Murder Comes Calling (14 page)

twenty

Preoccupied by intermingling thoughts
of the case and of his fiancée, now on the second full day of her cruise, Rex exited off the A1 onto the A421 towards Bedford, thereafter planning to get onto the M1 to Luton. He had little trouble finding the nursing home, whose website had given directions to a street on the outskirts of Bedford. Even though Rex did not expect to learn much, except perhaps to verify the driving distance between Notting Hamlet and Sunnyvale, it was only a minor detour, and any lead, even those eliminated by the police, was worth checking out, in his estimation.

The street housed large residences of the pre-war era surrounded by generous grounds, for the most part walled in and containing an array of mature native trees. Such was the case with Sunnyvale, which had, in addition, two modern annexes extending from either side of the main structure. Built in brick with a pebbledash upper floor punctuated with large white-framed bay windows, its front overlooked a courtyard.

Crossing the redbrick pavers arranged in a herringbone pattern around flowerbeds and wooden benches, Rex reached the main entrance, a glass doorway wide enough to accommodate wheelchairs for the old and infirm.

As soon as he walked inside, an odour of disinfectant overlaying that of catheters assailed him, much as an obvious attempt had been made with the decor and furnishings to conceal the institutional nature of Sunnyvale and to preserve the illusion of a large, comfortable home.

“Good morning. May I assist you?” demanded a young woman in a powder blue uniform dress.

“I’ve come to visit Mrs. Gomez.” Rex was banking on the fact that Randall’s mother shared the same surname. In any case, there could not be more than twenty beds in the home, and she could be located easily enough.

“I’ll take you to Matron. Please come with me.”

Passing an old man holding onto a walking frame, Rex followed her down a short, carpeted corridor off the lobby to a door bearing the name “Barbara Henshaw, RGN.”

“A visitor for Marta,” the nursing assistant told the stout woman in starched white seated behind a well-organized mahogany desk. The matron thanked her and she left.

“Please.” In a forthright and pleasant manner, Barbara Henshaw indicated one of two armchairs in front of her desk. An online photo of the owner of Sunnyvale had faithfully represented her abundance of stiff grey hair and cherubic cheeks.

“Rex Graves,” he introduced himself.

“Marta is at the hospital this morning. Nothing serious,” the matron hastened to add. “Some routine tests. Have you come far?”

“From Notting Hamlet. I’m acquainted with her son, Randall Gomez.”

“I’m afraid she won’t be back for at least another hour. Would you care to wait?”

“Unfortunately I have an appointment in Luton. How is she?”

“Her moments of lucidity are becoming few and far between,” the matron replied matter-of-factly. “She’s extremely frail and dependent on staff for most of her care.” Barbara Henshaw opened a file. “Randall made sure his mother was assigned one of our very best rooms. It has a lovely view over the pond at the back. She spends much of her time at the window.”

Rex noticed a brochure in the folder. “Marbella,” he said in surprise.

“She owns a timeshare there. Randall says he might have found a buyer. This was a month ago and the next bill for his mother’s care is due. Are you related at all?” The matron looked at Rex in his nice overcoat as though she would have liked to ask him to foot the expense.

“No, just a casual acquaintance.”

She sighed. “I don’t suppose a timeshare in Marbella appeals?” she asked with a coy smile.

“I’m not one for hot weather,” Rex demurred.

“You may change your mind when you’re old and feel the cold more. Randall said the condo was a very sound investment.”

Rex refrained from suggesting she consider it for herself. “Och, well, perhaps I can come back,” he said, rising from his chair. “When is the best time to visit?”

“Mornings generally. Marta sleeps away most of the afternoon.” Barbara Henshaw stood and reached across the desk to shake hands. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Graves. I’ll tell Marta you came. Don’t forget to sign our visitors’ book.”

Rex found it in the lobby and did so in his most illegible scrawl. As he was moving away from the table, he noticed an old woman bundled in a wheelchair, drooling with a vacant stare, her face as pale and crepey as parchment. The girl in blue came to whisk her away wordlessly to one of the annexes.

Heartsick at the prospect of one day putting his aging mother in a home, Rex was glad to regain the fresh air of the deserted courtyard. His brief visit had, however, served some purpose. Marta Gomez might not have been alert enough to notice her son’s disappearance, nor might the staff, judging by the lack of activity in the lobby, especially if the patient’s room was upstairs and at the back—where there might well be a service entrance, as was typical in these old homes. Rex walked around one of the wings and found there was, and that it was locked from the outside.

Of equal interest was the timeshare brochure. He pondered this discovery as he retrieved his car and started on the route that would take him to the M1. This might be a duplicate of the brochure found on Ernest Blackwell’s corpse. Randall Gomez had been the deceased’s handyman. Had Ernest, the old Kev, been planning to move to Marbella? The Costa del Sol was overrun by retired Brits. It was the Florida of Spain, from what Rex had seen of the state. He supposed Marbella was as good a place as any to hide out, and certainly warmer than Bedfordshire.

Roadworks near Cranfield caused a disruption in the flow of traffic, but he had allowed plenty of time, and once on the motorway he encountered no further delays. By 11:15, he was on Reginald Road looking out for Penworth Press, and spotted the large brass plaque a split second before he passed it. Turning sharply, he found a fortuitous parking spot outside the building and gathered his briefcase and phone. Seeing that Malcolm had called, and with fifteen minutes to spare before his appointment with Ken Penworth, he returned the call, thinking it must be important if his friend was trying to reach him. Malcolm was not the sort of person to phone for an idle chat.

“Where are you?” his friend asked.

“Outside Penworth Press, a respectable-looking establishment in lovely Luton.”

“Did you visit the nursing home?”

“Aye, but Marta Gomez wasn’t there. I spoke to the matron. From what I gathered, it’s quite possible the son returned to Notting Hamlet undetected. But I think Randall’s intentions were more amorous than murderous, and when he found Valerie Trotter wasn’t home, returned to his mother’s bedside. There was a brochure in her file featuring a timeshare in Marbella, such as you found tucked inside Ernest Blackwell’s waistband.”

“A Spanish connection, eh? But what about the Russian connection? Isn’t this fun? International espionage!”

“Hopefully my meeting with this editor will help clarify a few things. What’s happening at your end?”

“I was filling in my job application. The reason I called is Lottie phoned with further news about the poisoning.”

“Poisoning?”

“The loud dog at forty-seven.”

Rex had almost forgotten about that particular situation. “Do we know who did it?”

“As good as. The vet found thallium nitrate in the poor mutt. Perhaps there was excess shedding that alerted him to it. It’s a lethal drug a chemistry teacher would have no difficulty administering in the appropriate dose to quieten the dog forever. Could’ve put it in its water bowl, since it’s colourless, odourless, and tasteless.”

“But would Mr. Woods have ready access to thallium nitrate?”

“Perhaps he used it in school experiments. Who knows? Anyway, might be something or nothing, to quote Lottie. I wanted to let you know in case it had any bearing in your investigation. Oh, that’s the door. I’d better get it. Good luck with Penworth.” Malcolm cut the connection.

Rex compared the time on both dashboard and phone and got out of the car. A jetliner soared overhead in the cloudy grey sky, temporarily eclipsing the sound of traffic, and he thought wistfully of Helen on her eight-day cruise. He climbed the polished stone steps leading into the premises of Penworth Press, where the receptionist phoned through to the grandson of the founder of the publishing house, the editor he was due to meet. Hopefully, he would get the answers he needed.

twenty-one

“Thank you for fitting
me in at such short notice,” Rex said upon being introduced to Ken Penworth in his narrow, book-crammed office on the second floor.

“My pleasure. What you said on the phone was most intriguing.” Mr. Penworth looked older than his voice, which was high-pitched and eager, and moreover, did not match his obese frame. “Let me take your coat. Do sit yourself down. I believe you mentioned you were a Scottish advocate?” Settling into his executive chair, he beamed at Rex.

Rex acknowledged he was and provided enough inside information about the Notting Hamlet murders and John Calpin’s visit to the community to be viewed as a credible source. “Did you know Mr. Calpin had visited Notting Hamlet?” he asked the editor.

“Not specifically. He said he’d tracked the Cruikshank gang to somewhere in Bedfordshire. How, I don’t know. But your account of how he told the resident he was seeking his birth mother shows just how resourceful a journalist he was. John had a good nose. I was waiting on the next batch of pages concerning the gang’s new identities, which he’d promised to send me the week he disappeared. His laptop is presumably sitting in some lab in Glasgow now, and those crucial pages with it.”

Rex thought it probable there was little, if anything, left of a computer, let alone its files, judging by what had happened to its owner. All research into the Russian gang would likely have been destroyed along with John Calpin.

“It’s all very frustrating,” the editor went on. “But perhaps you can help fill in the gaps.”

“I’ve brought my notes. I’m afraid they’re in longhand. I’ll be giving the police a set too, of course.”

“Of course,” Ken Penworth said, glancing at Rex’s briefcase as though he wanted to eat it. “What is it you’d like to know from me?” he pre-empted. “I assume that’s why you’re here. Unless you’re looking for a book deal?” he asked with an unctuous smile.

“Heavens, no. I’m just looking for some answers. Well, confirmation, really. A friend of mine who lives in Notting Hamlet asked me to look into the case. My focus was on those murders before I ever heard of John Calpin.”

The editor tapped his desk decisively. “I knew your name seemed familiar! I remember now. The Christmas murders in Sussex?”

“At Swanmere Manor.”

“That’s right! Fascinating.” Ken Penworth buzzed an assistant and said to hold his calls for an hour. “And send up sandwiches and coffee for two. Ham and cheese?” he asked Rex, who nodded and thanked him. The editor repeated the order into the intercom and released the button.

While waiting for lunch, the two men discussed the two current cases, merging and meshing information. Rex outlined his theory about how the Cruikshank twins had retired with Kev’s daughter to the secluded community of Notting Hamlet on their ill-gotten gains, bringing their minder with them. Kev’s wife, he’d discovered in the course of his research, had died of natural causes. A second daughter had disassociated herself from the family and married a house painter. The felonious members of the gang had buried their old identities and forged new ones. “John was on to them long before I was,” Rex concluded.

“I’d heard on the news about the Notting Hamlet murders, of course,” Ken Penworth said. “But I never made the connection to John’s work. But then I’m no detective,” he added with a fatuous smile. “And all four identities can be confirmed?”

“Almost certainly. Face recognition software might help confirm Valerie’s true identity failing all else. A comparison between an old newspaper photograph of Sylvia Cruikshank and a more recent one of Valerie Trotter shows a passing resemblance at best. She changed her hair colour and bust size, and did away with her glasses. But Valerie was working as a bookkeeper, Sylvia’s old job. I doubt the police found any evidence of their old identities in their homes. It appears they were very careful.”

No doubt they had forged passports to go with their assumed names, Rex thought, suspecting that Kev, at least, had been planning to use his to move to Spain. Randall Gomez might know more about that.

The editor nodded periodically as he jotted down notes. “This is likely what would have been in the instalment I was waiting for from John. I imagine his killer cottoned on to what he was doing and decided to stop him before he spilled the beans.”

“And to stop anybody else who got a similar idea, judging by the mutilation of his body. It was clearly a warning to other journalists, a blatant threat if ever I saw one. And I’ve seen a few in the course of my legal career.”

“Against yourself ?”

“Fortunately, no. At least, nothing major. Not yet.”

A bespectacled young man brought in their cellophane-wrapped sandwiches and bistro containers of coffee. Ken Penworth cleared a space on the desk and stuck a paper napkin into his collar, covering the top half of his saffron yellow tie. Rex felt he had divulged adequate information on his side. What he sought, he told the editor once the assistant had left, was background information on the rival Russian gang and what might have prompted the murders at Notting Hamlet after an intervening period of almost two decades.

Penworth poured a sachet of sugar into his cup. “I suppose we should go back to just before the Cruikshanks and their enforcer disappeared, as we all thought, to Australia. If the Russian gang was simply putting a frightener on them by posting that firebomb through the letter box, the Cruikshanks took it seriously and retaliated by murdering four members of the Dragunov family, including Ivan’s eldest son. The twins, accused of masterminding the attack, were never convicted, due to insufficient evidence and intimidation of witnesses, but they must have realized their days were numbered if they didn’t vanish, and soon. The nephew, Darrell Cruikshank, had already been put away. If the law didn’t catch up with them one day, they knew the MIR gang would. John lays it all out in his book.”

Rex, who had been chewing on his sandwich, was thrilled to hear the editor name the gang. He pronounced it as the Russians would, with a prolonged “e” in the middle. Rex hadn’t told Ken Penworth about the letters written in blood on the Notting Hamlet victims, and perhaps even on John Calpin’s forehead. “I read there was a Russian outfit operating by that name,” he told Penworth, “but I didn’t yet know about the murder of the Dragunov family members by the Cruikshank gang. So Ivan the Terrible was searching for them all this time?”

“It’s a question of honour,” Ken Penworth explained. “Gang retribution has no statute of limitations. You don’t leave a wrong committed against your family un-righted, especially your immediate family, however long ago it happened. Ivan lost a brother, two nephews, and a son who would have been his successor.”

“An eye for an eye,” Rex said and took a gulp of coffee. “Four hits for four murders. How did the Russians die? And who were they?”

“They were originally from the Moscow suburbs. But some of Ivan’s distant relatives live in Eastern Ukraine. A bomb was placed in the undercarriage of the family Mercedes while they were attending a Russian Orthodox wedding in London. Ivan, his wife, and the younger children were travelling in a separate vehicle. The bomb was thought to have been made and planted by Fred the Spanner. He learnt about explosives in the army. The bomb blew the Mercedes to smithereens the moment the ignition was turned. Nobody got out alive and several people standing close by were injured. It was a very thorough job. John described the whole scene. He had a deft way of fictionalizing fact that brought the pages alive. The book is a gripping read from start to finish.”

“So it’s pretty much completed?” Rex asked.

“Almost. He was doing some more fact-checking, and much of the manuscript reads like a first draft, but that’s what editors are for,” Mr. Penworth said with smug satisfaction. “It will end up being a more relevant story now, showing the MIR gang is still a force to be reckoned with. The information you provided will tie it up nicely. We shall, of course, list you in the acknowledgments. And perhaps we can come to some financial arrangement? After all, without you, we might never have discovered where precisely the Cruikshank gang ended their days and who murdered them and John.”

Rex raised his hands, pushing out with his palms. “Thanks, but no.” He didn’t want to profit from the journalist’s untimely death. “I’d rather keep my anonymity,” he told the editor. “And not become a target myself.”

“I understand.” Ken Penworth proceeded to look aggrieved. “Yes, it’s a shame to have to publish the work posthumously, but it’s what John would have wished. He wouldn’t have wanted to die in vain.”

The two men tied up loose ends over the rest of lunch. Ken Penworth dabbed at his mouth with his paper bib and removed it from his collar. He buzzed in his assistant and gave him Rex’s notes to photocopy, assuring the Scotsman that none of the information would be leaked before Rex had time to take it to the police and have it confirmed. Rex did not know if they had yet connected the Notting Hamlet murders to the MIR gang and back to Calpin’s abduction and killing.

In exchange, Penworth printed off from his computer the chapters from John Calpin’s book relevant to Rex’s investigation, with a reminder that the material was copyrighted. Documents were signed and the business concluded. Rex had obtained what he had come for, and Penworth Press now possessed the missing pieces to make
Baddest British Mobsters
whole.

“I’ll have to summon my ghost-writing skills,” the editor joked. “Unless the police send over the rest of the manuscript before the book goes to print. In any case, fear not—I won’t divulge my source.”

Reassured on that point, Rex left the publishing house and set out on his return trip to Notting Hamlet, making a brief stop for gas before he got on the M1. It was from that point he began to notice a black Jaguar in his rear view mirror and fear he might be being followed.