The Thursday Murder Club

by Richard Osman

  Ibrahim looks at Ron. Ron shrugs. ‘Honestly, I get mixed up somewhere around F, H and G and then I give up.’

  Ibrahim continues. ‘If we combine those lists – an easy job if you know your way around an Excel spreadsheet – then in total there were sixty-four residents at the scene, ourselves included. Then we add DCI Hudson and PC De Freitas, the builder Bogdan, who went missing …’

  ‘He was up on the hill,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We add the driver of the low-loader whose name was Marie, another Pole if that is of interest. She also teaches yoga, but that’s by the by. Karen Playfair, the lady who lives at the top of the hill, was there, as she was supposed to teach us about computers yesterday. And then, of course, Father Matthew Mackie.’

  ‘That makes seventy, Ibrahim,’ says Ron, now onto his second biscuit, whatever diabetes might say.

  ‘And Ian Ventham makes seventy-one,’ explains Ibrahim.

  ‘So you think he might have driven up, started a ruck, then killed himself? All right, Poirot,’ says Ron.

  ‘This isn’t thinking, Ron,’ says Ibrahim. ‘This is just a list. So no impatience please.’

  ‘Impatience is all I got,’ says Ron. ‘It’s my superpower. You know Arthur Scargill once told me to be patient? Arthur Scargill!’

  ‘So one of these seventy people killed Ian Ventham. Now these are nicer odds than the Thursday Murder Club usually faces, but can we narrow down the field still further?’

  ‘It would have to be someone with access to needles and drugs,’ suggests Joyce.

  ‘That’s everyone here, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘Quite so, Elizabeth,’ agrees Ibrahim. ‘If I might be permitted a visual image, that would be like looking for a needle in a haystack made entirely of needles.’

  Ibrahim pauses, under the assumption there might be applause at this point. In its absence, he continues.

  ‘Now, the injection would be the work of a split second to anyone experienced in intramuscular injections, which, again, is all of us. But the drug would need to be administered at very close quarters. So, I have deleted the names of anyone we know, for a fact, was never in close proximity to Ian Ventham. That loses a lot of the supporting cast. The fact that many of the crowd suffer from severe mobility issues has played into our hands here, as we know they couldn’t have managed a quick dash when none of us were looking.’

  ‘No Zimmers,’ agrees Ron.

  ‘We lose eight names on Zimmer frames alone,’ agrees Ibrahim. ‘Mobility scooters are also our friends here, as are cataracts. There are also many people, such as Stephen, I hope you agree, Elizabeth, who never found themselves close to Ian Ventham on that morning. They are struck from the list. Also, three residents were padlocked to the gate until someone thought to call the fire brigade, sometime later in the day. And so here we find ourselves.’

  Ibrahim turns over the top sheet of the flip chart to reveal a list of names.

  ‘Thirty names. Ourselves included. And one of them is the killer. I pause only to note that, alphabetically, by surname, I am first on the list.’

  ‘Well done, Ibrahim,’ says Joyce.

  ‘So that’s the list,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And I’m guessing it’s now time for the thinking?’

  ‘Yes, I think between us we can trim down the list a little further,’ says Ibrahim.

  ‘Who wanted him dead?’ says Ron. ‘Who gained? Did the same person kill Curran and Ventham?’

  ‘Funny to think, isn’t it?’ says Joyce, wiping crumbs from the front of her blouse. ‘That we know a murderer? I mean, we don’t know who it is, but we know we definitely know one.’

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ agrees Ron. He is considering biscuit three, but knows there’s no way he would get away with it.

  ‘Well, we had better get started,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Conversational French are due in at twelve.’

  57

  ‘Which means,’ says Chris Hudson, ‘that the fentanyl must have been administered by someone who was there that morning. So, one way or another, we already know our killer. Today, we work on a full list of everyone who was there, which won’t be easy, but the sooner we have it, the sooner we’ll have the killer. And who knows, maybe Tony Curran’s killer too. Unless Ventham killed Curran and this was retaliation.’

  Donna chances a quick peek out of the briefing-room window. Her uniformed colleague, Mark, is putting on a bicycle helmet, perfectly complementing his morose expression. Donna sips her tea – murder squad tea – and thinks about suspects. She thinks about Father Mackie. What do they really know about him? Then she thinks about the Thursday Murder Club. They were all there. All surrounding Ventham at one point or another. She could imagine them each, in their own particular way, being a murderer. Hypothetically, anyway. But actually? She couldn’t see it. They would certainly have a view, though. Donna should probably head over and see them.

  ‘In the meantime,’ continues Chris, opening another folder, ‘I have some other fun jobs for you. Ian Ventham was not a popular man. His business dealings were complicated and wide-reaching and his phone has revealed a list of affairs, which must have been pretty tiring for him. Tell your loved ones they won’t be seeing much of you for a while.’

  Loved ones. Donna thinks about her ex, Carl, then realizes she hasn’t thought about Carl for a good forty-eight hours, which is a new record. Though she has thought about him now, which spoils it a little. She realizes, though, that soon she won’t think about him for ninety-six hours, and then a week, and before you know it Carl will just seem like a character from a book she once read. Really, why had she left London? What happens when these murders are solved and she’s back in uniform?

  ‘And the rest of you, no let-up on the Tony Curran case. The two could be connected, we can’t rule it out. We still need the speed-camera info. I particularly want to know if Ian Ventham’s car was on that road that afternoon. I need to know where Bobby Tanner is and I need to know who took that photograph. And I still need the information on the phone number that called Curran.’

  Which reminds Donna of a little hunch she has been meaning to check.

  58

  Elizabeth is back in Willows, sitting in her low chair in Penny’s room. She is filling Penny in on the drama.

  ‘Simply everyone was there, Penny. You would have been in your element, swinging your truncheon and arresting everyone in sight, no doubt.’

  Elizabeth looks over at John, in the chair where he spends most of his waking hours. ‘I’m guessing you filled Penny in on the details, John?’

  John nods. ‘I may have overstated my own bravery a little, but other than that, it was chapter and verse.’

  Elizabeth, satisfied, pulls a notepad and ballpoint from her handbag. She taps a page of the notepad with her pen, like a conductor giving notice to her orchestra, and begins.

  ‘So, where are we, Penny? Tony Curran is bludgeoned to death, by person, or persons, unknown. As a side note, I will never tire of saying “bludgeoned”. I bet you used to say that a lot in the police, you lucky thing. Now Ian Ventham, meanwhile, dies within seconds of being injected with a huge dose of fentanyl. You know fentanyl, John?’

  ‘Of course,’ says John. ‘Used it all the time. Anaesthetic, mainly.’

  John the vet. Elizabeth remembers the fox that John nursed back to health with Ron. Once healthy, it had gone on to murder Elaine McCausland’s chickens. Not proven, but there were no other suspects. Ron had taken a lot of grief for it at the time, which had pleased him enormously.

  ‘How easy would it be to get hold of it?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘For someone here?’ John starts. ‘Well, not easy, but not impossible. Pharmacies would have it. You could break in here, I suppose, but you’d have to be very determined, or very lucky. And you can get it on the internet.’

  ‘Goodness,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Can you?’

  ‘The dark web. I read about it in The Lancet. You can get all sorts. A rocket la
uncher, if you really wanted one.’

  Elizabeth nods. ‘And how would one go about getting on the dark web?’

  John shrugs. ‘Well, I’m guessing, but if it were me, the first thing I would do would be to buy a computer. Perhaps go from there?’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Might be worth checking who has a computer.’

  ‘You never know,’ agrees John. ‘It would certainly narrow it down.’

  Elizabeth turns back to Penny. How unfair to see her lying there. ‘One man bludgeoned, Penny, the other poisoned. But by whom? If Ventham was killed straight away, then somebody out there this morning killed him. Me or John. Or Ron or Ibrahim? Or … who knows? Ibrahim has a list of thirty names on a spreadsheet, to start us off.’

  Elizabeth looks at her friend again. She wants to walk out of the door with her right now, arm in arm. Share a bottle of white, listen to her swear like a docker about some imagined slight and sway home happy and tipsy. But that will never happen again.

  ‘I always find it peculiar that Ibrahim doesn’t come and visit you, Penny.’

  ‘Oh, he does,’ says John.

  ‘Ibrahim visits?’ says Elizabeth. ‘He’s never said.’

  ‘Like clockwork, Elizabeth. Every day he brings a magazine and solves bridge puzzles with her. He talks them through. They solve a puzzle, he kisses her hand and off he pops half an hour later.’

  ‘And Ron?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Does he visit?’

  ‘Never,’ says John. ‘I suppose it’s not for everyone, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth nods. She supposes so too. Back to business. ‘So, Penny, who wants to kill Ian Ventham? And why at the very moment digging was about to start? I suspect your question might be, who loses what if the development goes ahead? Wouldn’t you think? I want to talk to you about Bernard Cottle at some point. Do you remember him? With the Daily Express and the nice wife? I feel like there is a motive there, waiting to be winkled out.’

  Elizabeth stands, ready to leave.

  ‘Who loses what, Penny? That’s the question, isn’t it?’

  59

  Chris Hudson has his own office, a little bolthole where he can pretend to work. There is a space on his desk where a family photograph might ordinarily sit and he feels a prick of shame every time he notes its absence. Perhaps he should have a photo of his niece? How old was she now? Twelve? Or maybe fourteen? His brother would know.

  So who killed Ventham? Chris was right there when it happened. One way or another, he actually watched him being killed. Who had he seen? The Thursday Murder Club, they were all there, the priest. The attractive woman in the jumper and trainers. Now who was she? Was she single? Now’s not the time, Chris. Concentrate.

  Had the same person murdered Ventham and Tony Curran? It made sense. Solve one, solve the other?

  Who were the three calls to Tony Curran’s phone from? Almost certainly someone trying to sell him life insurance, but you never knew. Chris is sure that Tony Curran’s phone could tell all sorts of tales. Human rights are all well and good, but Chris would love to tap the phone of every single person in Fairhaven who looked even a bit suspicious. Like they do in prison.

  He remembers an armed robber called Bernie Scullion who ran out of money in Parkhurst, but wanted to buy himself a PlayStation, so phoned his uncle and told him where he’d buried half a million pounds. The police had the money and the uncle within the hour and Bernie never got his PlayStation.

  There is a knock at the door and Chris has the brief, disturbing, realization that he hopes it’s Donna.

  ‘Come.’

  The door opens. It’s DI Terry Hallet. Terrifyingly efficient, handsome in that Royal Marine way that everyone seemed to like, but also, annoyingly, a nice guy. Chris would never be able to wear a T-shirt that tight. One day Terry will have this office. Terry has four kids and a happy marriage. Imagine the photographs he will have on the desk. Chris wishes he was Terry, but who really knew what went on at home? Perhaps Terry had a hidden sadness, perhaps he cried himself to sleep? Chris doubts it, but at least it’s something to cling to.

  ‘I can come back?’ says Terry and Chris realizes he has been staring at him for a beat too long.

  ‘No, no, sorry, Terry, miles away.’

  ‘Thinking about Ian Ventham?’

  ‘Yep,’ lies Chris. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Sorry to drag you back to Tony Curran, but I’ve got something I think you’re going to like,’ says Terry. ‘I’ve got a car that took twelve minutes to travel the half mile between the two speed cameras either side of Tony Curran’s house. Exactly the right time frame too.’

  Chris looks at the details. ‘So it stopped somewhere between the two? Nice little ten-minute break for something or other?’

  Terry Hallet nods.

  ‘Anything else around there except Tony Curran’s house? Somewhere you’d stop?’

  ‘There’s a lay-by. If you needed a slash. But …’

  ‘Long slash,’ agrees Chris. ‘We’ve all had them, but even so. And you’ve run the number plate?’

  Terry nods again. Then smiles.

  ‘I like that smile, Terry. What have you got?’

  ‘You won’t believe the registered owner, Guv.’

  Terry slides another piece of paper onto Chris’s desk. Chris takes it in.

  ‘Well, this is very good news. Are you sure about these timings?’

  Terry Hallet nods and drums his fingers on Chris’s desk. ‘That’s our killer, surely?’

  Chris has to agree. Time to go and have a chat.

  60

  Bogdan has seen where Marina lives, and now is as good a time as any. She will know what to do about the bones; he sensed that as soon as he met her. He has brought her flowers. Not from the shop but from the wood, tied the way his mother used to tie them.

  Flat 8. He presses the buzzer and a man’s voice answers. This surprises Bogdan. He has kept a close eye on her for a while and not seen a man.

  The external door to the flats swings open. ‘I am here for Marina? To see Marina?’ he says as he walks through. The first door off the carpeted hallway swings open and he sees an elderly man in pyjamas running a comb through his thick, grey hair. Maybe he has got this wrong? Either way, the man will know Marina and can point him in the right direction.

  ‘I come looking for Marina?’ says Bogdan. ‘I think maybe she live here, but maybe another flat?’

  ‘Marina? Of course, of course, come in, let’s get the kettle on shall we? Never too early, is it?’ says Stephen.

  With an arm around his shoulder, the man ushers Bogdan in. Bogdan is relieved to see a picture of Marina, a younger Marina, on the hallway table. It’s the right flat.

  ‘I don’t know where she is, old chap, but she won’t be long,’ says Stephen. ‘Probably at the shops or round at her mother’s. Sit yourself down and let’s make the most of the peace and quiet, eh? You play chess at all?’

  61

  Chris Hudson is pulling his coat over his jacket as he leaves the station. He turns as a voice behind him calls out, ‘Sir?’

  It is Donna De Freitas. She catches up with him.

  ‘Wherever you’re going, I think I’ve got a change of plan for you,’ says Donna.

  ‘I doubt it, PC De Freitas,’ says Chris. He still calls her PC De Freitas at work. ‘I’m off to have a little chat with someone.’

  ‘Only, I was looking through the call logs,’ says Donna. ‘And I recognized the number.’

  ‘The mobile that called Tony Curran?’

  Donna nods, then takes out a scrap of paper for Chris to see. ‘Remember this? Jason Ritchie’s number. He’s the one who phoned Tony three times on the morning of the murder. Is this worth a change of plan?’

  Chris holds up a finger to silence her and takes the piece of paper Terry Hallet had handed him from his jacket pocket. He passes it to Donna. ‘Vehicle records, from the day of the murder.’

  Donna reads and then looks up at Chris.

  ‘Jason
Ritchie’s car?’

  Chris nods.

  ‘Jason rings Tony Curran that morning. Jason’s car is outside Tony’s house when he dies. So we’re going to see Jason?’

  ‘Maybe just me this time,’ says Chris.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Donna. ‘Firstly, I’m your shadow, which is a sacred bond of trust et cetera, et cetera. And secondly, I just solved the crime.’

  She waves Jason’s phone number at him.

  Chris waves the vehicle records at her. ‘I solved it first, Donna. So I’m just going to pay him a quick visit at home, alone, and see if he wouldn’t mind answering a couple of questions. Very low key.’

  Donna nods. ‘Good idea. He’s not at home, though, I checked already.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘If you take me along, I’ll show you,’ says Donna.

  ‘And what if I ordered you to tell me where he was?’ asks Chris.

  ‘Well, you can try,’ says Donna. ‘See where it gets you?’

  Chris shakes his head. ‘Come on, then, you can drive.’

  62

  Neither Chris nor Donna had known that Maidstone had an ice rink. Why on earth did Maidstone have an ice rink? That had been a large part of the conversation on the drive there. This was after Donna had asked Chris to turn off his compilation of early Oasis B-sides.

  Bit by bit, Donna was intent on dragging Chris from his century into hers.

  The mystery had not been solved when they pulled up outside Ice-Spectacular. How was anyone making money out of an ice rink, just off a ring road, sandwiched between a tile warehouse and a Carpetright?

  Chris would often tell friends that if there was a business in their neighbourhood that didn’t make any sense, which had no customers, then it was a front for a drugs business. Always. No real customers needed, no real profit needed, just a way of washing money. Every town had one, tucked away somewhere on a little row of shops, or in the railway arches, or sat next to a Carpetright. Whether it was a waxing parlour, or a party lights hire shop or an ice rink with a neon sign that last lit up in 2011.