Free Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor

much transition in the community. No new blood, as Malcolm had put it.
    “You mentioned some undesirable people in Notting Hamlet,” Rex said, reaching for his Guinness. “I want to get as complete a picture as I can of the community.”
    “Yes, along Owl Lane, running parallel to Notting Hamlet Road. Three of the houses have a least one motorcycle. The owners are always tinkering with them, parts and accessories littering the driveways. Quite unsightly, really. As are the owners.”
    “How do you mean, exactly?” asked Rex, who had a soft spot for bikers since being involved in a murder investigation in Key West.
    Malcolm shook his head censoriously. “Scraggly hair, tattoos, which are mostly covered up in this weather, mercifully. Some of the designs are downright offensive. And most of them don’t look like they’ve bathed in weeks,” he muttered in distaste. “They drink beer in one or other of their driveways or in the garage when it’s raining and jeer at the passers-by.”
    Rex listened to Malcolm’s tirade with mild amusement while he finished the remnants of his pie. “Lowers the tone,” he remarked with a sardonic smile.
    “Too right it does! You have to go through the street to get in and out. No avoiding it. I suppose it’s a blessing they’re down by the entrance where most of us can’t hear them revving their engines, but sometimes they swarm around the neighbourhood on their rigs, scaring the living daylight out of the residents.”
    “Do these people work?” Rex asked.
    Malcolm almost choked on his bitter. “Not that you’d notice. Most of them aren’t gainfully employed. I suspect they deal. Weed,” he whispered, his eyes swivelling around the lounge, although the only clientele sat at the bar and at one of the end booths. “Don’t mention to anyone I told you this,” he said nervously. “I don’t want to end up dead.”
    “You mean, like Ernest Blackwell and the others?”
    Malcolm stared at him. “You know, I never seriously considered them in connection with the murders.”
    “Why not?”
    Malcolm scratched the back of his grey head. “Garrotting, carbon monoxide poisoning, electrocution …”
    “Quite the repertoire, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, indeed. Sort of sophisticated in a macabre sort of way. And no prints.”
    “You don’t associate that level of professionalism with your biker friends?”
    Malcolm shook his head, hesitantly at first, then more vigorously. “No, I just can’t see it. Except for the bludgeoning.”
    “But if they tinker all day long with their bikes, they’re probably pretty handy in all sorts of ways.”
    “I suppose.”
    The server came by to sweep up their empty plates and asked if they wanted dessert. Upon Malcolm’s request, she listed the puddings. Rex, resolved to order only a coffee, felt his willpower give way at the mention of treacle tart.
    “And I’ll have the banana split,” Malcolm ordered. “Everything is homemade here,” he told Rex, as though in justification of their lack of self-discipline.
    “Who would the bikers sell to?” Rex asked when the young girl had left their table. “Not to a community of retirees, surely?”
    Malcolm thought for a moment. “They may have customers within the community or else further afield. I don’t know everybody in the Hamlet. There are about a hundred and fifty residents, not all of them retired. And then there are the outlying villages and Godminton.” He gave Rex an overview of the area.
    “Aye, it’s isolated enough around here for them to grow their product under minimum security.”
    “Until the police swooped in to investigate the murders,” Malcolm pointed out. He coughed in warning as the server approached and placed their desserts before them.
    “Thanks, lass,” Rex said, looking in appreciation at the gooey treacle on pastry and the small jug of custard.
    “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Malcolm said, staring after her before tucking into his