Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor

you?”
    “I’m not sure yet, Lottie, but it’s more than I had before. Thanks again for indulging me in my little hobby.”
    “Oh, not at all! I’ll see if I can come up with any more titbits.”
    “You might want to contact DCI Cooper about what you told me.”
    “Oh, I don’t like him ! Very superior, that one. Do you suppose the couple have bad things to say about Chris Walker? Oh, I’m sure the police have already questioned everyone connected with him.”
    Rex never felt it safe to assume. With very little of his own to go on, he now had a line of inquiry, however tenuous. He warmly bid Lottie goodbye and replaced the handset on the old rotary phone.
    “What was all that about?” Malcolm asked, leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed.
    “A young couple were interested in Ernest Blackwell’s house. Lottie thought they might have something on Walker. She doesn’t know if the police are aware of them.”
    “You think the couple might have seen something?” Malcolm asked. “You’d think they would have come forward if they had.”
    “Perhaps they did. Grab your coat. We’re going for a walk.”
    “Where to?”
    “The other homes up for sale, to see if the owners showed their home to a young couple.”
    Malcolm made no effort to move. “But …”
    “It’s an angle worth exploring in the absence of anything else. Better take our umbrellas in case it decides to rain again.”
    Armed against the weather, the two men turned onto the shining- wet street, which was deserted, except for a man opposite Malcolm’s house vigorously sweeping under his covered front porch. This had been extended beyond the original plan and tiled. His bristled moustache, resembling the broom he was slamming from side to side, stood out from thirty yards away. He granted them a cordial wave and returned to his task, evidently keen to get on with it without interruption.
    “He lives next door to the late Vic Chandler,” Rex noted. “If he were less preoccupied, I’d go over and talk to him.”
    “That’s Jerry Macintyre, a retired Chief Fire Officer. He was with his wife at her sister’s in Bedford the day of the murders. They didn’t get back until after the police had arrived. I’ve spoken to everybody on Badger Court. Those who weren’t at work were inside because of the rain. Nobody saw anything.”
    “Or maybe didn’t know what they saw,” Rex commented, surveying the backdrop behind Vic Chandler’s old property. “There are a lot of birch and oak trees back there. The killer could have used those for cover. How did Mr. Macintyre get on with his neighbour?”
    “Fine, I think. Vic wasn’t a man of many words. ‘All right?’ was his customary form of greeting. He didn’t seek out anybody’s company. Do you think it would be okay to take down that horrendous white dish? Jerry and I were discussing it. He says he can get his hands on a ladder tall enough to reach the roof.”
    “No, Malcolm! That would constitute trespassing and vandalism, and you’re in enough trouble as it is. You don’t know who owns that property now, and they might not appreciate you removing the satellite dish.”
    Malcolm looked peeved. “He should never have put it up in the first place.”
    Without further discussion on the matter, they crossed the cul-de-sac and made their way down Fox Lane, stopping at the shuttered mock-Tudor house whence the scowling man had emerged earlier in the day. The barricaded aspect of the property and the bleakness of the bare garden rendered number 45 less than hospitable. Malcolm told Rex he would wait at the end of the driveway, where a For Sale sign advertised the services of Walker & Associates, as did all the available properties in Notting Hamlet, bar one.
    “Not a friendly man,” Malcolm said by way of excuse.
    “So you’re letting me go into the fray on my own?”
    “He may be more welcoming if you’re by yourself.”
    “He wasn’t last time. But it’s too cold to be