Praise for Robert Thorogood

‘Very funny and dark with great pace. I love Robert Thorogood’s writing’

Peter James

‘This is a gem’

Daily Express

‘Deftly entertaining … satisfyingly pushes all the requisite Agatha Christie-style buttons’

Independent

‘For fans of Agatha Christie’

Mail on Sunday

‘A treat’

Radio Times

‘This brilliantly crafted, hugely enjoyable and suitably goosebump-inducing novel is an utter delight from start to finish’

Heat

ROBERT THOROGOOD is the creator of the hit BBC One TV series Death in Paradise, and he has written a series of spin-off novels featuring detective DI Richard Poole.

He was born in Colchester, Essex. When he was ten years old, he read his first proper novel – Agatha Christie’s Peril at End House – and he’s been in love with the genre ever since.

He now lives in Marlow in Buckinghamshire with his wife, children and two whippets called Wally and Evie.

Follow him on Twitter @robthor

Also by Robert Thorogood

A Meditation on Murder

The Killing of Polly Carter

Death Knocks Twice

Murder in the Caribbean

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

Copyright © Robert Thorogood 2021

Robert Thorogood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008238261

Version 2020-12-18

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008238247

For Katie B

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Acknowledgements

Extract

Prologue

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Mrs Judith Potts was seventy-seven years old and entirely happy with her life. She lived in an Arts and Crafts mansion on the River Thames, she had a job she loved that took up just enough of her time and no more, and best of all, she didn’t have to share her life with any man. This meant there was no one asking her what was for dinner that night, or wanting to know where she was going every time she left the house, or moaning that she was spending too much money on whisky, a small glass of which she’d have at about 6 p.m. each evening.

On the day Judith’s life changed, it was the height of summer and England had been in the grip of a heatwave for weeks. She’d kept all of her windows open to capture whatever breezes blew down the valley, but it seemed to make no difference. The heat of the sun had got into the bricks and timbers of her home; into the oak staircase and minstrels’ gallery.

After taking her evening meal in front of the television news, she put her empty plate to one side and got out the latest copy of Puzzler magazine. She turned to a logic grid and started to work on it. Usually, she enjoyed reducing the language of the clues down to mathematical ones and zeros, but tonight her heart just wasn’t in it. It was too hot to concentrate.

Judith’s hand idly went to the key she kept on a chain around her neck, and her thoughts began to drift into the past, into a much darker time. She shot up from her chair. This wouldn’t do, she told herself. Wouldn’t do at all. There was always something else she could do to keep herself busy. She needed a change of scene, that was all, and she had the perfect solution.

Judith began to take off her clothes. With each garment she removed, she felt more and more released from the stifling constraints of the day. By the time she was naked, she was buzzing with an impish delight. She crossed the hallway, past the Blüthner grand piano she only ever played when she was really very drunk, and took up a dark grey woollen cape she kept by the front door.

Judith’s cape was her most treasured possession. She’d tell anyone who asked, and many did, that it kept her warm in winter, served as a picnic blanket in the summer, and she could pull it over her head if ever she was caught in a spring shower.

Best of all, Judith believed it was a cloak of invisibility. Every evening, come rain or shine, she’d take off her clothes, wrap the cape around herself and step out of her house feeling a delicious frisson of naughtiness. She would plunge her feet into a pair of ancient wellies and stride through the knee-high grass – swish, swish, swish! – to her boathouse. Like the rest of Judith’s house, it was pink-bricked, timber-framed, and somewhat crumbling.

Judith entered the cobwebby darkness and kicked off her wellies. She hung her cape on an old hook, and, still hidden from the outside world by a pair of ancient boathouse doors, stepped down the stone slipway and into the Thames.

It was almost a religious experience for her, accepting the cold water onto her skin, and she exhaled with a whoosh as she leant forward into the embrace of the river. Suddenly she was weightless, supported by the soft water that felt like silk to her body.

She swam upstream, the evening sunshine flashing diamonds on the water all around. Judith smiled to herself. She always smiled to herself when she was out swimming. She couldn’t help it. After all, there might be dog walkers on the Thames Path, and there were very definitely plenty of people in the near distance as she looked at the spire of Marlow church and the span of the Victorian suspension bridge that linked the town to the neighbouring village of Bisham. None of these people were aware that there was a seventy-seven-year-old woman swimming nearby entirely in the nude.

It was just as Judith was thinking, This is the life, that she heard a shout.

It came from the opposite riverbank, from somewhere near her neighbour Stefan Dunwoody’s house. But from her position low in the water it was hard for Judith to see exactly what was going on. Only the roof of Stefan’s house was visible above the thick bank of bulrushes at the edge of the river.

Judith strained her ears, but all was quiet. She decided it must have been an animal. A dog or a fox maybe.

And then she heard a man’s voice call out, ‘Hey, no!’

What on earth was that?

‘Stefan, is that you?’ Judith called from the river, but her words were cut short by the sharp retort of a gunshot.

‘Stefan?’ she shouted again, panic rising. ‘Are you all right?’

All was silence. But Judith knew what she’d heard. Someone had fired a gun, hadn’t they? And Stefan’s voice had called out immediately beforehand. What if he was now bleeding from a bullet wound and needed saving?

Judith swam towards Stefan’s house as fast as she could, but as she reached his riverbank, she realised she had a problem. Beyond the bulrushes, Stefan had put corrugated metal across the span of his lawn to protect it from river erosion. Judith knew that swimming through the rushes would cut her body to shreds, and even if she made it to land, she wouldn’t be able to pull herself out. She wouldn’t have the strength.

Ahead of her she could see a blue canoe wedged in among the reeds. Could she somehow use it to help lever her body out of the water? She tried to grab hold of the end, but she couldn’t get a proper grip, it kept bobbing around like a cork, and she realised she didn’t have the balance to climb up onto the canoe anyway. But she gave it one last go, and this time just about managed to pull herself up onto the back of it. And then, oh so slowly, she and the canoe barrel-rolled over, she lost her hold and fell back into the water with an ungainly splash.

She came up for air and shook the water from her hair. The canoe was out of the question, so what else could she do?

Judith swam back to the centre of the river, desperately looking for someone who could help. Where were the dog walkers or canoodling couples when you needed them? She couldn’t see anyone. There was only one thing for it. She turned and swam for home as fast as she could.

Reaching her boathouse, Judith climbed out of the water, wheezing, but there was no time to lose. She threw on her cape and strode out onto the lawn, turning back to look at what she could see of Stefan’s house. Only half of his garden was visible behind the weeping willow that grew unchecked on her side of the riverbank.

She ran into her house, grabbed up her phone and dialled 999. As she waited for the call to connect, she moved over to the bay window to keep an eye on Stefan’s property.

‘I need the police!’ Judith said as soon as the call was answered. ‘There’s been a shooting at my neighbour’s house! Hurry! Someone’s been shot!’

The operator took down the details of Stefan’s address, recorded what Judith had seen, informed her that the emergency services would be on their way, and then ended the call. Judith felt deeply frustrated. Surely there was something else she could do, or someone else she could phone? What about the Coastguard? It was a waterside catastrophe after all. Or the RNLI?

Judith peered out of her window at Stefan’s property. It was still sitting there, apparently innocently, in the evening sunshine.

If anyone had been out on the river at that precise moment, and had had occasion to look up at Judith’s mansion, they’d have seen a very short and comfortably plump woman in her late seventies with wild grey hair standing entirely naked in her bay window, a cape over her shoulders as if she were some kind of a superhero. Which in many ways she was.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter 2

Half an hour later, Judith saw a police car arrive at Stefan’s property and a uniformed police officer get out. Judith tried as best she could to keep her binoculars trained on him as he looked in through the windows of Stefan’s house and took a wander through the garden. She wanted to bellow across the river that the man should jolly well look harder, but she bit her tongue. She had to believe that he knew what he was doing, and he’d find evidence of whatever it was that had happened.

However, after twenty minutes of what Judith could only describe as a cursory search, the police officer returned to his car, got in and drove away.

Was that it? The man had barely explored the garden, and he’d not even entered Stefan’s house. Perhaps he’d gone to get reinforcements? So she kept on looking. And looking.

At midnight, Judith discovered that there was no more whisky in the decanter on the little table to her side. That was always a sign to go to bed. As she woozily ascended the heavy oak staircase, she found she had to hold onto the banister a bit more tightly than normal. She then turned left to go to her bedroom when her bedroom was really on her right, but once she’d corrected her course via a brief tangle with a recalcitrant aspidistra, she safely made her destination.

Judith adored her bedroom. The wood panels were painted light green, and there was a majestic four-poster bed with a tapestry of a medieval hunting scene as its canopy. That the room was covered in old clothes, half-finished meals, and piles of discarded newspapers and magazines didn’t bother her one jot. Judith never noticed the mess. In fact, she let it encompass her in the same way that she let the river embrace her when she went swimming. The messier her bedroom, the more she felt cocooned and safe.

The following morning, Judith was woken by the sound of the phone ringing. She reached for it, blearily seeing it had just gone 10 a.m.

‘Hello,’ she croaked.

‘Good morning,’ an efficient female voice said. ‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Tanika Malik from the Maidenhead police station. I’m following up on the incident you reported at Mr Dunwoody’s property last night.’

‘Ah, thank you for calling,’ Judith said, still somewhat groggily.

The detective sergeant explained that she’d sent a constable to inspect Mr Dunwoody’s house and garden. He’d not found anything of note, so she was ringing to inform Judith that there was nothing to worry about.

‘But I know what I heard!’ Judith said.

‘Yes, the report said you heard a gunshot.’

‘Not just a gunshot. I heard someone call out something like “Hey, no!” and then I heard the gunshot.’

‘But I understand you were swimming in the river at the time. Are you sure it was in fact a gunshot?’

Judith was now fully awake, and thoroughly irritated.

‘I grew up on a farm. I know what a gun sounds like.’

‘But what if it was something else?’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, for example, maybe it was a car backfiring?’

This hadn’t occurred to Judith. She thought for a moment before answering.

‘No. I’m sure I’d have known if it were a car. It was a gunshot. I take it this constable of yours reported that Stefan’s car is still parked at his house?’

‘Why do you mention that?’

‘Because I presume Stefan didn’t answer his phone when you called him, did he?’

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t quite follow your line of thought there. What phone call?’

‘You must have phoned him last night.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed to share specific details with you.’

‘But a neighbour reports a shooting at a house, of course you phoned to check up on him. And the fact you haven’t told me he answered suggests to me that he didn’t answer. So, seeing as his car is still on his driveway, well, that tells me that something’s up with him. After all, if you’re at home, you answer your phone. If you’re away, you take your car. At least someone who owned a car would. I don’t.’

DS Malik didn’t respond immediately.

‘You’ve really thought this through,’ she eventually said.

‘It’s all I could think about last night. I was so worried for Stefan. What if he’s been shot, and the gunman’s escaped? In fact, what if Stefan is right now lying bleeding in a ditch?’

‘I don’t think he’s lying in a ditch. I’m sure there’s some very innocent explanation for all of this. There wasn’t any indication at his property that anything untoward had happened, and it’s not that unusual for someone to ignore their phone. It’s holiday season. People are away. I’m sure Mr Dunwoody will turn up in the next few days. And the moment he does, I’ll let you know. Really, there’s nothing to worry about.’

DS Malik ended the call by thanking Judith for being such a civic-minded neighbour and then rung off.

Afterwards, Judith lay in bed not knowing what to do. Was DS Malik right? Was there in fact a far more innocent explanation for what she’d heard the night before? After all, Judith knew one thing for sure: murders just didn’t happen in Marlow.

She decided to put the matter from her mind, and get on with her work for the day.

When Judith had inherited her house from her great aunt Betty in 1976, she’d also received a portfolio of shares that provided her with a modest income, so she didn’t have much need to work for a living, but nothing would have ever made Judith give up her job. She loved it too much.

Judith compiled crosswords for the national newspapers. She set two or three a week, and the hours she spent each day working on the puzzles were a cherished refuge for her mind. When she was setting a crossword, a calm descended on her and she could lose herself for whole stretches of time as she carefully worked through all the permutations of a particularly satisfying anagram, or considered an elegant phrase or word which could be interpreted in more than one way.

Judith crossed her drawing room to the card table by the bay window and smoothed down the green baize with her hand. Next she reached up onto a shelf and pulled down a sheet of squared mathematical paper. She then chose a 2B pencil from a mug of 2B pencils and, even though it didn’t need sharpening, she pushed the pencil into her metal desk sharpener. It gripped the end, the old electric motor clattering as it spun, and the pencil Judith removed a few seconds later wasn’t so much a writing implement as a lethal weapon.

Judith smiled to herself. A fresh pencil. The empty squares on the paper in front of her. The fight ahead.

Sitting down, she picked up her wooden ruler and began to mark out a fifteen-by-fifteen grid of squares. Next, she shaded in a pattern of darker squares around a single line of symmetry, so each darker square had a twin reflected on the right. There wasn’t any particular pattern she followed, it was mostly her many decades of experience that guided her hand.

Once she had marked out her grid, all she had to do was fill in the blank spaces with words. This, she knew, would take her the next hour or so, and only once she was happy that she had an interesting collection of words intersecting with each other would she turn her mind finally to creating the clues.

As for the types of clues she liked to set, she eschewed the wilful opacity favoured by many setters, most famously represented by the near-impossible monthly puzzle that used to appear in the Listener magazine. She felt there was something a bit too ‘male’ about how they tried to show off how very clever they were. ‘Look at me,’ they seemed to be saying, ‘you’ll never guess how brilliant I am.’ Instead, like many setters, she aligned herself with the principles of Ximenes, the legendary setter for the Observer newspaper from 1939 to 1972. Accordingly, her clues had to have two halves, the literal clue on one side, the riddle on the other. And the two halves had ultimately to ‘play fair’ with the solver, with the small caveat that if a clue was ingenious or witty enough, she was prepared on occasion to break the rules.

This morning, however, the muse wasn’t with Judith. Having created her square of blocks and blanks, she couldn’t settle on the correct words with which to fill the grid. She lacked all decisiveness. It was Stefan, she knew. She couldn’t concentrate. She had to know that he was okay.

Judith reached for her tablet computer. She didn’t much like the device, but it was useful for photographing and then emailing in her crosswords to the papers, so she’d come to terms with it some years ago.

She held it up to her face, but the stupid machine refused to unlock, claiming it didn’t recognise her. Judith harrumphed, once again cursing at the indignities of being an older woman. The modern world treated her as though she were entirely invisible, and even her own bloody computer criticised her for not looking suitably like herself. But there was no point trying to fight with technology. Judith had learned that a long time ago in an incident that had involved a strawberry-coloured iMac, an electric cable that wasn’t quite long enough, and a trip to Accident and Emergency.

Judith took a deep breath and composed herself.

She held the tablet up and looked at it again.

Nothing happened.

Bloody thing! Muttering to herself, Judith entered the passcode and then opened her web browser. Maybe there’d been some news about Stefan in the last twenty-four hours?

She typed ‘Stefan Dunwoody’ into the search bar, but all of the hits told her he owned an art gallery called Dunwoody Arts in Marlow, a fact she already knew. But she wanted to be thorough, so she clicked through the pages of results.

Although, what was this? One of the later results was a link to a webpage from a local newspaper, the Bucks Free Press. It was the headline that caught her attention: BUST-UP AT HENLEY REGATTA.

Clicking the link, she found herself reading a diary piece from a roundup of the Henley Royal Regatta, six weeks before.

Word reaches us that Stefan Dunwoody, local art gallery owner, got into a tipsy dispute in the Royal Enclosure with Elliot Howard, owner of the Marlow Auction House. According to our little birdie, when Mr Howard threatened to punch Mr Dunwoody, the stewards were called and both men were forcibly ejected.

Judith put her tablet down. So, Stefan had got into a drunken altercation at Henley with someone called Elliot Howard, and here he was, only a few short weeks later, and there’d been another set-to of some sort on his property.

A set-to where someone had fired a gun.

And then Stefan had subsequently vanished.

Sod this for a game of soldiers, Judith thought as she strode across the room, swept up her cloak from its peg and left the house.

She went down to her boathouse, approached an old punt that was half in and half out of the water and gave it a shove with her foot. She stepped up onto the back of it and grabbed the punting pole as the front of the boat bumped through the rotten boathouse doors and slipped out onto the river.

Despite her advanced years, Judith was an expert punter. With a flick of her wrists, she thrust the pole down into the riverbed, bent at the waist and pushed with all her might. As the punt shot forward, she twisted the pole up and out of the soft mud, and the boat had the momentum to cross the river.

Once she reached the further bank and the river was shallow again, it was no effort to punt upstream the fifty or so yards to Stefan’s house, use the prow of the punt to penetrate the wall of reeds that protected his riverbank, and step up onto his land. She didn’t need to secure the boat. Entirely surrounded by bulrushes, it wasn’t going anywhere.

Checking her watch, Judith could see that just over eight minutes ago, she’d been sitting in her house, and now here she was, at the sharp end of her neighbour’s mysterious disappearance.

Stefan’s house was really rather splendid to Judith’s mind. It was a converted watermill with a wooden wheel that still turned lazily, but differently sized rectangular glass windows had subsequently been cut into the building. It was both pleasingly old-fashioned and modern at the same time.

She went and looked at Stefan’s car in the driveway. Judith knew nothing about cars, and cared even less, so all she could tell was that it was grey in colour, and it was gleaming, not a spot of dirt on it anywhere. She could see no other tyre tracks in the gravel, or any other clues that suggested that perhaps Stefan had left the house in a different vehicle.

She went for a walk around the garden, trying to work out where the sound of the gunshot might have come from, but it was hard to place herself accurately when her only reference point was from a position in the river below the height of the bulrushes.

In fact, it took only a few minutes of walking around and inspecting the reed bed by the riverbank for Judith to realise that she didn’t even know what she was looking for. A drop of blood on a blade of grass? A muddy footprint?

Judith looked at the wooden wheel turning on the side of the house, and the millpond in front of it. Despite the heat of the day, the water here was dark and Judith shivered at the thought of it. There was something about still bodies of water that spooked her. Although, as she looked, she could see that the water wasn’t quite still. There was a slight current tugging at the surface. Where was the water going?

Judith walked around the edge of the pond until she saw that it fed into a river that was about ten feet across. Where the millpond ended and the river began, there was a narrow brick causeway that crossed from one side of the garden to the other.

Judith considered the river beyond the dam. It had to feed back into the Thames somehow. But it was hard to see exactly how, as Stefan had allowed this section of the garden to grow wild, and the water soon slipped under dense shrubs and bushes that crowded in from both banks.

With a sigh, Judith realised she’d have to follow the course of the river. She had to be thorough. So she pushed her way through the bushes, branches whipping her body, cobwebs sticking to her face and hair as she struggled to the other side.

Once there, Judith was disappointed. It was even wilder in this corner of the garden, but she could see that the river passed through some iron bars onto a concrete weir that fed the water back into the Thames. There was nothing of interest to see.

Although, as she regathered her breath after her exertions, she became aware of something in the air, a fetid smell, like an old compost heap. Was it the river? She looked down at the water flowing through the grille. An old tree branch was half submerged, blocking the water, and leaves had backed up.

But then Judith realised something.

It wasn’t a branch in the water.

It was a human arm.

It was reaching out of the water, the skin of the hand as white as marble. And, deeper still, Judith could just make out the body.

It was Stefan Dunwoody.

And in the centre of his forehead was a small black hole. A bullet hole.

Judith staggered back, her hand going to her neck.

She’d been right all along.

Stefan Dunwoody, her friend, her neighbour, had been shot dead.

Chapter 3

An hour later, Judith was sitting on a bench in Stefan’s garden being interviewed by Detective Sergeant Tanika Malik. The police officer was in her early forties, wore a smart trouser suit, and had an air of teacherly efficiency about her that Judith already found irritating.

‘But I don’t understand, Mrs Potts,’ DS Malik said. ‘You say you came back to Mr Dunwoody’s property?’

‘Yes,’ Judith said, her chin raised in defiance. ‘It’s like I told you on the phone. I knew I heard a shout and a gunshot last night. And if your police officer wasn’t going to investigate it properly, I thought that I should.’

‘Was there any other reason you returned?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Were you expecting to find a dead body?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘And yet, you did find one, didn’t you?’

‘Which is more than your officer managed, I can’t help noticing. Now tell me, did you know Stefan had a bust-up with a man called Elliot Howard a few weeks ago?’

‘I’m sorry?’

Judith told DS Malik about the local newspaper diary piece that described the argument at the Henley Royal Regatta between Stefan and the owner of the Marlow Auction House, Elliot Howard.

‘This was six weeks ago?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I see.’

DS Malik thought for a moment.

‘What is it?’ Judith asked.

‘Can I ask you a question? As Mr Dunwoody’s neighbour.’

‘Of course.’

‘Only, it’s standard procedure to cross-reference named subjects in witness reports with the police database. So I looked up Mr Dunwoody. He doesn’t have any kind of record. He owns the art gallery in Marlow, he lives on his own, it’s all as expected. But five weeks ago, he reported a burglary to us.’

‘He did? What was stolen?’

‘That’s the thing. He said he’d been out at a restaurant with friends, and when he got home he’d discovered someone had smashed a window and broken into his property. But by the time an officer arrived to take his statement, Mr Dunwoody had to admit that he couldn’t find anything that had been stolen.’

‘Nothing was stolen?’

‘That’s what he said. And yet it was very definitely a break-in. But his computer was still there. His collection of art. And I can tell you, Mr Dunwoody owns a number of oil paintings, and not one of them had been stolen.’

‘This was five weeks ago? A week after the bust-up Mr Dunwoody had at Henley?’

‘I suppose so. But did Mr Dunwoody mention the break-in to you?’

‘I haven’t spoken to Stefan in weeks, I’m afraid.’

‘Or did you see anything suspicious at the time? Maybe someone lurking near his property? Or a car parked by his house that looked different?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t. More’s the pity. The first I knew anything was wrong was when I heard him being murdered last night.’

‘Ah, now I’m really going to have to stop you there, Mrs Potts. You see, we don’t know for sure that someone shot Mr Dunwoody.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘We don’t know Mr Dunwoody was murdered.’

‘Are you saying the bullet hole appeared in his forehead as if by magic?’

‘Well, no, but we can’t rule out that his death was a terrible accident. Or what if he did this to himself?’

‘You think he committed suicide?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Poppycock!’

DS Malik blinked in surprise. Had the woman in front of her just used the word ‘poppycock’?

‘If he took his own life, the pistol would have dropped to the ground somewhere. Before he fell into the river. And I can tell you, when I was looking, I didn’t see a gun on the ground anywhere.’

‘Yes, I can see why you’d think that, but maybe the gun fell into the river after he’d shot himself. I’ve instructed divers to search the riverbed for it. In the meantime, you really mustn’t jump to any conclusions, Mrs Potts. We must let the evidence lead us, not our assumptions.’

Judith appraised DS Malik. The woman might be efficient, capable even, but she clearly lacked imagination. She was a typical ‘head girl’ type, Judith decided, not entirely kindly. But then, Judith had been expelled from the very posh boarding school she’d been sent to as a teenager. She’d also been expelled from the really-very-much-less-posh boarding school she’d been sent to next. And the one after that. Suffice to say, she and the head girls of the schools she’d attended hadn’t ever seen eye to eye.

Judith sighed to herself. Very well, if the police didn’t believe that Stefan had been killed, then she’d just have to investigate his murder for herself, wouldn’t she?

Once Judith had finished giving her formal statement, she stepped back onto her punt and, with a regal wave at the forensic officers in their paper suits as she passed, she allowed the river to carry her back to her house. She then got out her old bicycle and climbed onto it. After all, if she wanted to discover who’d killed her neighbour, there was an obvious place to start.

It was only a five-minute cycle along the Thames Path into the nearby town of Marlow, and for once Judith didn’t acknowledge the little nods and waves she got from complete strangers as she whizzed along. But then, she never knew why so many people waved to her at the best of times. It never occurred to her that she was considered something of a minor celebrity in the town. To her mind, there was nothing interesting about her life, and every time she professed herself confounded by someone’s interest in her, she only embellished her reputation for eccentricity even further.

Turning from the towpath into a little park with swings and slides, Judith saw a flock of pigeons pecking idly at the ground. Filthy creatures, she thought to herself as she sped up her bike, a big grin spreading over her face as she bore down on them. And then, at full tilt, she cycled into the flock, calling out ‘Pigeons BEGONE!’, and scattered squawking birds into the air.

Judith loved Marlow with a passion. To her mind, it wasn’t too large, it wasn’t too small, it was just right. The perfect town for a Goldilocks like her. The High Street had an elegant Georgian suspension bridge and ancient riverside church at one end, an ornamental obelisk at the other, and, in between, there was every type of historic building from centuries of piecemeal development down each side. To tie it all together into an aesthetic whole, red-and-blue bunting criss-crossed the length of the High Street, creating the sort of ‘chocolate box’ image of an English Home Counties town that jigsaw puzzles were made of.

But what Judith loved most about Marlow was the way it was so much more than its picturesque High Street. There was the railway station, even if it was no more than a hut, from which it was possible to get trains into London. There was also a thriving business park on the edges of the town that employed thousands of people. And above all, Judith loved the two local schools that churned out a steady stream of well-educated teenagers who’d work the tills in the supermarkets or take your order in the coffee shops. Seeing all these youngsters, unfailingly polite and always pleasingly attractive to her eye, going about their day, or having picnics down by the river, or even hanging out in the skate park by the cricket pavilion, gave Judith a real glow of happiness. If this was the next generation coming through, then the world didn’t have too much to worry about, she reckoned.

Judith was by nature an optimist, it was almost her defining trait, but she also tried to be as honest as she could, and she had to admit that as much as Marlow remained a jaunty place, like all towns in Britain it had taken a bit of a battering over the last decade or so. It was all right if you were a tourist visiting for the day. There were plenty of high-end restaurants and clothes shops, so maybe you wouldn’t notice the dozen or so shops that were empty, their fronts tastefully postered to hide the absence of business going on inside. And the nice man who sold the Big Issue on one side of the High Street had recently been joined on the other side by a homeless man who sat cross-legged all day, a tin for coins in front of him.

The people remained good, that’s what she reminded herself as she got off her bicycle at the top end of the High Street and leant it against a wall.

As for where she was going, Judith had made up her mind the moment DS Malik had told her that she was wrong to believe that someone had killed her neighbour. She was going to start her investigation at Stefan Dunwoody’s art gallery.

Chapter 4

Judith had never set foot inside Dunwoody Arts before, but then she’d never had need to buy any artworks before. Why should she when she’d inherited her great aunt’s collection of paintings at the same time as she’d inherited her house?

As Judith entered, a young female attendant looked up from her desk, tears in her eyes.

‘Oh,’ Judith said. ‘You’ve heard.’

‘The police just called,’ the woman said. ‘I’m still reeling.’

‘Of course you are,’ Judith said kindly as she crossed the gallery and sat down in the spare chair at the woman’s desk. Next, Judith rootled in her handbag and pulled out a packet of pocket tissues. She handed one over.

‘Thank you,’ the woman said, before blowing her nose.

‘I should introduce myself,’ Judith said. ‘I’m Judith Potts.’

‘I know. You live in that big house on the river.’

‘Oh. Have we met before?’

‘Once, actually,’ the woman said, smiling at the memory. ‘I was being hassled by some boys outside the pub a couple of years ago. You stepped in and scared them off.’

‘I did?’ Judith had no recollection of the event, although it sounded very much like the sort of thing she’d do. She couldn’t bear how men seemed to operate in packs at times, picking on young women on their own.

‘I’m Antonia,’ the woman said. ‘Antonia Webster. And thanks for helping me that time. You were totally amazing.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t need any help, you look capable enough.’

Judith rootled in her bag again and pulled out an old-fashioned tin of travel sweets.

‘Would you like a sweet?’

Antonia didn’t quite know what to say to the question.

‘No?’ Judith asked. ‘Then do you mind if I have one?’

Judith popped the lid of the tin, plucked a boiled sweet from within the icing sugar, put it in her mouth and sucked on it for a few seconds.

‘Lime,’ she pronounced with satisfaction. ‘My favourite. Now, I hope you don’t mind me coming here, but if I helped you in the past, then maybe you could help me this time. You see, I’m Stefan’s neighbour and I’m trying to work out what happened to him. It’s so terribly sad. I take it you work here?’

‘I do,’ Antonia said. ‘And of course I’ll help. I’m Mr Dunwoody’s assistant. Just for the summer. Before I go to uni.’

‘So you’ve not been here long?’

‘No. But Mr Dunwoody was so kind, I can’t believe he’s gone.’

‘I’d agree with you there. But how was he kind, would you say?’

‘Well, he was interested in me. You know? About what I thought. About politics. Or the environment. Or what I was going to do at uni.’

‘He was interested in you?’

‘Not in that way,’ Antonia said, picking up on Judith’s tone. ‘He wasn’t a creep. He was just an old man. That’s how he described himself. An old man. Who lived on his own with all of his art. I liked him.’

This description certainly chimed with Judith’s limited wave-to-her-neighbour-once-a-fortnight relationship with Stefan. He always seemed happy enough to see her, and always had something to call across the river. ‘Beautiful morning!’ Or, ‘Lovely day!’ he’d shout. Judith smiled sadly at the memory.

‘He was a good man I think,’ she said.

‘He was,’ Antonia agreed.

The two women sat in companionable silence for a while, Judith contentedly sucking on her boiled sweet.

‘And somebody killed him,’ she said.

Antonia’s eyes widened. ‘What’s that?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘No. The guy on the phone said he’d had an accident.’

Judith’s handbag on her lap was still open and she closed the clasp with a snap.

‘I’m sorry to say that’s not what happened at all. He was shot dead.’

‘No way?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure of it. So I suggest I help you shut up shop. You can’t possibly be expected to do a day’s work after a shock like this.’

‘You think that’s what I should do?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’d help me?’

‘I’ve got nowhere else to be. Now how do we do it?’

Antonia got a set of keys, explained how the alarm system worked, and together the two women locked up the gallery, turning over the sign at the front so it said it was closed. As Judith had suspected, the simple act of doing something physical seemed to give Antonia the space to process all that had happened.

Judith picked her moment with care.

‘You know, he can’t have been as perfect as all that,’ she said, as though the thought had only just that moment occurred to her.

‘What’s that?’

‘Mr Dunwoody. Logic suggests he was either not as blameless as he appeared, or he had at least one friend or acquaintance who was very much a wrong ’un. Seeing as someone did this to him.’

‘Oh. I see what you mean. But that’s not possible. He really was a nice guy. And there was no one bad in his life, either.’

Judith saw Antonia frown.

‘What is it?’ Judith asked.

Antonia didn’t say anything.

‘Go on,’ Judith cajoled. And then she waited. She knew that sometimes the best way to get someone to talk was to stay silent yourself.

‘Well, it’s just,’ Antonia eventually said, ‘if you’re going to suggest there was someone who was around here who was maybe a bit of a “wrong ’un”, well, you put a person in my mind. That’s all.’

‘And who is this “someone”?’

‘No idea. I don’t know his name.’

‘Then why don’t you tell me about him, and let’s see if we can work it out together?’

‘He’s an older gentleman. With grey hair. Or silver. It went down to his shoulders. He was very tall and grand.’

‘And this was a friend of Mr Dunwoody’s?’

‘I don’t think so. He came into the gallery last week.’

‘What day last week?’

‘Monday.’

‘Okay, so this man came into the gallery last Monday.’

‘That’s right. And whoever he was, Mr Dunwoody took him straight to his office. It was like he was embarrassed that this guy had visited.’

‘I see. How very interesting. Then what happened?’

‘Well, I’m not sure. They were in Mr Dunwoody’s office. But it wasn’t long before I heard raised voices. I didn’t know what to do. You see, it’s my job to make coffees for Mr Dunwoody if he ever has any guests, and I was in such a panic. I didn’t know if I should make them coffee or not.’

‘Did you hear what they were arguing about?’

‘Not while I was outside the office, but in the end I got up my courage, knocked on the door and asked if they’d like a coffee. It was like thunder in there. The tall man, the silver-haired man, he didn’t want anything, and he was kind of rude about it. He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.’

Antonia lapsed into thoughtful silence.

‘How interesting,’ Judith said. ‘But you say you didn’t hear what they said while you were outside?’

Antonia wasn’t able to follow the line of Judith’s reasoning.

‘What’s that?’

‘You said you didn’t hear what was said while you were outside. That suggests to me that maybe there was something you heard while you were inside.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Sorry. Anyway, after the silver-haired gentleman waved me off, I left, but as I was closing the door, I heard Mr Dunwoody say to him, “I could go to the police right now.”’

‘And what did the silver-haired man have to say about that?’

‘I don’t know. I left before I could hear his reply.’

‘I see. But Mr Dunwoody definitely said that he could “go to the police right now”?’

‘He did.’

‘And you’ve really no idea what he was referring to?’

‘None at all. I’m so sorry.’

‘You didn’t perhaps raise the matter with Mr Dunwoody later on?’

‘No way. But he did, now you mention it. We were locking up for the night and Mr Dunwoody apologised that I’d had to witness the argument.’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘Well, I could see he was really uncomfortable about it all, so I just told him it was fine, I’d not really seen or heard anything. And then he said something weird. He said, “Desperation drives people to do stupid things.”’

‘What on earth was he referring to?’

‘No idea. But it’s what he said.’

Judith felt a buzz of excitement. Who was this silver-haired man who was in dispute with Stefan? Remembering how Stefan had got into an argument with Elliot Howard at the Henley Regatta, she had an idea.

‘Is your computer connected to the internet?’ she asked.

Antonia nodded.

‘Then can you do a quick search for me?’

‘Of course. What do you want to know?’

‘Could you look up the name Elliot Howard?’

‘You think he might be the man who was in here?’

‘It’s a possibility. But let’s see if we can find a picture of him online.’

‘Okay,’ Antonia said, going over to her desk and firing up the browser on her computer. She typed ‘Elliot Howard’ into the search field.

‘That’s the one,’ Judith said, pointing at the top hit.

Antonia clicked the link that opened the website for the Marlow Auction House. Next she found a ‘Who we are’ tab on the home page, and they were soon looking at the names and photos of the key members of staff.

The very first image was of a handsome man in his late fifties with silver hair that swept down to his shoulders. The caption said that his name was Elliot Howard and that he was chairman of the Marlow Auction House.

‘That’s him!’ Antonia said in surprise. ‘That’s the man who was here last Monday.’

Judith bent down to the screen so she could better see the photo.

‘Got you!’ she whispered to the man on the screen.

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