The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club)

by Richard Osman

  I think it’s a fact that Poppy must have found the letter in the tree? Nothing else makes sense otherwise. And I know it’s a fact that Poppy’s mum opened locker 531, and that, the next day, someone shot someone in the safe house on St Albans Avenue. So all fingers point to Poppy.

  But still I come back to the smiley face and the little kiss on the Post-it note.

  So, yes, the file.

  I had looked up Ryan Baird on Instagram before, of course. There were twelve of them, but only one in Kent. BigBairdWolf2003. But the account was private, and I am not a computer hacker, and I don’t know any computer hackers, so I didn’t take it any further. Someone from BT came round to fix my broadband last week, and I asked her if she knew how to hack into private Instagram accounts, but she didn’t.

  I still don’t know how to get into my @GreatJoy69 private messages. There are now over a thousand. How frustrating.

  Anyway, then I had a bright idea, even if I say so myself. In Poppy’s file is a list of Ryan Baird’s friends and family members, and so I started looking them up on Instagram too. I thought, Well, he’s gone somewhere, hasn’t he? If I was ever on the run, there’s a woman I used to work with – Sandra Nugent? – who retired to the Isle of Wight, and I would probably go and stay with her. She says it’s the middle of nowhere, but you can still get a Tesco delivery, so that would suit me down to the ground. Sandra can get a bit much sometimes, but if you’re on the run you can’t be too picky.

  Ryan Baird’s mum is in Littlehampton, but I couldn’t find her on Instagram. I couldn’t even find her on Facebook, so she may very well be dead. He has an older sister, Leanne, and I think I found her, but she never posts anything except rainbows in support of various different things. Good for her, but no help to me.

  Then we got on to cousins, of which there were plenty. This was a long job, by the way. I’m making it sound quick, but it wasn’t. There were so many people to check, and I also kept getting distracted by new posts from people I follow. I watched Joe Wicks do a new workout, for example.

  The file got on to Steven Baird. Born in Paisley, which I know is in Scotland, so I had a little search, and there are lots of Bairds in Scotland, and lots of Stevens too. So I scrolled through a few. Then I stumbled across StevieBlunterRangers4Eva.

  He had a look of Ryan Baird about him, something unfortunate around the eyes, so I thought I would explore a little. It didn’t take long. Two days ago Stevie Blunter had posted a series of pictures of a party. It was in a small, messy flat, and, even in photographs, it looked loud.

  Then I found the photograph I was looking for. The caption read:

  Bluntin of ma nut wi ma cuz Pablo

  I couldn’t really make head nor tail of it, but the photo showed Steven Baird, arms around Ryan Baird, both smoking roll-up cigarettes. Clear as day. So there he is. In Scotland.

  After the Thursday Murder Club meeting I asked Donna and Ron to come over.

  First things first, I showed Donna the diamonds. She held the biggest one on her ring finger and walked up and down like a model. Then she made Ron do the same and they were both laughing. I took the opportunity of an empty kettle to make us all a cup of tea.

  I showed them both the photo, and they both said I’d done a wonderful job. Ron hugged me. I will say this for Ron, he is not my type, but he is a very good hugger. He will make a very specific type of woman a very good husband one day.

  It is a shame about Siobhan, because she might even have been that woman. I wonder who she actually is?

  Donna translated the Instagram caption for me. It means ‘smoking cannabis with my cousin Pablo’. Pablo must be Ryan Baird’s nickname.

  Donna said she would get straight on to Strathclyde Police and have him tracked down and arrested. But then I told her my plan instead. She and Ron both listened, and then agreed that my plan was much more fun.

  They’ve just gone, the two of them, and the diamonds are back in the kettle where they belong.

  Ron is off to see Connie Johnson tomorrow. I’d like to be a fly on the wall, I really would. You can see he feels ten feet tall at the moment, and I have every faith in him.

  I can see the Post-it note in front of me still. Poppy’s smiley face. I don’t know at all, I really don’t.

  Perhaps she’ll turn up on Fairhaven pier on Monday, or perhaps she really is dead, and this is a wild goose chase.

  But I suspect that Elizabeth is right in one thing. If we get everybody together at the end of the pier, diamonds out in the open, then surely we’ll find out exactly who shot who and why.

  71

  Connie Johnson has changed three times already this morning. The summer dress was too obvious, the jumpsuit was not obvious enough, and the trousers she’d bought from Whistles were perfect, but she hadn’t been able to comfortably hide her gun in them.

  In the end she had a brainwave, and she is dressed in her Lycra gym kit. This sent a number of messages. Firstly, ‘Oh, this meeting is not a big deal, I’m just fitting it in on the way to the gym,’ but, more importantly, ‘Here you go, Bogdan, this is what’s on offer,’ but in a healthy, rather than a slutty way.

  And her gun is in a handy bumbag.

  There is a large bag of MDMA on her desk, which she tidies into a drawer, before checking her watch. They are due any minute. Bogdan had slipped a letter under the lock-up door – a letter, swoon. He was bringing a man called Vic Vincent with him to discuss some sort of deal. Vincent being some major player in London.

  She had googled ‘Vic Vincent’, of course, and nothing had come up, which was all the reassurance she needed. She was dealing with a pro.

  There is a baseball bat covered with barbed wire leaning up against the photocopier, and Connie nudges it out of sight. She checks her hair once again. Perhaps Bogdan will be wearing a singlet? Those glorious arms rippling, ready to –

  There is a loud bang on the metal door. Here we go, Connie. As she gets to the door she notices a large bloodstain under one of the coat hooks. Too late to clean it up now, they’ll just have to take her as they find her.

  She opens the door, and in walk Bogdan and Vic Vincent. They shake hands. Bogdan is not wearing a singlet, but he is wearing sunglasses, so she still has plenty to work with. Vic Vincent looks familiar, but she can’t place him. Have their paths crossed before? He looks the part, face admirably busted, but his suit is a little too tight, and is that a West Ham United tie?

  Nobody wants coffee – ‘You mustn’t drink coffee before the gym,’ Bogdan says, and, yes, of course, she should have thought of that. They sit.

  ‘I’ve heard good things about you, Connie,’ says Vic Vincent. ‘From Bogdan here.’

  He’s heard good things from Bogdan. Bogdan has been talking about her. ‘I see, and does Bogdan work for you?’

  Vic Vincent laughs. ‘Bogdan don’t work for no one. But now and again I ask him to help out. He gets a job done with no fuss. You understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ says Connie. She looks over at Bogdan, sitting there silent in his sunglasses like Mr Darcy. She just bets he gets a job done with no fuss.

  ‘I’ve got something you might be able to help me with. You interested in diamonds?’ asks Vic Vincent.

  Where does she know him from?

  ‘Not really,’ says Connie. ‘I’m interested in money, though? If that’s involved too?’

  Vic Vincent nods. Bogdan is looking around the room. She is glad she tidied away the bag of MDMA and the baseball bat. You can tell he likes tidy.

  ‘You ever dealt with the mafia?’ asks Vic.

  The mafia? Well this is getting interesting.

  Connie shakes her head. ‘I tried to cancel Sky Sports once, that’s the closest I’ve got.’

  ‘A gentleman is coming down to Fairhaven on Monday, he’s called Frank Andrade. I want someone to meet him. We’ve got a room on the end of the pier. Manager’s office.’

  Connie nods, she knows the room well. She once threatened to burn down the arcade. Perhaps B
ogdan will be at the meeting? What will she wear then? The mafia and Bogdan?

  ‘I need someone I can trust, and Bogdan says that’s you, to give Mr Andrade these.’

  Vic Vincent hands her a blue velvet bag. She opens the drawstring. Diamonds, he wasn’t kidding.

  ‘What are they worth?’ Connie asks.

  ‘Let’s just say they’re worth doing the job properly,’ says Vic Vincent. The buttons on his shirt are straining. That face is so familiar. What’s going on here?

  ‘And why can’t you hand them over yourself?’

  ‘We don’t get on, I killed his brother.’

  Connie nods. ‘Been there. And why at the end of a pier?’

  ‘A lot of people want these diamonds. I can’t tell you why, but they do. We need somewhere we can keep an eye on everyone who’s coming or going.’

  ‘And what’s in it for me?’ asks Connie.

  ‘There’ll be another geezer there. Called Lomax. Andrade trusts him. Sells a lot of coke in south London and looking for a new wholesaler.’

  ‘What happened to his old wholesaler?’

  ‘Accident with a cement mixer,’ says Vic.

  ‘Clumsy,’ says Connie.

  ‘So I told him to check you out. Buy fifty grand’s worth from you, check the quality, see if you might be what he’s looking for.’

  Connie nods.

  ‘And for that introduction, you hand over the diamonds to Andrade for me. Sound fair?’

  Vic Vincent gives her a little smile. Connie knows this guy, she swears. Knows his face. Talk about too good to be true. Is this the copper, Chris Hudson, setting her up?

  Connie fiddles with her bumbag for a moment, and then pulls out her gun. She points it straight at Vic Vincent. If that was really his name. Vic and Bogdan both raise their eyebrows a little.

  ‘Sorry, mate, no offence, but I know you. I’ve seen you before.’ Connie keeps the gun pointing straight between Vic Vincent’s eyes. Vic scratches a tattoo on his arm. It says ‘Kendrick’. Without taking her eyes off him, she addresses Bogdan. ‘Who is he, Bogdan? Just tell me. Just tell me, and you boys can walk out and we’ll say no more about it.’ Can she kill Vic Vincent and still go for a drink with Bogdan? She doubts it, but she’ll have a good go.

  ‘He’s Vic Vincent,’ says Bogdan. ‘I worked for him a few times, never any trouble.’

  ‘Keep going,’ says Connie. Vic Vincent looks cool as you like. But a bead of sweat drops down his neck, across a faded West Ham tattoo.

  ‘He called me, few weeks ago, says, “Bogdan, you know anyone I can trust?” I said Connie, because I trust you.’

  God, this is hard, thinks Connie. But focus.

  ‘He asks if you deal coke, and I say of course, everybody does. So he tells me, buy coke from her, let me see.’

  ‘That ten grand the other day?’ asks Connie.

  ‘That was Vic’s money.’

  Connie starts to laugh, she puts down the gun and gives Vic Vincent a hug. He is sweatier than she expects.

  ‘That’s where I know your face from! I’ve got someone who follows everyone when they leave here. Checks they’re not cops, rivals, whatever, takes photos. Bogdan took the coke to you, by the pier.’

  Connie opens a drawer and flicks through some photos. She pulls out one of Ron and Bogdan by Fairhaven pier.

  ‘Dressed as a plumber, I like it. I knew I knew your face. Sorry, Mr Vincent, I didn’t mean to point a gun at you.’

  ‘No problem,’ says Vic Vincent, and scratches his Kendrick tattoo again. ‘And bring that gun with you on Monday. Just in case.’

  ‘So, I’m in,’ says Connie. ‘Fifty grand of coke, and the diamonds.’

  ‘Monday, three p.m.,’ says Vic Vincent.

  Connie looks at Bogdan. ‘And will you be there?’

  Bogdan takes off his sunglasses and looks straight at her. ‘Yes, we can do it together.’

  Jesus Christ, that was an intense look. ‘Maybe we could all go for a drink?’

  ‘You are going to the gym,’ says Bogdan, putting his sunglasses back on.

  Damn!

  ‘I need one more favour, Connie,’ says Vic Vincent. ‘If you don’t mind. Nothing difficult.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Connie.

  ‘My wife’s niece lives down here, and she’s got a boy looking for an opportunity. Just thinking you might need a driver on the day, wondered if you’d give him a chance?’

  ‘I’ve got a driver,’ says Connie.

  ‘I’d rather have someone I know I could trust too,’ says Vic Vincent. ‘Family. He’s done a bit of work for you before, the way he tells it. He can drive the three of us to dinner afterwards, if you fancy?’

  Connie does fancy.

  ‘Sure, what’s his name?’

  ‘Ryan Baird,’ says Vic Vincent, and slips a piece of paper over to Connie. ‘He’s up in Scotland at the moment; that’s the address. You think you could send someone up to bring him down for Monday?’

  ‘Of course,’ nods Connie, thinking about where to go for dinner.

  Monday on the pier was going to be a lot of fun.

  72

  Elizabeth had explained again and again to Joyce that Farnborough wasn’t an airport like Heathrow and Gatwick, and that there wouldn’t be shops. But her friend is crestfallen nonetheless.

  ‘But there’s not even a WHSmith’s,’ says Joyce, looking around the arrivals terminal.

  ‘What did you want to buy, for goodness’ sake?’ asks Elizabeth. It is eleven thirty in the morning, and Frank Andrade Jr should be walking through the arrivals doors very soon.

  ‘Well nothing, it’s just the principle,’ says Joyce. ‘Once you’ve used the toilet there’s nothing else to do.’

  ‘I’m so sorry if I’m boring you, Joyce, bringing you to meet a mafia boss so we can drive him to a diamond swap where we’re going to catch a murderer.’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ says Joyce, and settles into a chair.

  Elizabeth hadn’t been able to persuade Ibrahim to drive them to Farnborough, so Ron’s friend Mark has driven them up in his taxi. It would have been more fun with Ibrahim but, for a friend of Ron’s, Mark was actually rather good company. She was worried about what radio station he would want to listen to, but it was Radio 2, so she had got off fairly lightly.

  Joyce is sulking. Elizabeth knows what will cheer her up.

  ‘That really was a terrific idea. Ryan Baird as the driver. And to find him in the first place, well, that was first rate.’

  ‘Stop trying to cheer me up,’ says Joyce. ‘I should be looking at travel toiletries in Boots.’

  ‘Righto,’ says Elizabeth. Everything was in place. The pier would be closed for maintenance as soon as the meeting began. Chris and his team would be there. They had received a tip-off that Connie Johnson would be on the end of the pier at 3 p.m., with cocaine and a gun.

  A group of Japanese businessmen walk past. A driver is pushing their luggage on a trolley. Elizabeth would love to open every single bit of luggage that came into this airport. Private jets flying in from all directions. She had briefly worked as a luggage handler at Heathrow, stitching tracking devices into the suitcases of trade delegations.

  Sue would be there this afternoon, too. That had been a tricky conversation. Yes, Elizabeth had found the diamonds, no, she didn’t have them right now, yes, they were in the hands of a south coast drugs baron, yes, she understood this wasn’t best practice. Where had she found them? Well, that was a story for another day. On and on it had gone, threats and name-calling. ‘I thought we had an understanding?’ Why did people always get so angry? We’ll all be dead soon enough.

  Sue had calmed down eventually, and she will be tucked away somewhere, watching and listening.

  Lance will be there, too. He is staking out Martin Lomax’s house, so will be driving Lomax to the meeting. That had worked out very nicely.

  ‘Can I say something?’ asks Joyce.

  ‘Not if it’s about why there are no shops here, no,
’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘I don’t want you to get annoyed with me,’ says Joyce. ‘I just … I’m just not sure that Poppy is behind all this. I know I’ve got a soft spot, I do know that. Ever since she trusted me with her mum’s phone number, I’ve felt very protective of her. More fool me, perhaps.’

  ‘I meant to ask. Did she make eye-contact when she put the number in your pocket?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Flutter her eyelashes? Poor me?’

  ‘No, I just found it when I got back. But, also, I haven’t told you about the smiley face on the Post-it no–’

  The arrivals doors swish open in front of them, and through them walks a man dressed for all the world as if he’s heading off for a game of golf. Polo shirt, beige slacks, sunglasses pushed up into his hairline. Mid-forties perhaps? All by himself, one small briefcase. He is looking around for the car-hire desk, as Elizabeth and Joyce step into stride on either side of him.

  ‘You must be Mr Andrade,’ says Elizabeth.

  Andrade stops and looks at Elizabeth.

  ‘Nope,’ he says.

  ‘I’m Joyce,’ says Joyce. ‘And this is Elizabeth.’

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ says Frank Andrade. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  Off he strides again, with Elizabeth keeping pace alongside and Joyce hurrying to catch up.

  ‘You won’t need a car, Mr Andrade,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘I hate to disagree,’ says Frank Andrade.

  ‘Mark from Robertsbridge Taxis is driving us,’ says Joyce. ‘We worried the boot wouldn’t be big enough for your luggage, but look at you with only the one bag. It’s a Toyota Avensis.’

  Andrade stops again. ‘Ladies, forgive me, I don’t know who you are. I don’t care who you are. I got somewhere to be, and someone to see.’

  ‘We know,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We’re here to help. You’re off to see Martin Lomax.’

  Andrade gives Elizabeth a hard stare.

  ‘About your diamonds,’ says Joyce.

  Andrade gives Joyce an even harder stare. Elizabeth sees Joyce blush. For goodness’ sake, is there no one Joyce doesn’t find attractive?