The Thursday Murder Club

by Richard Osman

  Steve Georgiou shakes his head. ‘Nope, I know where it’s been.’

  Chris hands the envelope to Donna and she puts it in an evidence bag. They both know that Steve Georgiou has just been very brave. Chris stands and shakes him by the hand.

  ‘I know Tony Curran was a bastard,’ says Steve Georgiou. ‘But he didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘Agreed,’ says Chris. ‘Up to a point. Anyway. Me and my gut will be back here soon.’

  ‘Good lad.’

  106

  Elizabeth leaves Stephen sleeping. Bogdan will be around after work for a game of chess. She hopes they will both be there when she gets back. She’ll need the company.

  The knob has come off the bedroom wardrobe door and Elizabeth casually leaves it on the kitchen table. She bets that Bogdan won’t be able to resist fixing it.

  Ron had come to her with the photograph that Karen Playfair had seen. Karen would have been young at the time, but she was sure. Elizabeth had tried to piece it all together in her head. It seemed impossible at first. But the more she thought about it, it began to seem horribly true. She worked out the steps, one by one. Ibrahim had come back an hour ago, with the final piece of the jigsaw, so now is the time. The case is solved and only justice remains.

  Elizabeth walks out into the cold evening air, not turning back now. The skies are getting darker earlier and the scarves are coming out of the wardrobes. Summer is still keeping a lid on autumn, but it won’t be long. How many more autumns for Elizabeth? How many more years of slipping on a pair of comfortable boots and walking through the leaves? One day, spring will come without her. The daffodils will always come up by the lake, but you won’t always be there to see them. So it goes; enjoy them while you can.

  But right now, with the job at hand, Elizabeth feels an affinity with the late summer. The leaves clinging gamely on, the last hurrah of the heat, the odd trick still up its sleeve.

  She sees Ron making his way over, grim-faced, but ready. Hiding his limp, keeping his pain to himself. What a fine friend Ron is, she thinks. What a heart he has. Long may it go on beating.

  As she turns the corner she sees Ibrahim waiting by the door, folder in hand. The last piece of the jigsaw. How handsome he looks, dressed for the occasion, ready to do whatever’s necessary. That Ibrahim might ever die seems absurd to Elizabeth. He will certainly be the last of them. The last oak in the forest, standing still and true, as the aeroplanes whizz overhead.

  How to begin? thinks Elizabeth. How to even begin?

  107

  Chris gets the nod. An international warrant has been issued for the arrest of Gianni Gunduz for questioning over the murder of Tony Curran. A good end to the day. The euros Steve Georgiou gave them had no prints, but had been taken out at a bureau de change in Northern Cyprus three days before Tony Curran’s murder. He’d given Joe Kyprianou the address of the bureau, in case of CCTV, but Joe had taken one look at the address and laughed. No chance.

  Would the Cypriot authorities ever find him? Who knew? You’d think so, but after the initial rush, how hard is anyone really going to look? Maybe Chris will even get another trip over to Cyprus. That would be nice. Either way, he’s done all he can and it’s up to the Cypriots now, if they fancy their chances. Whatever happens, Chris will look good.

  It is a cause for celebration, but Chris has had too many nights in the pub with too many coppers over the years. What he’d really wanted was a curry at home, get Donna round, watch something on TV, bottle of wine and send her home at ten. Maybe talk a bit about Ventham. What have they missed?

  Chris had a worrying thought earlier. A stupid one, really. Only, hadn’t the convent had a hospital, all those years ago? Wasn’t Joyce an ex-nurse? Run the name Joyce Meadowcroft through the computer? Could he talk to Donna about it?

  But Donna had a mystery date tonight. Casually dropped it into the conversation on the way back from Steve’s Gym. So, he would go home and have a night in by himself, with a curry. Chris knew that was where this was heading. The darts was on Sky.

  Chris wondered whether this was a tragic plan, or simply the sort of plan that people would think was tragic. Was he a content man, doing the things he liked alone? Or was he a lonely man, making the best out of what he had? Alone, or lonely? This question cropped up so often these days, Chris could no longer be confident of his answer. Though if he were a betting man, his money would be on lonely.

  Where was his date?

  If he leaves right now, it will be rush hour. So Chris closes the Tony Curran file and opens up the Ventham file. If he can solve one murder, he can surely solve two more? What has he missed? Who has he missed?

  108

  They make their way along the corridor, Elizabeth and Ibrahim, with Ron carrying a couple of extra chairs. A job to do.

  Behind them, double doors swing open and Joyce hurries after her friends.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. The beeper was going off on my oven and I couldn’t work out why.’

  ‘Sometimes it can be a very brief power outage. Then the clock tries to reset itself,’ says Ibrahim.

  Joyce nods. Without thinking, she takes Ibrahim’s hand. Ahead of them Elizabeth has taken Ron’s hand too and they walk in silence until they reach the door.

  Despite the circumstances, Elizabeth knocks. As she always does.

  She opens the door and there he is. The man Karen Playfair had recognized after all those years. His picture next to Ron, holding the fox that he had saved.

  The same old book is open at the same old page. He looks up and seems unsurprised to see the four of them.

  ‘Ah, the gang’s all here.’

  ‘The gang’s all here, John,’ confirms Elizabeth. ‘Do you mind if we sit?’

  John gestures for them to do exactly that. He puts down his book and pinches the bridge of his nose. Ron looks over at Penny, comatose on the bed. Nothing left of her, really, he thinks. Gone. Why hasn’t he been to see her? Why had it taken this?

  ‘How shall we do this, John?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Up to you, Elizabeth,’ replies John. ‘I’ve been waiting for that knock since the moment I did it. Just took each day as a bonus. I do wish you’d taken a bit longer, though. What was it, in the end?’

  ‘Karen Playfair recognized you,’ said Ibrahim.

  John nods and smiles to himself. ‘Did she? Little Karen. Goodness!’

  ‘You put her dog to sleep when she was six, John,’ says Joyce. ‘She says she would never forget your kind eyes.’

  Elizabeth is in her customary seat at the foot of Penny’s bed. ‘Do you want to start, John? Or shall we?’

  ‘Shall I?’ says John, and shuts his eyes. ‘I’ve been over it so many times in my head.’

  ‘Who is in the grave, John? Whose bones are they?’

  Eyes still shut, John looks up to the heavens, lets out a sigh from the ages and begins.

  ‘It would have been the early seventies, maybe ten miles from here. Greyscott, one of the sheep farms. There used to be any number around here, you know? Long time ago now. I think I’d started in 1967, Penny would remember for sure, but around then anyway. The farmer was an old boy called Matheson and I knew him well enough by that point. I’d go out there every now and again. You know, something would happen. This time around, he’d had a mare just given birth. The foal had died and the mare was in distress. She was in such pain, screaming, and he hadn’t wanted to shoot her, which I understood, so I gave her an injection and that was that. Done it many times, before and since. Some farmers will just shoot them, some vets will too, but not Matheson and not me. Anyway, he made me a cup of tea and we got chatting. I was always in a hurry, but I think he was a very lonely man. There was no family, no one to help him on the farm, money running out, so I think he welcomed the company. It was very bleak up there, that’s how it seemed to me that day. I had to be on my way, but he didn’t want me to leave. You will judge me, I know, or perhaps you won’t, but suddenly something seemed clear as day to me. He was in di
stress, great distress. If Matheson had been an animal he would have been screaming. You have to believe that. And so I reached into my bag and I offered him a flu shot, you know, see him through the winter and all that. He was glad of the offer. He rolled up his sleeve and I gave him his shot. The same shot I’d just given the mare. And that was the end of the screaming and the end of the pain.’

  ‘You put him out of his misery, John?’ asks Joyce.

  ‘That’s how I saw it. Then and now. If I’d had my wits about me I would have conjured up some clever little concoction, something that wouldn’t show up in a post-mortem, and left him there to be found by the postman, or the milk van, or whoever knocked there next. But it was spur of the moment, so there he was, pumped full of pentobarbital and I couldn’t take the risk that someone might look into it.’

  ‘So you had to bury him? This Matheson?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Quite so. I would have buried him there and then, but you’ll remember they were buying up farmland left, right and centre those days, building houses everywhere, and I thought it’d be just my luck to bury him, then have him dug up by builders a month later. And that’s when I remembered.’

  ‘The graveyard,’ says Ron.

  ‘It was perfect. I knew it from visiting Gordon Playfair. It wasn’t on farmland, and no one was going to be buying a convent, for heaven’s sake. I knew how quiet it was, I knew no one visited. So I drove up one night, a couple of days later, lights off. Picked up my spade and did the deed. And that was that, until one day, forty years later, I saw an advert for this place.’

  ‘And here we all are,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘And here we all are. I persuaded Penny it would be a lovely place to retire to, and I wasn’t wrong there. I just wanted to keep an eye on things. You think they won’t dig up a graveyard, but you never know these days, and I wanted to be close by in case the worst happened.’

  ‘Which it did, John,’ says Joyce.

  ‘I couldn’t dig the body back up; too old, too feeble. And I couldn’t risk the grave being dug up and the body being found. So in the panic of that morning, in all the chaos while we were holding him back, I slid a syringe into Ventham’s arm and seconds later he was dead. Which is unforgivable in every way. Unforgivable. And from that moment I’ve been waiting for you to come, and I’ve been waiting to face the consequences of what I’ve done.’

  ‘How did you magically have a syringe filled with fentanyl, John?’ asks Elizabeth.

  John smiles. ‘I’ve had it for a long time. In case I ever needed it here. If they ever wanted to move Penny.’

  John looks at Elizabeth, through clear eyes.

  ‘I’m glad it was you at least, Elizabeth and not the police. I’m glad you solved it. I knew you would.’

  ‘I’m glad too, John,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And thank you for telling your story. You know we will have to tell the police?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We don’t need to do it this very second though. While it’s just us, can I clarify two little things?’

  ‘Of course. It was a long time ago, but I’ll help if I can.’

  ‘I think you and I agree, John, that Penny probably doesn’t hear what goes on in this room? Whatever silly nonsense we say to her? That we’re kidding ourselves, really?’

  John nods.

  ‘But I think we’re also agreed that maybe she can? Just maybe? Maybe she hears it all?’

  ‘Maybe,’ agrees John.

  ‘In which case, John, perhaps she can hear us now?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Even if there’s the slightest chance, John. The slightest chance that Penny heard what you just said. Why would you do that to her? Why put her through that?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘You wouldn’t, John, that’s the truth. That would have been torture,’ says Elizabeth.

  Ibrahim sits forward. ‘John, you said that killing Ian Ventham was unforgivable. And I believe, truly, that you mean that. It was an act beyond your imagining. And yet you ask us to believe that you committed that act simply to save your own skin? That doesn’t ring true, I’m afraid. You committed an act you knew to be unforgivable. And I’m afraid we see only one reason for that.’

  ‘Love, John,’ says Joyce. ‘Always love.’

  John looks at the four of them. Each implacable.

  ‘I sent Ibrahim to have a look at one of Penny’s files this morning,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Ibrahim?’

  Ibrahim takes a small manila file from his shopping bag and hands it to Elizabeth. She opens the file on her lap.

  ‘Shall we get to the truth?’

  109

  Chris is alone. The remains of a takeaway curry are in front of him. Michael van Gerwen dispatched Peter Wright by six sets to love, finishing the darts early. So now there is nothing on TV and no one to watch it with. He is wondering whether he should go to the twenty-four-hour garage for some crisps. Just to take the edge off.

  His phone buzzes. That’s something, at least. It’s Donna.

  Might watch Jason Ritchie’s Famous Family Trees on catch-up. You fancy?

  Chris looks at his watch, it’s nearly ten. Why not? Another buzz.

  And wear your dark blue shirt, please. The one with the buttons.

  Chris is used to Donna by now, so does as he is told. As always, he gets changed without looking in a mirror, because who wants to see that? He texts back.

  Yes ma’am, anything for a bit of Jason Ritchie. On my way.

  Donna’s date had clearly not been a roaring success.

  110

  ‘She keeps them in storage, John,’ says Elizabeth, holding the manila file. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever been? It’s files of all her old cases. You’re not supposed to keep them, but you know Penny. She made copies of everything, just in case.’

  ‘In case they might help catch a killer many years later,’ says Joyce.

  ‘Anyway, John, after Karen Playfair recognized you, it got me thinking, and I just needed one final thing checking in one of the files.’

  ‘Would you like some water, John?’ asks Joyce.

  John shakes his head. His eyes are on Elizabeth as she begins to read from the file.

  ‘There was a case in Rye, in 1973. Penny must have been very junior. I can’t imagine Penny ever having been junior, but you must remember it very clearly. Probably seems like yesterday. The case concerned a girl named Annie Madeley. You remember Annie Madeley, Penny?’

  Elizabeth looks over to where her friend is lying. Listening? Not listening?

  ‘Stabbed during a burglary and bled to death in the arms of her boyfriend. Around came the police, including Penny, that’s in the file. Found broken glass on the floor, where our burglar had got in, but nothing stolen. The burglar had been surprised by Annie Madeley, panicked, picked up a kitchen knife, stabbed her and fled. That’s the official account if you want to read it. Case closed. But Ron was the first to sniff it out; he didn’t like it one bit.’

  ‘It stunk, Johnny,’ says Ron. ‘A burglar in the middle of the day, on a busy estate? With people at home? You might burgle on a Sunday morning, while everyone is at church, but not Sunday afternoon, not the done thing.’

  Elizabeth looks over to her friend. ‘You must have thought that too, Penny? You must have known the boyfriend had stabbed her, waited for her to die, then called the police.’

  She dabs Penny’s dry lips.

  ‘We started looking into it months ago, John. The Thursday Murder Club. No Penny, but we carried on. I was surprised we’d never looked at the case before, surprised Penny had never brought it in. We started looking at it, John, seeing if the police had got it wrong all those years ago. I read the report on the knife wound and it didn’t seem right to me, so I asked Joyce about it. In fact, it might have been the first thing I ever asked you, Joyce?’

  ‘It was,’ remembers Joyce.

  ‘I described the wound and asked her how long it would take to die, and she said around forty-five minutes or
so, which didn’t fit the boyfriend’s account at all. He had chased the burglar – no one saw this, John – rushed back to the kitchen, held Annie Madeley in his arms and rang the police immediately. I then asked Joyce if someone with any medical training could have saved her and what did you say, Joyce?’

  ‘I was certain, it would have been easy. You’ll know that too, John, with your training.’

  ‘Now the boyfriend had been a soldier, John, invalided out a few years before. So he could have saved her, no question. But that’s not the way the investigation went. I’d like to say that things were different in these cases back then, but no doubt he’d get away with it today too. They searched for the burglar, but with no luck. Poor Annie Madeley was buried and the world kept turning. The boyfriend disappeared shortly afterwards, in the middle of the night, with rent owing and we come to the end of the file.’

  ‘So we were looking into all of this, but then events took over, of course,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Mr Curran, Mr Ventham, the body in the graveyard. We put the case to one side while we had a real murder right in front of us.’

  ‘But we all know we don’t come to the end of the story, don’t we, John?’ says Ron.

  Elizabeth taps the manila file.

  ‘And so I sent Ibrahim off to look at the file, with one question. Can you guess what it was, John?’

  John stares at her. Elizabeth looks at Penny.

  ‘Penny, if you can hear, I bet you know the question. Peter Mercer, that was the name of the boyfriend, Peter Mercer. I asked Ibrahim to find out why Peter Mercer had been invalided from the army. And if you hadn’t guessed the question, I bet you can guess the answer, John. Have a go, it’s all too late anyway.’

  John buries his head in his hands, drags them down his face and looks up. ‘I assume, Elizabeth, it was a gunshot wound to the lower leg?’