The Man Who Died Twice: A Thursday Murder Club Mystery (Thursday Murder Club Mysteries, 2) - Softcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Richard Osman is an author and television presenter. His novels, The Thursday Murder Club, The Man Who Died Twice, The Bullet That Missed, and The Last Devil to Die, were number one, million-copy international bestsellers as well as New York Times bestsellers. He lives in London with his wife, Ingrid, and Liesl the cat. We Solve Murders is his fifth novel. The movie adaptation for The Thursday Murder Club will start filming in 2024, produced by Amblin Entertainment.

Richard Osman is an author, producer, and television presenter. Both his first novel, The Thursday Murder Club, and his second, The Man Who Died Twice, were #1 million-copy international bestsellers as well as New York Times bestsellers. He lives in London with his partner, and Liesl the cat.

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1.

The following Thursday . . .

I was talking to a woman in Ruskin Court, and she said she's on a diet," says Joyce, finishing her glass of wine. "She's eighty-two!"

"Walkers make you look fat," says Ron. "It's the thin legs."

"Why diet at eighty-two?" says Joyce. "What's a sausage roll going to do to you? Kill you? Well, join the queue."

The Thursday Murder Club has concluded its latest meeting. This week they have been looking at the cold case of a Hastings newsagent who murdered an intruder with a crossbow. He'd been arrested, but then the media had got involved, and the consensus was that a man should be allowed to protect his own shop with a crossbow, for goodness' sake, and he walked free, head held high.

A month or so later, police had discovered that the intruder was dating the newsagent's teenage daughter, and the newsagent had a long record of assault, but at that point everybody had moved on. It was 1975, after all. No CCTV, and no one wanting to make a fuss.

"Do you think a dog might be good company?" asks Joyce. "I thought I might either get a dog or join Instagram."

"I would advise against it," says Ibrahim.

"Oh, you'd advise against everything," says Ron.

"Broadly, yes," agrees Ibrahim.

"Not a big dog, of course," says Joyce. "I haven't got the Hoover for a big dog."

Joyce, Ron, Ibrahim, and Elizabeth are enjoying lunch at the restaurant that sits at the heart of the Coopers Chase community. There is a bottle of red and a bottle of white on their table. It is around a quarter to twelve.

"Don't get a small dog, though, Joyce," says Ron. "Small dogs are like small men: always got a point to prove. Yapping it up, barking at cars."

Joyce nods. "Perhaps a medium dog, then? Elizabeth?"

"Mmm, good idea," replies Elizabeth, though she is not really listening. How could she be, after the letter she received last night?

She's picking up the main points, of course. Elizabeth always stays alert, because you never know what might fall into your lap. She has heard all sorts over the years. A snippet of conversation in a Berlin bar, a loose-lipped Russian sailor on shore leave in Tripoli. In this instance, on a Thursday lunchtime in a sleepy Kent retirement village, it seems that Joyce wants a dog, there is a discussion about sizes, and Ibrahim has doubts. But her mind is elsewhere.

The letter was slipped under Elizabeth's door last night, by unseen hand.

Dear Elizabeth,

I wonder if you remember me? Perhaps you don't, but without blowing my own trumpet, I imagine you might.

Life has worked its magic once more, and I discover, upon moving in this week, that we are now neighbors. What company I keep! You must be thinking they let in any old riffraff these days.

I know it has been some while since you last saw me, but I think it would be wonderful to renew our acquaintance after all these years.

Would you like to join me at 14 Ruskin Court for a drink?

A little housewarming? If so, how would three p.m. tomorrow

suit? No need to reply, I shall await with a bottle of wine regardless.

It really would be lovely to see you. So much to catch up on. An awful lot of water under the bridge, and so on.

I do hope you remember me, and I do hope to see you tomorrow.

Your old friend,

Marcus Carmichael

Elizabeth has been mulling it over ever since.

The last time she had seen Marcus Carmichael would have been late November, 1981, a very dark, very cold night by Lambeth Bridge, the Thames at low tide, her breath clouding in the freezing air. There had been a team of them, each one a specialist, and Elizabeth was in charge. They arrived in a white Transit van, shabby on the outside, seemingly owned by g. procter-windows, gutters, all jobs considered, but, on the inside, gleaming, full of buttons and screens. A young constable had cordoned off an area of the foreshore, and the pavement on the Albert Embankment had been closed.

Elizabeth and her team had clambered down a flight of stone steps, lethal with slick moss. The low tide had left behind a corpse, propped, almost sitting, against the near parapet of the bridge. Everything had been done properly; Elizabeth had made sure of that. One of her team had examined the clothing and rifled through the pockets of the heavy overcoat, a young woman from Highgate had taken photographs, and the doctor had recorded the death. It was clear the man had jumped into the Thames further upstream, or been pushed. That was for the coroner to decide. It would all be typed into a report by somebody or other, and Elizabeth would simply add her initials at the bottom. Neat and tidy.

The journey back up those slick steps with the corpse on a military stretcher had taken some time. A young constable, thrilled to have been called to help, had fallen and broken an ankle, which was all they needed. They explained they wouldn't be able to call an ambulance for the time being, and he took it in fairly good part. He received an unwarranted promotion several months later, so no lasting harm was done.

Her little unit eventually reached the embankment, and the body was loaded into the white Transit van. all jobs considered.

The team dispersed, save for Elizabeth and the doctor, who stayed in the van with the corpse as it was driven to a morgue in Hampshire. She hadn't worked with this particular doctor before-broad, red faced, a dark mustache turning gray-but he was interesting enough. A man you would remember. They'd discussed euthanasia and cricket until the doctor had dozed off.

Ibrahim is making a point with his wine glass. "I'm afraid I would advise against a dog altogether, Joyce-small, medium, or large-at your time in life."

"Oh, here he comes," says Ron.

"A medium dog," says Ibrahim, "say a terrier, or a Jack Russell perhaps, would have a life expectancy of around fourteen years."

"Says who?" asks Ron.

"Says the Kennel Club, in case you want to take it up with them, Ron. Would you like to take it up with them?"

"No, you're all right."

"Now, Joyce," Ibrahim continues, "you are seventy-seven years old?"

Joyce nods. "Seventy-eight next year."

"Well, that goes without saying, yes," agrees Ibrahim. "So, at seventy-seven years old, we have to take a look at your life expectancy."

"Ooh, yes?" says Joyce. "I love this sort of thing. I had my tarot done on the pier once. She said I was going to come into money."

"Specifically, we have to look at the chances of your life expectancy exceeding the life expectancy of a medium dog."

"It's a mystery to me why you never got married, old son," says Ron to Ibrahim, and takes the bottle of white wine from the cooler on the table. "With that silver tongue of yours. Top-up, anyone?"

"Thank you, Ron," says Joyce. "Fill it to the brim to save having to do it again."

Ibrahim continues. "A woman of seventy-seven has a fifty-one percent chance of living for another fifteen years."

"This is jolly," says Joyce. "I didn't come into money, by the way."

"So if you were to get a dog now, Joyce, would you outlive it? That's the question."

"I'd outlive a dog through pure spite," says Ron. "We'd just sit in opposite corners of the room, staring each other out, and see who went first. Not me. It's like when we were negotiating with British Leyland in 'seventy-eight. The moment one of their lot went to the loo first, I knew we had 'em." Ron knocks back more wine. "Never go to...