The Marlow Murder Club

by Robert Thorogood

  ‘This Scotch is very moreish,’ Becks proclaimed, slurring slightly.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Judith agreed, going to refill Becks’ glass.

  ‘But what have you found?’ Suzie asked.

  ‘Well, it may be something, it may be nothing. But I’ve been looking at the website for the Marlow Auction House, since that’s where Stefan’s painting came from. There’s a page that explains the history of the business. It was founded by Elliot’s father. His name was Dudley. When he retired in 1985, Elliot took over as chairman. But this is what I’ve noticed, Elliot was initially only chairman for three years. Look,’ Judith said, handing her tablet to Suzie.

  Suzie looked at the website and saw that Elliot Howard was listed as the chairman from ‘1985–1988’.

  ‘And then in 1988 a man called Fred Smith took over,’ Judith said.

  ‘Fred Smith?’ Suzie asked, her interest piqued.

  ‘That’s right. And he stayed chairman for the next thirteen years. Until 2001. Which is when Elliot Howard became chairman again. For a second time.’

  ‘So why did Elliot leave for a number of years and then come back?’

  ‘Good question, but that’s not what caught my eye. You see, Elliot stopped being chairman in 1988. But that was also the date on the painting we found at Stefan’s house, wasn’t it? Stefan bought it in 1988.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a coincidence.’

  The women considered the evidence in their various states of alcoholic glow.

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ Judith said. ‘Let’s say it was Elliot who I surprised in Stefan’s house tonight. It seems the most likely explanation. But if it were, then that would mean he just stole the frame from a painting he sold to Stefan in 1988. The same year that he resigned from the auction house.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Becks said, enthused. ‘When you put it like that, it’s fishy, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you ask me, we need to find out why Elliot left his business in 1988.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Becks agreed.

  ‘Which is lucky for us,’ Suzie said. ‘Because I know exactly how we can do that.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘All we need to do is speak to the guy who took over from Elliot in 1988. Fred Smith.’

  ‘Of course! He’ll know what happened. But how do we find him?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ Suzie said, smiling. ‘I speak to him at about eleven o’clock every morning.’

  ‘You do? How come?’

  ‘Because if I’m not mistaken, Fred’s my postman.’

  Suzie’s house was on the eastern side of town, in between the functional red-brick office blocks of the trading estate and the hammering racket of the A404, a dual carriageway that carried a constant roar of traffic. But despite the unprepossessing location, Suzie’s street was rather sweet, Judith thought to herself as she cycled onto it just before eleven o’clock the following morning. There were pretty two-storey semis on both sides of the road, cars on driveways, and geraniums in hanging baskets. Yes, it was all very nice. And then Judith arrived at the address Suzie had given her.

  The front of the house was missing.

  Judith blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

  No, her eyes weren’t deceiving her. The front of the house didn’t have any kind of wall to it and was instead a jumble of scaffolding, bits of blue plastic sheeting and exposed jacks and roof-supporting joists.

  Judith couldn’t help but be impressed. She knew that she was someone who was happy to let things slide when it came to keeping up appearances, but even she would draw the line at not having a front to her house.

  However, as she looked closer, Judith realised that maybe the building work was actually an as-yet-to-be-finished extension, and the original house was still lurking behind the unfinished brickwork.

  Suzie emerged from the front door as Judith was leaning her bike against an old cement mixer.

  ‘Sorry about the building work,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing to apologise for. What are you having done?’

  ‘Oh, just an extension,’ she said airily.

  ‘I imagine it will be splendid when it’s done.’

  ‘Sure will. That’s the plan anyway.’

  ‘How long will it take to finish?’

  ‘Another two months, the builder says. Maybe a bit less if the weather remains good.’

  ‘Well, there we are, then. It will soon be over.’

  ‘Or that’s what he told me three years ago when he took all my money and scarpered. I’ve not seen him since.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The house has been like this for the last three years.’

  Judith was lost for words.

  ‘Oh,’ she eventually managed.

  ‘But that’s life, isn’t it?’ Suzie said breezily, as though it barely bothered her at all. ‘People leave you. Your husband, your kids, and if you’re me, your builder as well. Come on in, it’s much nicer inside. And don’t worry. I’ve got no dogs staying with me. It’s only me and Emma.’

  The inside of Suzie’s house smelled of dogs and stale cigarette smoke. There was scuffed, heavy-duty linoleum on the floor, the door to the sitting room had been removed, and Judith could see that there was no furniture anywhere. Not in the hallway. Not in the sitting room. There were only old dog beds and blankets scattered about.

  Emma padded in from the kitchen and nudged Judith’s hand with her head for a stroke.

  ‘She likes you,’ Suzie said.

  ‘And I like her,’ Judith said, bending down to give Emma a quick fuss. ‘Such silky ears,’ she said to the dog.

  ‘We should go upstairs. That’s where I live. The dogs have down here. I have upstairs. Come on.’

  Suzie unclipped the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs, told Emma to wait and headed upstairs.

  Judith followed and was pleased to see that the first floor had deep-pile carpets, side tables with silk flowers in vases and lots of artwork in clip frames on the walls. In fact, it was very pretty, Judith thought to herself, even if the air was heavy with the punch of wall socket air fresheners and stale cigarette smoke.

  ‘Well, this is lovely,’ Judith said as Suzie led her into a sitting room that was covered in dozens of family photos through the years.

  ‘Thank you,’ Suzie said with obvious pride. ‘So where’s Becks?’

  ‘She said she had a parish meeting she had to attend. If I’m honest, I think she was making an excuse. So what happens now?’

  ‘I reckon we just have to wait until Fred delivers the post,’ Suzie said as she picked up her metal tin from a side table. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Of course not. You go ahead.’

  While Suzie got out the materials required to make a cigarette, Judith went over to a large poster on the wall that had photos tucked into the frame. She pointed to a photo of a boy in a baby bouncer.

  ‘Is this one of yours?’

  ‘That’s my grandson.’

  ‘He’s gorgeous. How old is he?’

  ‘In that photo? About two years old.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Judith said. ‘How old is he now?’

  ‘Six, I think,’ Suzie said as she lit her cigarette. ‘Yes, that’s right. Six.’

  Judith realised there weren’t any photos of the child older than about two or three years old. In fact, now she was looking more closely, all of the photos in the room looked quite old and faded.

  ‘Do you see much of your grandson?’

  ‘Oh yes, I see Toby all the time,’ Suzie said, although Judith detected a brittleness to her answer. ‘But this is my refuge. Where I have everything I need. My family,’ she said, indicating the photos on the walls, and then she turned to the television. ‘My entertainment. And even a chef if I need it,’ she added as a final flourish, nodding her head in the direction of an old microwave on a hostess trolley.

  ‘Yes, it’s very nice,’ Judith said, but she was aware that maybe Suzie wasn’t telling
the whole story, so she decided to change the subject and turned back to the poster that the photos were tucked into.

  ‘I like this poster,’ she said.

  The picture in question was a reprint of the famous painting by John William Waterhouse, The Lady of Shalott. It depicted a pale woman sitting in a wooden boat who was wearing a flowing white dress, her copper-coloured hair falling down to her waist. Judith had always disliked the painting. Not that it wasn’t beautiful – she loved the hippy-ish aesthetic with red and gold tapestries hanging over the side of the little rowboat – but she was ‘done’ with legends of passive women who pined away from unrequited love for a man. In her experience, the only women who pined at all did so because they were trapped with a man, not because they were liberated from one.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Suzie agreed.

  There was the clatter of post being delivered through the letterbox downstairs.

  ‘That’ll be Fred!’ Suzie said, stubbing out her cigarette at speed. ‘We need to stop him before he gets away.’

  Suzie dashed to the door and Judith followed.

  Chapter 16

  Fred Smith was an impish man with short white hair and a trim beard who’d had many jobs in his life, but he’d never enjoyed any of them as much as he did being a postie. As a Marlow boy, born and bred, he knew where everyone lived before he’d even taken up the job, so delivering letters around the town never felt like a chore. Not when you could stop and have a good natter on the doorstep with everyone as you went. It turned out that the one thing Fred liked above all else was gossiping. Not that he’d ever be indiscreet. That would be unprofessional.

  When Suzie and Judith bombed out of Suzie’s house after him, he was nonetheless surprised. It wasn’t usual for women to chase him down the street.

  ‘Suzie, are you okay?’ he asked, startled.

  ‘Can we have a quick word, Fred?’

  ‘Always got time for quick word,’ Fred said with a broad grin. ‘And it’s great to meet you finally, Mrs Potts.’

  As Judith lived on the outskirts of Marlow, she had a completely different postman and had never met Fred before.

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘I’m a postie,’ he said with a friendly wink. ‘I know who everyone is. So, how can I help you, ladies?’

  ‘It’s about Elliot Howard,’ Suzie said.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ Judith asked.

  ‘Of course. I used to be his boss. Back in the day, mind. A long time ago now.’

  ‘So what’s the gossip?’ Suzie asked.

  ‘About Elliot?’ Fred said with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘Is he trustworthy?’ Judith said eagerly.

  ‘What a weird question. He could be difficult, I’ll grant you that. A bit patronising in his manner sometimes. But he was totally trustworthy.’

  This wasn’t what Judith wanted to hear. First there were the online comments that Elliot was a good person and now Fred was saying the same thing.

  ‘Was this when you were chairman of the auction house?’ Suzie asked.

  ‘That’s right. You know about that?’

  ‘We saw it on the website.’

  ‘I’m on their website? That’s something, isn’t it?’

  ‘It sure is,’ Suzie agreed, and she could sense that Fred wanted to settle down to a good chinwag. ‘Bet it’s an interesting story. How you ended up working in an auction house.’

  ‘You can say that again. I was sixteen when I joined. About a hundred years ago now, but that was under Elliot’s dad, Dudley.’

  ‘Yes, what was he like?’ Judith asked.

  Fred looked guarded.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Only we’ve done some digging and we’ve heard he was something of a crook. Was he?’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. He was a piece of work, I can tell you. Always doing deals on the side or using stooges to push prices up in the auctions. If there was a sharp practice, he’d do it. And he didn’t like his son, not one bit.’

  ‘He didn’t?’

  ‘No way. Elliot’s big thing was rowing when he was a teenager.’

  Judith remembered the photos in Elliot’s study of him in various rowing teams.

  ‘And he was good. But his dad wouldn’t have any of it. The way Elliot told it, Dudley spoke to his rowing coach to find out if Elliot could go professional, and as soon as he said he couldn’t, that was it for him as far as he was concerned. He wouldn’t pay for any more coaching. Wouldn’t take his son to any of the training sessions or regattas. It was over.’

  ‘That’s harsh,’ Suzie said.

  ‘Dudley was a harsh man.’

  ‘Where was Elliot’s mother in all of this?’ Judith asked.

  ‘I think she left Dudley when Elliot was young. I don’t know the story, but Elliot was raised by his dad on his own. That’s why it was so bad for Elliot when Dudley said it was over for his rowing. He was his only parent, so his word was gospel.’

  ‘Hang on a moment!’ Judith interjected, an idea flashing in her mind. But what was it? There was a connection that her brain had just tried to make. Something to do with rowing. But what could it be? What was the thought that she’d nearly had, but couldn’t quite chase down?

  ‘Rowing,’ she said out loud, as though tasting the word, trying to let the sound of it help her thoughts coalesce.

  ‘What about rowing?’ Suzie asked.

  Judith tried to recapture the moment, but the gossamer-thin idea had already dissipated.

  ‘No, it’s gone,’ she said, frustrated, but she also knew that there was nothing she could do about it. At her age, if something slipped her mind, it tended to stay slipped.

  ‘Sorry, ladies, but I have to get on,’ Fred said, turning to go. ‘I can’t stand here gassing all day.’

  ‘We aren’t done though,’ Suzie said.

  ‘You aren’t?’

  ‘It could be important.’

  ‘I’ll get in trouble if I don’t complete my round on time.’

  ‘Then how about we come with you?’ Judith asked.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We won’t get in the way, but we do have a few more questions to ask.’

  ‘You want to accompany me on my round?’ Fred said, amused. ‘Well, if you put it like that, I can’t think of anything nicer than having an attractive lady on each arm as I deliver the post. Come on, then.’

  Judith and Suzie spent the next hour accompanying Fred as he delivered the post to the neighbouring streets. It was a somewhat frustrating process because they only got to speak to Fred in between houses, and he kept stopping for a chat on the doorstep with his regulars. At one point, he disappeared inside for a few minutes, and when he came out he apologised and explained that the old woman lived on her own and the ballcock on her cistern had stopped working, but it was a quick fix, so it hadn’t taken him too long.

  But between the chatting, plumbing and the actual delivery of letters and parcels from his bright red trolley, Judith and Suzie were able to piece together some of Fred and Elliot’s background.

  Fred had left school at sixteen and had joined the auction house, first as their porter, and then, a few years later, working front desk, checking in the auction items. As he was only a few years younger than Elliot, they’d go for a beer together after work every now and again. It was in these sessions at the pub that Elliot revealed to Fred how much he felt trapped having to work for his dad. What made it all the worse was how Elliot was falling in love with the art they were selling.

  ‘He started painting,’ Fred told them. ‘Apparently, there’d been a granddad who’d been a good artist. It’s how the family had ended up owning an auction house. But Elliot threw himself into it. You know, reading books, educating himself so he could get better as an artist. And he was good. Even I could see that. I mean, Elliot’s paintings were mostly abstract stuff. Very mid-twentieth century. You put two bl
ocks of colour next to each other and call it art.’

  Judith looked at Suzie, knowing that the ‘two blocks of colour next to each other’ was a very good description of the work of art that the intruder into Stefan’s house had stolen the frame from. But Judith could see that Suzie didn’t pick up on the connection. Of course she didn’t, Judith realised, Suzie hadn’t been with her, Becks and Tanika. But was this an important link? The sort of art that was the cause of the break-in was also the sort of art that Elliot liked to paint? Or was it a coincidence? After all, anyone learning to paint in the late twentieth century, as Elliot had, would no doubt paint like a painter from the late twentieth century.

  ‘Anyway,’ Fred said, ‘there came a point, after a couple of years, where Elliot realised he wanted to give up the business and have a go at being a professional artist. So he applied to the Slade School of Art, and guess what? He got in. It’s like the best art school in the country, and Elliot had got a place. An amazing achievement. But get this, his dad said no. Again. Elliot’s painting was like his rowing, he told him. Just a hobby. No one made any money as an artist, the only money to be made was in selling the stuff. So he wouldn’t give him the money to go to art school. It set Elliot back.’

  ‘I bet it did,’ Judith said.

  ‘And it made him resentful. Because his dad swore that if Elliot walked away from the business, he wouldn’t be allowed back. It was stay and help him run the auction house, or leave.’

  ‘Wow,’ Judith said.

  ‘I know,’ Fred agreed. ‘So Elliot let his place at the art school go and stayed at the auction house. And then, when his dad got ill, he became chairman. I was managing director by then. But Elliot’s heart wasn’t in his work if I’m honest. He just didn’t want to be there. And then his dad died. A heart attack on the golf course, of all things. Elliot couldn’t wait to get out of the business. He reapplied to art school. He didn’t get into the Slade this time, but he got into a good enough school in Reading. And he left the business.’

  ‘Was this in 1988?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When you became chairman?’

  ‘Got it in one. Elliot wanted a safe pair of hands to run the shop while he trained. But it never worked out for him. He said he was so much older than everyone else on the course, and I know he resented the fact it wasn’t as prestigious a course as the Slade. When he graduated, he tried to make it as an artist, but he was too old to be a Young Turk, and this was in the nineties when the art world was all about pickling sharks in formaldehyde. There wasn’t much interest in the mid-century stuff any more.