The Marlow Murder Club

by Robert Thorogood

  Financial checks painted a similar picture of probity and hard work. Iqbal declared all his earnings, wasn’t a big spender, had no credit card or store card debt, and he even gave 10 per cent of his income to charity. Despite this generosity, he lived so modestly that when he died he had nearly £23,000 in his bank account. Apparently Iqbal had been saving to buy a boat to keep on the Thames at Marlow. He’d been well on the way to that dream when he’d died.

  As for the autopsy, the preliminary results showed he’d had no alcohol in his system when he’d died, although there’d been significant traces of Diphenazine, the brand of sleeping pills they’d found in Iqbal’s bedroom. However, the dosage was well within safe limits. As far as the forensic toxicologist was concerned, it would have been enough to make Iqbal woozy but no more. Nonetheless, as it was a prescription drug, DS Malik rang Iqbal’s GP, who confirmed that Mr Kassam had asked for help with sleeping the year before. He’d been working a lot of nights and he was struggling to sleep during the day.

  This information gave DS Malik pause. After all, there’d been no break-in before the murder, or signs of a struggle for that matter. So, the fact that Iqbal was shot in bed while drugged on sleeping pills made it very unlikely that he’d got up to let the killer in.

  This theory was given further credence by the pathologist’s assertion that Iqbal had died between 5 and 6 a.m. This fitted with Iqbal’s diary, which showed that he’d been working until 3 a.m. on the night of his death. It seemed most likely that he’d come off shift at 3 a.m., got home, gone to bed, found he couldn’t sleep and taken a dose of sleeping pills to help him on his way. Then the killer had let himself into Iqbal’s house with a spare key and killed him sometime between 5 and 6 a.m.

  But if the killer had a spare key, then that suggested that Iqbal had considered him a close and trusted friend. After all, Iqbal hadn’t been prepared to give a spare key to his dog walker.

  But no matter how hard DS Malik and her team hunted, there was nothing in Iqbal’s diary, emails, phone and financial records or more general correspondence that suggested he had any regular friends. In fact, DS Malik and her team struggled to find anyone who knew him at all. As Suzie had told them, Iqbal was an only child and his parents had died many years ago.

  There were only two meaningful leads.

  Firstly there was the bronze medallion with the word ‘Hope’ written on it that they’d found in Iqbal’s mouth. It had no fingerprints on it. Just as the medallion they’d found attached to Stefan’s coat had had no fingerprints on it when they’d tested it.

  But the medallions were clearly part of the same set. The bronze had burnished with age to the same patina, the leaves carved into the edges were similar, and the script used for the words ‘Faith’ and ‘Hope’ was identical.

  Secondly, if the medallions suggested the two deaths were linked, the ballistics report removed all doubt. The bullet that killed Iqbal had been fired by the same gun that had been used to kill Stefan.

  A Second World War German Luger pistol.

  It made no sense to DS Malik. Why would someone want to kill an art dealer and then a taxi driver? And where could the killer have even got an antique German Luger from? It was as she asked herself this question that DS Malik once again noticed that there was a person involved in the case who might know the answer.

  ‘You want to know how to get hold of an antique pistol?’ Elliot Howard said once DS Malik had explained why she was phoning him. ‘What a peculiar question.’

  ‘Are they easy to get hold of?’

  ‘It depends. There’s certainly a trade in old weaponry, from halberds, maces and so on through to more recent memorabilia. But can I ask, do you mean a decommissioned pistol? One that’s had its firing mechanism removed? After all, it’s only legal to sell antique guns that have been decommissioned.’

  DS Malik could hear an easeful glide in Elliot’s voice, and she found herself wondering if Judith had been right. Was he enjoying himself?

  ‘Do you sell such weapons?’ she asked.

  ‘We have a military memorabilia auction twice a year.’

  ‘And all of your weapons have been decommissioned.’

  ‘Of course. Or they wouldn’t be legal.’

  ‘Is it possible you’ve ever sold an antique pistol that hadn’t been decommissioned? By mistake?’

  ‘Impossible. We have a military expert who checks all the lots thoroughly before we put them up for auction. If we’re ever offered a working pistol, we refuse to have anything to do with it and report it to the police. But why are you asking me about decommissioned pistols?’

  ‘Because we’ve discovered evidence of one that hasn’t been decommissioned.’

  ‘Then I can tell you, it didn’t pass through my auction house.’

  ‘So where could it have come from?’

  ‘Online, I’d imagine. There’s a whole black market out there for historical weaponry. Mostly driven by re-enactors and fantasists, in my opinion. But you can buy functional antique pistols if you look hard enough, and there are plenty of people who offer advice on how to recommission old guns. So I imagine there’s any number of ways of getting hold of a working antique pistol if you try hard enough.’

  ‘I see. Then can I ask you something else?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Elliot said. ‘Always happy to help the police.’

  ‘If I said “faith” and “hope” to you, what would say?’

  ‘Well, “charity”, as I’m sure anyone would.’

  ‘And does that phrase mean anything to you?’

  ‘“Faith, hope and charity”? It’s a saying, isn’t it? From the bible, I suppose. I can’t say it has any special meaning for me.’

  ‘It’s from the first book of Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse thirteen. But “Faith, hope and charity” is the old-fashioned translation of the text from the King James Bible. In modern versions, the phrase is “Faith, hope and love”.’

  ‘Is it indeed? You learn something new every day. Now is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘One last question. Could you tell me where you were yesterday morning between five and six a.m.?’

  ‘Where was I between five and six yesterday morning?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘If you could just answer the question.’

  ‘I was in the same place I always am between those hours. I was in bed. Fast asleep.’

  ‘Have you any way of proving that?’

  ‘That I was asleep? You could ask my wife, Daisy, but I imagine she was asleep as well.’

  ‘So you can’t prove you were in bed?’

  ‘Of course not, any more than I’m sure you can. I, like you, and pretty much everyone else in this country, was asleep in my bed between five and six yesterday morning. Now, are we done?’

  DS Malik was pleased to hear an edge of irritation finally enter Elliot’s voice, so she agreed that they were indeed done, thanked him for his time and hung up, and took a moment to replay the conversation in her head. Once again Elliot had seemed mostly unfazed by her line of questioning, but there was one thing she felt was significant. When she’d asked for his whereabouts between 5 and 6 a.m. on the morning that Iqbal had been murdered, he’d given his answer without asking why she wanted to know. In DS Malik’s experience, nearly everyone when asked for their movements at certain times responded by asking why the police wanted to know. It was simple human nature. They were curious. But Elliot hadn’t been.

  And yet DS Malik knew it was all very well thinking that Elliot’s manner was suspicious, but the truth was she and her team hadn’t been able to find any reference to Elliot Howard anywhere in Iqbal’s life. There were no phone calls. No emails. No texts. No taxi rides. And without any kind of evidence, she couldn’t possibly spare the resources to investigate him further.

  DS Malik checked her watch. Back home, she knew her husband would be sitting on the sofa, snuggling with their gorgeous dau
ghter watching movies. The washing up from tea would still be in the sink, the piles of dirty clothes she’d separated out into piles of whites, darks and mixed would still be sitting on the upstairs landing, and no homework would have been done or packed lunches prepared for tomorrow. She’d have to do all that when she got back. She’d also agreed to pop in on her dad on the way home. He’d phoned earlier to remind her that his boiler was broken, and what sort of daughter would let an old man not have hot water to wash in?

  With a start, DS Malik realised a constable had entered her office.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Drifted off there. What have you got?’

  ‘I’ve had a call from the Daily Mirror. They’re saying they know that Iqbal’s the killer’s second victim, the first was Stefan Dunwoody.’

  DS Malik sighed. She’d hoped she’d have a few more days before the national press got involved.

  ‘Did they mention anything about German Lugers or bronze medallions?’

  ‘Not in their call to me.’

  ‘Then we can be thankful for that. What did you tell them?’

  ‘The usual. I wouldn’t talk to anyone about an ongoing investigation, and if they had any questions they should direct them to the Press Office.’

  Tanika’s phone started ringing. It was the press officer for the Thames Valley police. She steeled herself as she answered the call.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 12

  Judith was sitting in her favourite wingback chair nursing a small glass of whisky when the doorbell rang. She tutted to herself. The whole point of living on your own was that you didn’t have to share your home with anyone.

  Judith went to her front door, opened it and was surprised to see Becks Starling, the vicar’s wife, standing there.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you?’ Becks said.

  ‘No, of course not, but how did you know where I live?’

  ‘Everyone knows where you live.’

  Judith harrumphed. First, that Suzie woman had claimed to know where she lived, and now it turned out that another complete stranger knew as well. People in Marlow were so nosy!

  ‘And I know I shouldn’t have come around,’ Becks continued. ‘Particularly so late in the day, but I wanted to speak to you, and we had drinks after evensong tonight, and then I had to do dinner for the family. And the washing up. This is the first chance I’ve had to get away all day.’

  ‘Is it to do with Elliot Howard?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then you’d better come in,’ Judith said, stepping to one side.

  As Becks entered the house, Judith paused briefly on the threshold. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d voluntarily invited someone into her house. What surprised her was how natural it felt. How easy it had been. Life was full of surprises, she thought to herself.

  As for Becks, once she was inside, she couldn’t help but be impressed by the faded grandeur of the house, from the grand piano in the oak-panelled hallway to the ancient oil paintings on the walls. But she also noticed that the air was thick with dust; piles of old newspapers and magazines covered just about every surface; crockery and empty glasses littered side tables and windowsills; and, most surprisingly of all, it appeared as though a grey bra was hanging from the shade of an old standard lamp.

  Becks sneezed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, whipping out a fresh hankie from her sleeve. ‘I’ve got a bit of an allergy to dust. Actually, I’m really quite allergic to it.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t last a minute in this house,’ Judith said with a complete lack of embarrassment. ‘Would you like a whisky?’

  ‘A whisky?’

  ‘Yes. Whisky.’

  ‘You don’t have a cup of tea, do you? Herbal preferably?’ Becks added hopefully. ‘It is quite late.’

  Judith pulled a face at the thought.

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter,’ Becks said. ‘I only wanted to tell you what I’d found out about Elliot Howard.’

  ‘Of course,’ Judith said, happy finally to be getting down to the meat of the conversation. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘You see, I posted on a local online forum. Asking people if Elliot could be trusted.’

  ‘That was rather courageous of you,’ Judith said. ‘Going public like that. As the vicar’s wife.’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t use my real name. I used an alias. And I didn’t check it for a few days. I forgot I’d even done it, if I’m honest. Then, today, I remembered the post and went to see what people had said.’

  Becks handed her phone over and Judith tried to read the screen.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t read this without my reading glasses,’ she said, handing it back.

  ‘Well, there aren’t that many comments, but they’re mostly complimentary.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘It turns out Elliot’s well-liked and trusted. Although one person isn’t very complimentary about his wife, Daisy. She’s apparently the real power behind the throne. And ruthless when it comes to doing deals. She’s tight-fisted where Elliot is generous.’

  ‘I’ve met her,’ Judith said, ‘and that’s not how she came across to me. But I suppose I wasn’t trying to buy or sell anything.’

  ‘However, the real reason why I wanted to see you isn’t because of Elliot. You see, someone mentions Stefan here. Your neighbour. The one you told me had been murdered.’

  ‘They do?’ Judith asked eagerly.

  ‘And it’s not flattering. Let me get it up. It’s a comment from someone called “John Wayne’s Horse”. No idea why anyone would call themselves that, but anyway.’

  Becks scrolled through the replies until she found the one she was looking for.

  ‘Here, let me read it to you. It says, “Elliot’s a good guy. Which is more than his dad was. He was a real crook. Him and Stefan Dunwoody together.”’

  ‘It says Stefan was a crook?’

  ‘It goes on. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, seeing as he’s only just died, but I used to work at the auction house back in the day and Elliot’s dad and Stefan had the place stitched up. It was scam after scam, I’m amazed they didn’t end up prison. And I can tell you, things only changed when Elliot took over and started to clean the place up.”’

  Judith was stunned. Stefan was a crook? Just like Elliot had told her?

  She began to consider an impossible thought: despite his off-putting manner, had she got everything the wrong way round about Elliot Howard?

  Both at the same time, the women heard the sound of glass smashing in the distance.

  Becks and Judith looked at the bay window, the direction the sound had come from.

  ‘What was that?’ Becks said.

  ‘Shh!’ Judith said as she went to look through the glass. All she could see were the dim shapes of shrubs and trees, and the river shining pewter in the gathering dusk. But then her eye caught a flicker of light upstream on the other side of the river.

  ‘Do you see that?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘In the direction of Stefan’s house.’

  Judith pointed, and this time they both saw it, a stab of light behind a window. There was a torch moving inside Stefan’s house.

  ‘There’s someone in there!’ Becks said in surprise. ‘You don’t think it’s a robber, do you?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Judith said, heading to the door. ‘You call the police. Ask for DS Malik. And tell her there’s a break-in at Stefan Dunwoody’s house.’

  ‘What? Who? Where are you going?’

  ‘To his house, of course,’ Judith said, throwing on her cape and swishing out of the door. ‘We have to find out who that is!’

  Chapter 13

  Before Becks had even finished her phone call to the police, Judith had released her punt and once again thrust her way upstream to Stefan’s house. Leaving the boat embedded in the reeds, she stepped up onto the grass. If she’d stopped to consider what she was doing
for even one second, she’d have realised she was potentially putting herself in grave danger, but all she could think was that she’d allowed the killer to get away once, and she wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  As she strode through the darkness towards the old watermill, she kept to the grass verge so her feet didn’t crunch on the gravel, and again she saw the torchlight swing in a downstairs room.

  Approaching the back entrance, Judith barely paused as she saw that the lock had been jemmied off, the doorframe a mess of ripped wood, the door ajar. And nor did she break step as she pushed through into a stone-flagged hallway and turned in the direction of the room where she’d seen the torchlight.

  ‘Hey!’ she called out as soon as she entered.

  She could just make out a figure at the other end of the dark room.

  ‘I said “Hey”! Who goes there?’

  The person was dressed in black, and their head was ominously covered in a black balaclava. Whoever it was turned on their torch again and swung the beam so it dazzled her eyes.

  ‘Turn that thing off!’ Judith said.

  The intruder threw their torch at her, the beam of light spinning wildly as the heavy object flew straight for her head. Judith managed to drop to the floor before she was hit, a scream of pain shooting up her wrist as she broke her fall with her hands. Once the torch had thudded to the floor, she lumbered back to her feet, but it was too late. The dark figure rushed through the same door Judith had come in by.

  ‘Stop right there!’ she called out as she grabbed hold of her right wrist in agony.

  But the person had gone, and Judith was awash with pain and adrenalin that made her feel sick. She leant against the wall to give herself a few moments to recover. Who had she just interrupted? Was it Elliot Howard? It was possible, but Judith knew she hadn’t taken in any meaningful details of the intruder.