The Marlow Murder Club

by Robert Thorogood

  After a long moment, she shoved the key back down the neckline of her blouse. She had to keep herself busy, that was the answer. It was always the answer. So she went over to her dining table where she had an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. Yes, that would suit her much better, she decided. It was safe. Achievable. Just diverting enough but no more.

  The puzzle she’d been working on depicted a West Highland terrier in a tartan waistcoat standing in front of Edinburgh Castle, not that Judith liked West Highland terriers, and she was very sure she didn’t like West Highland terriers in tartan waistcoats. But she bought all of her jigsaw puzzles from the charity shops in Marlow and took them back once she’d completed them, so she’d just been grateful to find a puzzle she’d not done before.

  The task absorbed Judith all afternoon, but by 6 p.m. she realised she was feeling peckish. She’d recently been trying to shift a bit of weight, so she decided she’d have a poached egg on a single slice of toast for her tea. Then again, there was no way that one egg would ever be enough, so she had two eggs and plenty of butter on two slices of toast. And a few oven chips ‘to fill in the corners’ of her hunger, seeing as the rest of the meal was so healthy. And a nice cup of sweet tea and one of those super-tiny bars of speciality chocolate for her pudding, although she’d not been able to find one of the tiny bars when she’d done her weekly shop, so she’d bought herself a family size fruit-and-nut bar. Not that she’d finish it in one sitting, of course. It would easily last her the rest of the week.

  Judith was just finishing the last square of chocolate when the local news started on her TV, and she was thrilled to see that the murder in Marlow had top billing. Putting her lap tray to one side, she grabbed a sharpened pencil from her crossword table and a pad of graph paper. On it she was then able to record the basic details: the victim was a local taxi driver called Iqbal Kassam who had apparently been shot that morning, and the police were asking for witnesses to come forward. It wasn’t much, Judith thought, but then she saw a brief interview with a woman who was filmed leaving the property with a Dobermann on a lead.

  ‘I’m not allowed to talk to you,’ the woman announced to the camera, but Judith could also see that she was delighted by the attention she was getting and desperately wanted to spill the beans.

  ‘But are you a friend of Mr Kassam’s?’ the interviewer asked.

  ‘My lips are sealed. You won’t hear a peep from me. Although I’ll tell you this much. Whoever did this to Iqbal deserves stringing up from the nearest lamppost. Come on, Emma.’

  The woman walked off and Judith realised she recognised her. Not that she’d ever spoken to her before, but the woman often walked various dogs in the fields along the Thames Path that ran behind her house. She was a local dog walker, wasn’t she? And if she’d been visiting Mr Kassam’s house, then maybe she knew him well?

  Judith went over to her sideboard and poured herself a dash of whisky. An evening glass of whisky was a ritual Judith had picked up from her great aunt Betty when she’d first moved into the house to nurse her through her ill health. That’s how her great aunt would usher in every evening, with a splash of Scotch in a heavy cut-glass tumbler. It was medicinal, she’d say, going further and explaining that she’d never had a cold since she’d started taking a glass of whisky each evening. After Betty had died, Judith felt it only good manners to pour herself a small glass of Scotch each night. To honour her aunt. And anyway, what could be so bad about gently sipping barely an inch of something so organic and natural as Scotch?

  As Judith took her first warming sip, she decided on a plan of action. She needed to talk to this woman who knew Mr Kassam.

  Judith downed the rest of the whisky in one.

  And poured herself another. It helped her think.

  The following morning, Judith made herself a thermos of strong tea and some beetroot sandwiches that she wrapped in brown paper, then went for a walk along the Thames. The sun was already high in the sky, and she couldn’t help but feel uplifted. On her side of the river, cows cropped idly at the grass, and on the other, the land swept upwards to Winter Hill, a thickly wooded ridge that ran all the way between Marlow and the pretty village of Cookham. What Judith loved most about this particular walk was how there was always activity on the river. Whether it was a local school’s rowing eight scything at thrilling speed through the water; or a self-regarding older gent driving his motor launch like it was a Volvo estate; or maybe a feathery clutch of cygnets following their mummy in a line on the water.

  The pathway was similarly busy, with teenagers splashing in little coves that had been created by the cows’ nightly trips down to the river to drink; families on bicycle rides, everyone wearing sensible safety helmets; and every field always had its share of people letting their dogs off the lead so they could run wild.

  Judith had a favourite spot in the shade of a weeping willow, so she swished off her cape, laid it down and sat on it to wait with her tea and sandwiches. She’d not brought a book, or indeed any of her crossword work to be getting on with, as she knew she’d be busy enough taking in the scene. Within a few minutes, her focus had drifted until all she was aware of was the ticking of a grasshopper nearby, and the sun warming her body, seemingly right down to her bones. It was bliss.

  Judith’s reverie was broken by the arrival of a pack of dogs who were barking, tumbling over each other and generally running riot. Judith was thrilled to see the woman who’d been interviewed on the news after Mr Kassam’s death walking with the dogs. Just as she’d hoped.

  Now all she had to do was get up, which was easier said than done at her age. With a grunt, Judith used a tree root for purchase and levered herself up off the ground, her knees finally unlocking and allowing her to stand. Bloody hell, she thought to herself. If she had one piece of advice she’d give her younger self, it would be: don’t get old.

  Judith picked up her cape, flapped it to get rid of the loose grass, put it on, and headed over. As she got closer, Judith could see that the woman seemed to have a very solid quality to her. It was the way she stood with her feet so firmly planted to the ground, Judith thought to herself. Like a general surveying her troops. Or a captain standing at the bridge of an old schooner. Yes, Judith decided, that was it. With her wide-brimmed hat, heavy walking boots and criss-crossed dog leads around her body that she wore like bandoliers, the woman had a faintly nautical look. Piratical, even.

  ‘Good morning,’ Judith called out as she approached.

  ‘Good morning,’ Suzie said with a friendly smile. ‘I know you, you’re that woman who lives in that mansion along the river from here, aren’t you?’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘I’ve been walking past your house for years. If I’m honest, I’ve always wanted to see inside.’

  The woman chuckled at the thought, but Judith was baffled. What a strange thing to say to a complete stranger.

  ‘I’m Judith Potts.’

  ‘Suzie Harris.’

  The women lapsed into companionable silence, both of them watching the dogs run in and out of the river.

  ‘Lovely dogs,’ Judith said.

  ‘Aren’t they? You know where you are with dogs.’

  ‘I must confess I’m more of a cat person myself.’

  ‘Cats?’ Suzie said, in the same way that Captain Ahab might have said, ‘Whales?’ ‘Can’t say I agree with you there at all. They’re always judging you, cats.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Dogs aren’t like that. They’re loyal. They don’t let you down.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. Look, I hope you don’t mind me talking to you, but our meeting isn’t entirely accidental.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘I saw you on the TV last night. You knew that poor man who was shot, didn’t you?’

  ‘You mean Iqbal?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I knew him very well,’ Suzie said. ‘I saw him most days. Did you know him?’

  ‘Sadly not. But the thing i
s, I think my neighbour Stefan Dunwoody was murdered last week, and I’m trying to work out if Iqbal’s murder is related.’

  Suzie looked about herself to check they were on their own, which she already knew they were as they were the only two people in the field.

  ‘Are you for real?’ she whispered in delight.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re investigating your neighbour’s murder?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, I think you should go for it. Amazing. I love it.’

  With a broad smile, Suzie went back to looking at the dogs. They were dashing in and out of the river, and she smiled at the sight.

  Judith waited for Suzie to say more.

  She didn’t.

  ‘So do you think they could be?’ Judith asked again.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Could they be linked? The two murders?’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ Suzie said, remembering. ‘Sorry, I got distracted.’

  Suzie pulled out an old tin from a pouch on her belt, got out a pack of tobacco and some liquorice papers, and started rolling herself a cigarette.

  ‘I know. Why don’t you tell me everything? Go on.’

  Judith launched into the story of how she’d heard Stefan being shot, later found his body, and then worked out that Elliot Howard was a possible suspect, even though he had an alibi for the time of the murder.

  ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But you think Elliot Howard’s the killer?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I’ve lived here my whole life. I know everyone.’

  ‘Then what can you tell me about him?’

  ‘He’s very tall, isn’t he?’

  Judith agreed with this statement and then waited for Suzie’s next insight.

  ‘And he’s got all that lovely hair,’ she added after a bit more thought.

  This wasn’t exactly the deep background Judith had been looking for.

  ‘Do you remember the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him, now you mention it. But he lives in that new house up at the end of Gypsy Lane, I know that much. That’s something, isn’t it?’

  Judith tried not to let her frustration show.

  ‘Well, that’s very interesting. Can you tell me, do you have any idea why Iqbal might have been killed?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Is it possible he was up to no good?’

  Suzie picked a thread of tobacco from her teeth and flicked it away.

  ‘No way. Iqbal was as honest as they come. You see that dog in the river?’ Suzie nodded at Emma as she swam in the cooling waters. ‘She’s Iqbal’s Dobermann.’

  ‘He had a Dobermann?’ Judith asked, knowing the reputation of the breed.

  ‘I’m not having any of that. Dobermanns are the best. I mean, they’re guard dogs. They can be dangerous if you don’t introduce them to people properly. Or they think their owner is under threat. Or anyone they know for that matter. So yes, don’t get on the wrong side of a Dobermann pinscher or they’ll tear your arm off, and the females are more vicious than the males if you ask me, but Emma’s the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet.’

  Judith waited for Suzie to continue. She didn’t.

  ‘And Emma is Iqbal’s dog?’ Judith prompted.

  ‘Damned right she is,’ Suzie said, her engines firing up again. ‘But not originally. First of all she belonged to his neighbour, an old guy named Ezra. Ezra Harrington, I think. But Ezra got cancer last year, poor man. And he lived on his own. So if Ezra needed to go to the hospital, or pick up any medication, Iqbal took him in his taxi and never charged him. All out of the goodness of his heart. I mean, I wouldn’t have done it for any of my neighbours, and I’ve known them for years!’

  Judith smiled politely, not quite finding Suzie’s joke as funny as she did.

  ‘Anyway, things got bad for Ezra. He only had months left to live. Weeks. And he was in a panic because he didn’t know who’d look after his dog when he died. So Iqbal, who I can tell you, didn’t know the first thing about dogs, said he’d take Emma in. And that’s what he did. He took Emma in when Ezra died. This was last year. And anyone else would have got rid of Emma as soon as they could. That’s what I’d have done. But the way Iqbal put it to me, he’d made a promise to a dying man, he couldn’t break it. So, Emma became Iqbal’s dog. And seeing as Dobermanns needs a lot of exercise, he got me in every day to walk her. When Iqbal was asleep after working nights. And that’s all you need to know about Iqbal. There’s no way he could be mixed up in anything dodgy. He was nothing less than a saint.’

  ‘Even so, someone had reason to shoot him dead.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it had anything to do with Iqbal.’

  ‘It must have had something to do with him.’

  ‘That’s not how I see it. What I’m thinking is, he’s a taxi driver. He could have had some criminal in the back of his car and overheard something. Or seen something. And this criminal, whoever he was, realised Iqbal could put him in prison. Or whatever, I don’t know the details. So he heads over to Iqbal’s house and rubs him out.’

  Judith realised that, for all her bluster, Suzie had a point.

  ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. Maybe Iqbal saw something bad in his line of work. Although it rather begs the question, what on earth’s going on in Marlow that’s worth killing over?’

  Suzie chortled huskily, took one last drag on her cigarette and then threw it away.

  ‘Oh there’s plenty of wrongdoing going on. Don’t be fooled by the nice front gardens and smart cars.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’ve been a dog walker the best part of three decades, and I can tell you, people around here are wicked.’

  There was a finality to Suzie’s pronouncement that surprised Judith.

  ‘Emma, no!’ Suzie suddenly shouted, looking over as Emma the Dobermann started to chase down a Dachshund that was part of the group. Having caught the tiny dog, she grabbed it by the neck.

  ‘Put Arnold down!’ Suzie yelled, running towards the two dogs. ‘Sorry, got to go,’ Suzie called back to Judith as she ran after the Dobermann again. ‘Emma, no! Put Arnold down!’

  As soon as Suzie had left, Judith went over to the cigarette that she’d dropped and stepped on it to stop it from smouldering. With the sort of heatwave they’d been having, it could have started a grass fire.

  She then took a moment to consider what she’d learned and realised that it hadn’t been very much, although Suzie had been right about one thing. It was very possible that Iqbal had overheard or seen something in his taxi and that’s why he’d later been killed.

  Judith decided that she could do with a good think and a walk, so she carried on in the direction of Marlow. Passing through a couple of fields, she was soon in Higginson Park, where she briefly stopped to watch the children running around the playground like tiny hooligans. She loved their energy and joie de vivre.

  She then carried on past the church and entered a field on the other side of town. In the distance she saw a woman walking towards her. She was a good way away, but Judith could see that she had red hair a bit like the auburn-haired woman she’d seen in Stefan’s garden the day before. But then, as the woman got nearer, Judith realised something with a jolt.

  It wasn’t just someone who looked like the woman from Stefan’s garden, it was the same woman!

  Judith waved her arms and called, ‘Hello!’ across the field.

  The red-haired woman stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Hold on a second!’ Judith called and started striding towards her.

  The red-haired woman turned on her heels and ran out of the field.

  Judith started to run as well, but the other woman was much younger, and although Judith’s regime of swimming and cycling meant she was fit for her age, her legs weren’t very long, and the grass was high, so she struggled to close the distance on the wo
man before she’d clanged back out through the metal gate again.

  Judith reached the gate half a minute later, yanked it open and stepped into a little gravel car park. There were a dozen or so cars parked up, but where was the red-haired woman?

  A maroon-coloured car pulled out of a parking space with a squeal of tyres, and Judith caught a flash of bronze hair as the driver drove away at speed, the old car briefly backfiring as it belched fumes from the exhaust.

  Why had the woman run away from her a second time?

  But it wasn’t just that. There was something else as well. Now that she’d seen her at closer quarters, Judith knew that she recognised the woman. She’d spoken to her before. Or knew her from Marlow somehow. But she couldn’t place the memory. Where had they met?

  Judith racked her brain, but, to her frustration, the auburn-haired woman’s identity remained tantalisingly out of reach.

  Chapter 11

  At work the next morning, DS Malik was feeling deeply frustrated. The local press were giving extensive coverage to Iqbal’s murder, and she feared it would be only a matter of time before they found out that Stefan Dunwoody had also been murdered. As her Superintendent kept telling her, the clock was ticking.

  But DS Malik and her team couldn’t find a single person who might have had a motive to kill Iqbal Kassam. It was as the dog walker Suzie Harris had said. Iqbal was entirely blameless, or so it seemed. Their door-to-door enquiries also drew a blank. None of the people on his street remembered hearing a gunshot on the morning that Iqbal was killed, or saw anyone suspicious lurking nearby or entering or leaving Iqbal’s property. And yet, someone had got into his bungalow and shot him dead.

  DS Malik had briefly been excited when she’d discovered that Iqbal logged every taxi journey he’d made in an electronic diary. It was a complete list of customers, their contact details and times and dates. But as her team started contacting the people who’d used his services, all they heard was what a great guy Iqbal had been. He’d been upbeat, reliable and honest. What was more, there were a number of stories about how Iqbal was happy to go the extra mile, quite literally at times. And he didn’t always charge for a journey if the passenger was in extremis or didn’t have enough money.