The Impossible Fortune (Thursday Murder Club, #5)

by Richard Osman

They show you how to make bombs on the internet. If you know where to look. What to buy, where to buy it from. How to fit the whole thing together. There are even videos.

They don’t really tell you about the risks. But the risks stand to reason. Be careful with explosives, that doesn’t need to be spelled out to anyone, surely? No one needs to say, “Don’t try this at home,” do they? There are instructions for big bombs, small bombs, nail bombs, chemical bombs, all the bombs you could ever want to make.

Small to medium was the right choice here. Stable enough to carry around, powerful enough to kill. In the end the easiest thing to do was go to one of the websites that does all the work for you. Custom-make the bomb to your specifications, deliver it, even help you to place the thing if that’s what you need. This particular company had received very good reviews. They even offered a money-back guarantee if the bomb failed to go off. They’re called Boom or Bust.

If you want to know the actual cost of a human life, it’s somewhere around twenty-seven thousand pounds. But no tax or VAT. For the obvious reasons. Worth the extra few quid though. When the bomb finally goes off, money is not going to be an issue, is it?

Okay, then, no time to waste. Time is ticking, and it’s not the only thing.

Elizabeth is always alone now. Always alone, and never alone: that was grief.

Trouble is much like love: when the time is ready, it will find you. And so here she was at the wedding.

If you find your own way somewhere, you can go back whenever you choose.

“The pain is temporary, but the lesson the pain teaches you is forever.”

“Exactly,” says Ibrahim. “The answer to every dilemma is in whom you ask for advice.”

“When we have a dilemma”—his KitKat story is true, by the way, but is maybe for another time—“we ask the person who will give us the answer we already know.

“Tell me, Joyce,” says Elizabeth, “have you ever seen a bomb before?” “No,” says Joyce. “I once saw someone with a Hoover attachment up his backside though.” Elizabeth nods. “Thank you for that, Joyce.

Joyce loves a trip to London, even under such unusual circumstances. She likes the posh bits with the umbrella shops and the palaces, she likes the noisy bits with the Moroccan food and all the lovely fabric shops, and she likes the modern bits with the high-rise flats and the swimming pools up in mid-air. Which one would they be visiting today? They might not have the bomb, heaven knows where that is right at this moment, but Elizabeth has the photographs, which she says are the next best thing.

How many men like Jasper sit behind beige front doors in quiet bungalows, not knowing how to dress or what to eat or where to go? Wanting above all else not to be a nuisance? Joyce wishes she could save them all.

“And if I kill you?” “Then Elizabeth will kill you,” says Bogdan. “Who’s Elizabeth?” “You don’t want to find out,” says Bogdan. “Perhaps I’ll kill her too?” says Davey. “You can’t,” says Bogdan. “Only God can kill Elizabeth.” “And even he’d think twice,” says Ron.

“We’re all square if you just let me know who else Holly and Nick went to see about the Bitcoin.” “I told you already,” says Ron, “I don’t know.” “I know,” says Davey, picking up his gun and pointing it at Ron. “But you were lying, and friends don’t lie to friends.” “Honestly, I d—” Davey fires his gun into the air, then points it back at Ron. “Please, I’ve got Zumba at nine, I don’t need this this morning.”

“I’ll let you get on your way, lads. What a mystery you have to solve.” “If it was you,” says Ron, “we’ll find proof.” “Oh, Ron, you lovely big bear,” says Davey. “Look at my house. I get away with everything. Look under as many stones as you wish. You’ll never find a thing.” “There’re always more stones,” says Ron. Davey looks at his watch. “That’s me off to Zumba. If you don’t get there early they put you at the back.”

“Talking of looking under stones,” says Davey, “are you absolutely sure Nick Silver is dead?” He raises a single eyebrow, and heads into his beautiful house.

“When old friends die, you’re furious, because you’ve never quite finished what you were saying to them.”

“Now,” says Joanna, “you’re in my mum’s flat, and my mum adores you, but, and listen to this carefully, Elizabeth. Are you listening?” Elizabeth says nothing. “I’m sorry,” says Joanna, sitting forward. “I asked if you were listening?” “I’m listening,” says Elizabeth. “Good,” says Joanna. “I am not my mum. I swear if you talk to my husband like that again, we’re leaving. We should have taken these text messages to the police, but we’re showing them to you instead. And we’re showing them to you because we respect you. Please show us the same courtesy.” Elizabeth gives perhaps the smallest nod in recorded human history.

“Thank you, Elizabeth. I trust you understand me.” Ibrahim is so tempted to applaud that he has to start stroking Alan, to ensure he doesn’t have both hands available.

Holly Lewis is dead, and if Nick Silver isn’t dead too something very peculiar is happening with his phone. A huge sum of money is buried somewhere nearby, and there are two six-digit codes needed to claim it. That should be enough to be getting on with, shouldn’t it?

Still, Ibrahim feels at a slight loss. Elizabeth and Joyce are heading off together. He could probably join them if he really wanted to, but one doesn’t like to ask. Ron has Pauline, Joanna has Paul, even Alan has Kendrick. Ibrahim feels a long day is stretching ahead of him, and wonders how he might fill the empty hours. Murders are all well and good, but who does he have?

“When she calls me Mr. Arif, I always mean to say, ‘Call me Ibrahim,’ but I’ve decided I quite like ‘Mr. Arif.’ Usually only doctors call me Mr. Arif. The last sentence in which somebody called me Mr. Arif was ‘One has to expect some weakening of bladder control in one’s eighties, Mr. Arif.’ ”

in life there is only one right answer, and you either get it right or you don’t.

“What happened” is never what defines you in life; “What you did next” is what defines you.

“You look happier. Not happy but happier.” “They don’t tell you, Bogdan, no one tells you.” “About death?” “About death,” says Elizabeth. “Take every word anyone has ever written about grief. Every line every poet has ever written. Every word of every friend who breaks down in front of you, every tear you’ve ever seen shed. Take the whole lot of them and throw them down a well, and you wouldn’t even hear them hit the bottom.”

“There’s love everywhere, every day, and there’s sadness everywhere every day. Imagine all of it together. All that sadness, and all that love. Every kiss, every heartbeat, every second waiting for a lover, and every second realizing your lover won’t be coming. Can you imagine all of it?” Bogdan looks up and to the left, really giving it a good go. “It’s impossible,” says Elizabeth. “It’s beyond comprehension.” Bogdan looks relieved. “And yet,” says Elizabeth, “it’s all here in this chair. Every single bit of it, in a chair we bought in an antique shop in Stratford or somewhere or other.

“How long has it been going on?” Ron asks. He doesn’t want to hear the answer, but the first rule of fighting back is that you don’t run away.

“We’re not going to be dissuaded,” says Ron. “Don’t try.” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Elizabeth. “You go right ahead. Perhaps they’ll put you all in the same prison? That would make it easier to visit.” “No one’s going to prison,” says Jason. Elizabeth nods, reassured. “I wonder if anyone who ever said that before actually did end up in prison? Surely not.”

“I see,” says Joanna. “And, hypothetically, if Nick Silver were to be deceased, what action would you need to take?” “Well, I very much hope that isn’t the case,” says Jeremy. “But, were it to be so, both envelopes would become the property of Paul Brett.” Joanna is silent. “Your husband,” says Jeremy, just to clarify.

Bogdan scowls at Jamie. If you tell Bogdan to play “good cop, bad cop,” he will do it without question. On one level his look is chillingly threatening, but he looks so absurdly handsome when he does it that the impact gets a little lost.

“We’re investigating the murder of Holly Lewis. And the whole investigation seems to hinge on why she rang your phone number.” “You have to believe me,” says Jamie. “It can’t be me, and it can’t be Jill. It’s not possible.” Elizabeth looks at Bogdan. He shrugs. “Perhaps it was a wrong number?” Not Jamie and not Jill. But surely not a wrong number? Holly Lewis, in a panic, keying in the wrong digits? Or was she keying in the right digits? Elizabeth almost laughs. “I have Holly’s code.”

Some women make history, and some women make tea.

Life isn’t all about solving murders, fun though it is. Sometimes you have to help people before they’re dead. I will never be Elizabeth. But, then, she will never be me. Perhaps I have my own job to do. Let Alan wag his tail, and let Ibrahim crack the code instead.

Kendrick puts his head on Tia’s shoulder as they read. How much longer does he have as a child, this clever boy? How much longer before life makes him an adult? Until his shoes have laces and his heart has scars? Until his shame deepens alongside his voice and he no longer wants to lie on the floor and color in the planets?

“These are from Nick Silver,” says Kendrick. “That seems un—” “You really don’t see it?” says Tia. “I think, umm,” says Ibrahim. “I think I get the gist, but any input you have, you know, is gratefully received.” “Nick Silver’s alive,” says Tia. “And he’s got a message for you.”

Kendrick lays his piece of paper on Ibrahim’s table where they can all see it. He then highlights sections of each message. Don’T WOrry, I’m safe nO NEed mate Can’t ring thiS EVENing A test oF OUR friendship WheN I NEed you most Sorry iF I’VE offended you Well, Elizabeth has seen a few things in her time. There it was, all along. Would she have spotted that, even in her glory days? She suspects not. “Two, one, seven, four, nine, five,” says Ron. “I’ll be damned.” “Six messages, you see,” says Tia. “That’s what started us thinking.” “So we started looking,” says Kendrick. “Six numbers.” “He’s still alive,” says Elizabeth.

When things are noisy, and everyone is asking you to look at something right this instant, we mustn’t forget all the things still going on in quiet corners. There’s the news, and then there’s life.

Nick could imagine spending a million pounds too. Buy a bigger house, buy Mum and Dad a house, get a box at the football. Quietly slip the food bank a couple grand every week. But a hundred million? How do you spend that? A bigger house, with gates and a long drive and security? A garage for your cars? A safety deposit box at the bottom of a deep mine for all your secrets? Being very rich seemed to drive people mad. Seemed to make them leave normality behind. As if the only possible reason for their vast amount of money was that they were born with powers above mortal beings.

“And the money? You haven’t found it?” “Well, about that,” says Paul. The two old friends, many miles apart, tap their feet in time to a song they both love. A song that reminds them of what’s truly important. Friendship, joy, dancing. “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”