”
“Does he drive a bluish-green BMW?”
Malcolm barked out a laugh. “Hardly. He has an old van.”
“Where does he live?”
“On that row of homes down by the entrance.”
“Oh, so here in Notting Hamlet,” Rex said with interest.
Malcolm sighed in frustration. “I wish Owl Lane didn’t exist at all. It’s an eyesore. You don’t notice so much coming in, but when you leave, you can’t help but see all the junk. The homes are not kept up to the same level as the rest in the community. Some are let out and, well, tenants just don’t take the same pride in where they live, do they? Some of us have tried to get the owners to do something about the detracting aspect of Owl Lane, but most of it falls on deaf ears. The bikers chase off the petitioners. Big Bill’s the worst offender. He runs a motorcycle repair shop out of his garage in flagrant contravention of zoning regulations.”
Malcolm would no doubt have continued to vent had Rex not stopped him. Discussing petty feuds within the community might not be the most effective use of their time, he argued. And yet, the murder of four residents did speak to some form of vendetta. “If we could determine why the victims were killed, it would no doubt help us discover who did it,” he told Malcolm. “We need to learn more about the victims. Who else was or might still be on the police suspect list?” he asked. “Specifically people with a grudge.”
“Don’t know about a grudge,” Malcolm replied. “As far as I’m aware, Randy didn’t have issues with Ernest or the others about not getting paid, for instance. And I never heard any complaints about his work or stuff going missing, and he did a lot of repairs around the community. Anyway, nothing was reported stolen from the victims’ homes. The police questioned the postman, utility workers, all the delivery people coming into the community, people who had left suddenly after the event …”
“Were there any?”
“There were some who went to stay with friends or relatives until the perpetrator was caught. But no really suspicious absences that I know of.”
“Sounds like the police have been quite thorough.”
“They’re still questioning people in the community. Shall I make more tea?” Malcolm asked, lifting the earthenware pot. “This is almost empty and it must be stone cold by now.”
“Aye, why not?”
While Malcolm