The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club)

by Richard Osman

  ‘I just love to see a horse in a field,’ says Joyce. ‘When you can tell they’re happy. Happiness is what life is all about, don’t you think?’

  Ibrahim shakes his head. ‘I can’t agree. The secret of life is death. Everything is about death, you see.’

  ‘Well, recently, yes,’ agrees Joyce. ‘But surely not everything? That seems a bit much?’

  ‘In essence,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Our existence only makes sense because of it; it provides meaning to our narrative. Our direction of travel is always towards it. Our behaviour is either because we fear it, or because we choose to deny it. We could drive past this spot once a year, every year, and neither the horse nor ourselves would get younger. Everything is death.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at things, I suppose,’ says Joyce.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Will there be a toilet at the rescue centre?’

  ‘You would think so,’ says Joyce. ‘And if not, there will be a staff toilet.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t use a staff toilet,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I always feel I haven’t earned it.’

  ‘Surely, if everything is about death, then also nothing is about death?’ says Joyce, applying lipstick in the passenger mirror.

  ‘How so?’ asks Ibrahim.

  ‘Well, just say that everything was blue. You, me, Alan, everything?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Well, if everything was blue then we wouldn’t need the word “blue”, would we?’

  ‘I accept that,’ accepts Ibrahim.

  ‘And if we had no word for blue then nothing would be blue, would it?’

  ‘Well, death is an event, and so …’ begins Ibrahim, then sees the entrance to the rescue centre up on his left. ‘We’re here!’

  Which is a relief, because Joyce does sort of have a point.

  Perhaps everything isn’t about death after all? What a time to find out.

  81

  Bogdan stares at the chess board, but it makes no sense. He has just made a fatal error, and he never makes fatal errors.

  Stephen’s lips are pursed. He has spotted the mistake. He looks up at Bogdan.

  ‘Goodness,’ he says. ‘Quite unlike you, quite unlike you.’

  Stephen moves his bishop to capitalize on the error. Bogdan is doomed. He looks down at the board again, but the pieces start dancing, they won’t behave. He tries to blink it all away. Get everything back in its place. Everything in order.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ asks Stephen.

  ‘Nothing,’ says Bogdan. Which is usually true. But not today.

  ‘If you say so, then who am I to question?’ says Stephen. ‘You killed someone else, perhaps?’

  Bogdan looks at the board. Looks at the pieces. He can’t see a way out. Stephen was going to win.

  ‘You love Elizabeth?’ says Bogdan.

  ‘Too small a word, that,’ says Stephen. ‘But yes. Where is she, by the way? She did tell me.’

  ‘Antwerp,’ says Bogdan.

  ‘Sounds like her,’ says Stephen. ‘Go on.’

  ‘When did you know you loved her?’ asks Bogdan. ‘Like, ages?’

  ‘Twenty seconds perhaps,’ says Stephen. ‘I recognized her the moment I met her. I just thought, Well, there you are, I’ve been waiting for you.’

  Bogdan nods.

  ‘Do you have a little crush on someone?’ asks Stephen. ‘Is that it? You can resign the game if you want, by the way. No coming back now, surely?’

  Bogdan looks at the board. Perhaps there is no way back? But he won’t resign just yet.

  ‘How do you know if someone likes you?’ asks Bogdan.

  ‘Well, everyone likes you, Bogdan,’ says Stephen. ‘But I imagine you mean romantically?’

  Bogdan nods, and looks down at the board again, desperately searching for a way out.

  ‘A boy or a girl?’ asks Stephen. ‘I’ve never liked to ask.’

  ‘A girl,’ says Bogdan.

  ‘Well, then I owe Elizabeth twenty pounds,’ says Stephen. ‘The best thing to do is just ask. How about a drink? If she says yes, then there’s the answer.’

  ‘But what if she says no?’

  ‘Then she says no, dust yourself down, plenty more eggs in the omelette and so on.’

  Bogdan thinks back to the parapet of the bridge. The rocks and the river below. The yellow jumper his mum had knitted. He looks down at the board and shakes his head. Sometimes the pieces weren’t where they were supposed to be. Sometimes you weren’t in control. And perhaps that was OK? He will ask her for a drink, and if she says no, she says no.

  Bogdan holds his hand out to Stephen.

  ‘I resign.’

  ‘Good lad,’ says Stephen. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s called Donna,’ says Bogdan. ‘Police officer.’

  ‘Just what you need,’ says Stephen. ‘Keep you on the straight and narrow. Just ask her for a drink, you ridiculous man.’

  Bogdan hears the front door open. Elizabeth is back. She walks in with a bag full of files.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ says Stephen. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Antwerp, darling,’ says Elizabeth, and kisses him on the top of the head.

  ‘Sounds like you,’ says Stephen.

  ‘You boys having fun?’

  ‘Bogdan was asking when I knew I was in love with you.’

  ‘Oh, really. And when was it?’

  ‘The jury’s still out, I told him. Giving her the benefit of the doubt for now.’

  ‘And how did the subject of love come up?’

  ‘Darling, Bogdan and I must have our secrets, mustn’t we?’

  ‘You must,’ agrees Elizabeth.

  Bogdan looks at the paperwork poking out of Elizabeth’s bag. ‘How was Antwerp? Everything good?’

  ‘Everything good, yes,’ says Elizabeth. ‘All taken care of.’

  82

  Joyce

  So Alan will be with me next week!

  The rescue centre have to come and visit the flat, just to check that I’m a fit and proper person. I certainly think I am, but it will be nice to have it confirmed.

  I am glad they didn’t come round last week. Sue had bled all over the kitchen floor, there were millions of pounds’ worth of diamonds on the kitchen table and Bogdan was storing three guns under the spare-room duvet. I don’t know what the rules are for ‘fit and proper’, but I imagine I would have been breaking one or two of them there.

  And, by the way, yes, it is Alan, not Rusty. They let us take him for a walk around the grounds, and Ibrahim read the riot act to me. And it does suit him, to be honest.

  We got on like a house on fire. Ibrahim tried to make him sit, but Alan was having none of it, just happily chasing his tail instead. A dog after my own heart.

  I took a picture of him while we were there, to show Elizabeth and Ron. They both said he looked like trouble, which I know they both meant as a great compliment.

  Anyway, that photo is @GreatJoy69’s Instagram profile picture now, so people can judge Alan for themselves. And, by the by, Joanna solved the mystery of my private messages. She went into my account and searched all of them for me. She told me that if I didn’t want to be sent an endless tide of photographs of men’s genitals, I should really change my username.

  Needless to say, I haven’t changed it.

  I know I said I wanted something to happen. Do you remember? And it has been fun, for the most part.

  Except for Poppy.

  We met her real mum yesterday, she actually is called Siobhan, which I suppose was all part of the plan. Elizabeth and I sat with her and talked about Poppy and she and I cried. She had to identify the body, which had already been identified. The scars on the back of her leg had actually come from a car accident when she was very young. Siobhan had lots of photographs, and we looked through them together.

  Elizabeth gave Siobhan the poetry book, which had been on Poppy’s bedside table in Hove. The bookmark was left where it was, on a poem called ‘An A
rundel Tomb’.

  Arundel is not too far from Brighton. Gerry and I once went antiquing there. This was before there were Starbucks, but we went to a nice tea room.

  Poppy’s funeral is next week, and we will all be there. Ron is taking flowers for the real Siobhan. Ever the optimist. Ibrahim is driving us.

  Elizabeth got a bit upset that Douglas had told Sue to stick close to her if she wanted to find the diamonds. Not that it was any sort of big deal, Elizabeth said, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit betrayed. I laughed and asked her if she had not worked it out? Douglas told Sue to stick close to her, because he knew Elizabeth would eventually catch her out. She took my point and cheered up a little.

  Maybe a bit of peace and quiet would be nice now. Just for a bit? Joanna is popping down at the weekend. She’s bringing the football chairman down with her, and I am making lunch. I have invited Ron over too, because he will know what to talk about.

  I asked Ron what football chairmen ate, and he said ham, egg and chips. Luckily I know Ron’s games, so I am doing a roast.

  I will tell them everything that’s been going on, except what happened to the diamonds. That’s just between Elizabeth, Ibrahim, Ron and me. We decided together, and it’s our little secret. We all need secrets, don’t we?

  Speaking of which, I have one more secret, which you mustn’t tell anyone. I haven’t even told Elizabeth. I went down to Fairhaven last Wednesday, and there’s a little place near the pier. We must have been close to it when everyone was being shot. I’d booked an appointment. I didn’t know if you had to, especially on a Wednesday.

  It took the lady a few hours, and it still hurts a bit now, but it was worth it. I never wear sleeveless dresses, not with my arms, so no one will ever see it. Unless I get lucky. It’s at the top of my left arm, and ever so pretty.

  Just a small tattoo of a poppy.

  83

  Lance James had kept the leaflet that Joyce had sent him. It was too expensive, but a man could dream, couldn’t he? He was very glad he kept it, and he had booked the appointment as soon as the money from the diamonds had come through.

  He looks around the room, bigger than his whole flat. Oak-panelled. Carpet, actual carpet. Two huge windows overlooking Dublin Bay.

  It had been chaos at the end of the pier. The report had taken him a long time to write. Who shot who and why. Leave a few things out, invent a couple of things that perhaps hadn’t happened. The footage from the monitors had disappeared, so all that was left was the word of Lance, Bogdan and Connie. Lance and Bogdan had met for a pint, got their stories straight, and that was that. The report was all true enough in the end. He’d written worse.

  The main thing he had left out, of course, was the two diamonds. They were just sitting there on the desk, for heaven’s sake, twinkling like pennies in a fountain. He had slipped them into his pocket, because what was the alternative? Where would they go otherwise?

  It was the first time Lance had done something illegal, and it would be the last. Well, he had once driven a hire car on holiday with Ruth when, technically, he had been uninsured. But that was about it.

  If you are going to commit one major crime in your life, Lance reasons, make it stealing diamonds from the mafia.

  They had given him a few days’ leave after the shootout on the pier, told him to take some time to relax. Relax? In the tiny flat he didn’t own? With the kitchen wall still half demolished? The builder had, unsurprisingly, not returned to finish the job.

  So Lance had taken the ferry to Zeebrugge, then the train to Antwerp, then a cab to the jewellery district, and the address he had been given by an arms dealer who owed him a favour.

  The diamonds as a whole had been worth twenty million, that much he knew. So what were the two he had slipped into his pocket worth? A million? Dare he dream two or three million? He had been looking through the Rightmove app all the way there.

  Sue Reardon had told him about Elizabeth Best when this all began. Her reputation, her bravery, her cunning. A legend of the Service. He had expected – and, in retrospect, Sue must have expected too – that her powers would have deserted her. Sue must have thought Elizabeth Best was an easy touch.

  But Sue would have a long time to regret her misjudgement of Elizabeth.

  So Lance should have known really, when he was on the train, looking at all the expensive houses.

  The jeweller had examined the stones, nodding and smiling. ‘These are nice, these are very nice,’ he’d been saying. Where had Lance got them?

  Lance told him that a relative had died.

  ‘You have papers?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  The jeweller had shrugged. No matter. Then he had put down his eyeglass.

  ‘Very nice indeed. I can offer you thirty thousand.’

  Lance must have looked shocked, because the jeweller had immediately said, ‘OK, OK, thirty-five.’

  Yes, of course, Lance should have known. He should have known Elizabeth wouldn’t have left a million, or two or three, in the hands of Connie Johnson, or whoever else might have ended up with the diamonds in the chaos. She had given Connie the runts of the litter. Thirty thousand pounds, out of twenty million. Lance had started to laugh. He wouldn’t have been able to spend a million anyway. The Service does yearly audits, unusual spending, extravagances. Checking the Russians or the Saudis weren’t paying you. Or that you hadn’t just stolen some diamonds from the mafia. Spending three million would have been virtually impossible.

  But spending thirty-five thousand? That had been a breeze. He had bought Ruth out of the flat. Of course, she hadn’t asked him where he had got the money, because, to Ruth, twenty-five thousand pounds was insignificant.

  And the other ten thousand? Well, that’s why he was here, in this grand room in Dublin, with its oak panels, and beautiful windows. With the coffee table, stacked with magazines not to read, while he waits.

  He likes to think about what happened to the rest of the twenty million. What has Elizabeth done with it? Maybe she has kept it? Perhaps Sue could have bought her off after all? Lance doubts it very much though. He wonders if, one day, he might be allowed to ask her. He hopes so, he would certainly like to meet her again.

  Lance picks up the Sunday Telegraph magazine. The cover image is familiar. ‘Hidden Treasure – Is This the Most Beautiful Garden in England?’ Hidden treasure indeed, he thinks, and wonders what the eventual new owners of Martin Lomax’s house might dig up around the place.

  As he flicks to the article, the nicely groomed man behind the desk in the corner says, ‘Doctor Morris will see you now.’

  Lance gets to his feet and, for once, runs his fingers through his hair. It’ll be good to remember what it feels like before the transplant.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Lance.

  84

  Sylvia Finch slips off her suede shoes, still dark from the puddles, and pulls her chair up to the empty desk.

  She comes in for two days a week, and has done for around ten years now. Ever since she retired.

  She has the odd week off, usually when the kids and grandkids come to visit. She doesn’t have her own desk, they just put her wherever they have space. Space is tight, and money is tight, and Sylvia is glad to just muck in. Glad to help the people who helped her.

  Wherever they put her, she takes out the picture of Dennis and props it against her computer. To remind her why she’s there.

  She logs into the online banking system. Today is just cross-checking the accounts. Making sure monies paid in have arrived, and making sure nothing unauthorized has gone out. There is usually the odd anomaly, a promised transfer which hasn’t gone through, or a staff member buying lunch on the wrong credit card. Never anything really sinister, but always best to check.

  Today, however, as Sylvia clicks onto the main holding account, she spots an immediate error. The error is amusing, more than anything else, the sort of thing that, in happier days, she would tell Dennis about when she got home.

  Sy
lvia rings the bank and gives her details. She runs through the error she has spotted, but is assured that it is not an error. Which is impossible. She asks the lady on the other end, Lisa, very friendly, to double-check, which she does. No error. So she asks for a few more details.

  Sylvia thanks Lisa and puts down the phone.

  The bigwigs are all in a meeting. Eight of them around a table that is far too small. The bottom half of the glass meeting-room wall is frosted, but in the clear pane above she can see the tops of people’s heads and, cramped into a corner, the chief executive standing by a flip chart, pointing out figures.

  Sylvia has never interrupted a meeting before, would never dream of it, in fact. She has never liked to draw attention to herself, and she has always been glad that accountants very rarely need to interrupt meetings. But in this instance she probably should.

  She checks and double-checks the screen. Then checks and double-checks the information she has written down. She takes a final look at the photograph of Dennis. Her husband, her love. Gone to dementia, then gone for ever. The man who died twice. Courage, Sylvia, Dennis is with you.

  As she walks over to the meeting-room door, she hears the noise of the discussion, and begins to feel awkward. She pauses for a moment outside the door. What will she look like when she walks in? A silly, thin old woman? Sylvia, who says good morning, puts the picture of her husband on her desk, then doesn’t speak again until she says good evening? Sylvia, who silently holds up his flask every time someone offers her a cup of tea? Sylvia, who doesn’t know which jumper goes with which skirt? Well, she supposes she can’t change who she is, and this is important. Sylvia knocks.

  There is a slight pause, then, ‘Yes, come in.’

  Sylvia pushes open the door, and the faces around the table and the face at the flip chart all turn towards her. She feels giddy. The flip chart is branded with the logo of the charity. ‘Living With Dementia – Living With Love’. They had done all they could for her and Dennis, and she gives everything she can to them in return. She has no money to give, and so she gives her time. She sees they are waiting for her to speak. So here goes nothing.