Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor Page B

remarked, glancing across at his friend.
    “Well, some cases just stay with you. She was only in her mid-thirties, and for the two young ones to lose their mother in such a tragic way …”
    “What I’m thinking,” Rex said, pulling into the parking lot of the Sainsbury’s supermarket, “is that she must have rented or bought her house from someone. And that someone might just conceivably have been Chris Walker, especially as the home murder fits the modus operandi .”
    “Oh, yes, I see. I’ll find out, shall I? And I’ll dig into other cold cases around here, as well.”
    “Grand. Well, let’s get to it,” Rex said, stepping out of the car. Shopping was not high on his list of favourite activities, but another frozen dinner did not appeal any more than Malcolm’s nondescript brand of coffee.
    The two bachelors grabbed a cart and proceeded down the extensive aisles of packaged goods. It soon became apparent they employed radically different strategies for procuring items. Malcolm methodically rooted around the stacked shelves for the economically priced brands his late wife had preferred. “Jocelyn always got this,” he kept saying.
    Rex, who lived with his mother when not at his Highlands retreat, was not a savvy shopper and pretty much threw whatever he fancied into the cart, much to Malcolm’s growing dismay. Rex told his friend the groceries were on him and he didn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon at the store.
    “But you can’t pay for all this,” Malcolm said ogling the bottles of Sainsbury’s label wine, gourmet cold meats and cheeses, and pricey ready-prepared food.
    “Nonsense. My treat.”
    “But I invited you down, and you’re being kind enough to help me out.”
    “You paid for lunch. Now let’s get this stuff rung up so we can get oot of here.” Rex pushed off with the cart, leaving Malcolm to follow, uttering protestations.
    By the time they reached the parking lot, the afternoon had darkened to dusk and the lamps had come on, helping them circumvent the puddles. Above the diffused brightness of the lights, black clouds scudded across the sky, but failed to chase away the rain that had started again when the men were in the store. The ominous weather only seemed to portend more misfortune.
    The drive took longer on the way back to Notting Hamlet due to the rainfall. The lanes winding around the dripping hedgerows proved slippery and treacherous, and the car skidded a few times in the mud. The wipers sluiced the windshield while the downpour continued to shower the cottony landscape of flat fields and copses on either side of the road.
    “You said Handy Randy lived on Owl Lane?”
    “We’re not stopping there, are we?” Malcolm asked in shock.
    “Why not? He did work on all four victims’ homes. It’s a coincidence worth looking into.”
    “He’s worked on many homes in the Hamlet,” Malcolm countered. “He’s the resident handyman. And the police eliminated him from their inquiries.”
    “But he knew the victims. He may be able to provide some insight. And since we have decided to meddle in this case, for better or worse,” Rex said, looking over at Malcolm, “I think we should call on him. There’s no point in approaching this half-cocked.”
    “What about the shopping?”
    “It won’t spoil in the boot, will it? Not in this temperature.”
    Having run out of objections, Malcolm fell quiet. He seemed uneasy as they approached the ungated entrance to Notting Hamlet, shifting in his seat and sitting more upright. Rex felt sure, if his friend had been driving, he would not have turned onto Owl Lane.
    “Left or right?” Rex asked.
    “Left,” Malcolm said with obvious reluctance. “I really don’t feel safe on this street.” He stared out his window at the mock-Tudor homes, which were architecturally identical to those in the rest of the community, yet more neglected in appearance. Overturned trash bins and appliances discarded on the curb promoted the