The Man Who Died Twice (Thursday Murder Club, #2)

by Richard Osman

Locker 531, Fairhaven station. If the diamonds are not there then I am free. If the diamonds are there then I am dead. So, is this another letter from a dead man? Who knows? But I imagine your blood is pumping too? My love, always, Douglas

Sometimes, when they let Lance have a gun, he thinks about just shooting himself in the head.

She actually said that one pillow was too thin, but two pillows were too thick, as if that had been my plan all along. As if I had gone to British Home Stores and sorted through pillows until I found the perfect ones to annoy my daughter.

“No animal is better than any other animal. We are all just a collection of atoms smashed together. Even people. Even trees.”

“The mean streets,” says Donna. “Is that a joke?” asks the DCI. “No, it’s just conversation,” says Donna. “You can join in.”

“You don’t have a dad, Uncle Ibrahim. He would be a thousand.”

“Nice to see you out of bed,” says Donna. “How’s the pain?” “It’s getting better,” says Ibrahim. “It only really hurts if I breathe.”

“Perhaps we should start with loneliness?” suggests Ibrahim. Through Donna’s closed eyes, tears begin to escape. “Does it hurt?” asks Ibrahim. “Only when I breathe,” says Donna.

“They don’t let you take drugs in the police,” says Ibrahim. “You are unlucky there.” “Spoilsports,” says Donna. Her eyes are still closed, but Ibrahim makes her smile.

“Let it go. Remember it as a happy time. You were at the top of the mountain, and now you’re in a valley. It will happen to you a number of times.” “So what do I do now?” “You climb the next mountain, of course.”

“And what’s up the next mountain?” “Well, we don’t know, do we? It’s your mountain. No one’s ever climbed it before.”

“You do whatever you want. But looking forward, not back. And I’ll be here as you climb. That armchair is yours whenever you need it.”

“You are simply a little lost, Donna. And if one is never lost in life, then clearly one has never traveled anywhere interesting.”

On a slightly more somber note, it goes without saying that if you’ve found this note then I am dead. So it is swings and roundabouts, isn’t it? Though life is always swings and roundabouts, so I don’t see why death should be any different. I wonder if I’ll be heading upstairs? I doubt it, don’t you? I will love

In the end she had a brainwave, and she is dressed in her Lycra gym kit. This sent a number of messages. Firstly, “Oh, this meeting is not a big deal, I’m just fitting it in on the way to the gym,” but, more importantly, “Here you go, Bogdan, this is what’s on offer,” but in a healthy rather than a slutty way.

“Do you still hurt?” asks Kendrick. “I do,” says Ibrahim. “But not when I’m talking to your grandad, and not when I’m talking to you.”

Connie leans forward again, getting as close to Ron as she possibly can. She hisses, “When I get out, you’re a dead man.” Ron looks back at her. “Well, I’m seventy-five, and you’ll be doing thirty years so, yeah, agreed.”

“We’ll give it a couple of hours,” says Joyce. “I’ll make sure you don’t die. It’ll be much more fun to see you in prison. Would you like some painkillers?” “Yes, please,” says Sue, the anguish etched onto her face. “Shame,” says Joyce. “I don’t have any.”

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.

Speaking of which, I have one more secret, which you mustn’t tell anyone.

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.

“Living With Dementia—Living With Love.”

“I’m ever so sorry to interrupt,” she says. “But I don’t suppose anyone here knows anything about twenty million pounds from Antwerp?”