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

by Richard Osman

Alan is six years old, and they say you mustn’t change their names, because they get used to them, but I won’t call a dog Alan, whatever pressure I am put under.

Ibrahim is anxious that he won’t be able to find anywhere to park, but he finds a space easily. He worries that he won’t be able to work out how to pay for the parking, but that is a cinch too.

Me af

“As I was lying there, they shouted, ‘Ryan, come on!’ ” “Come on, Ryan?” says Donna. “There’s your man,” says Ron. “Right there. Stop pillocking around and go and arrest Ryan.”

“Stop just repeating what I said last, Elizabeth, it’s a terrible habit of yours. That and adultery.”

People need water, he has noticed. They go crazy for the stuff.

It must be fun doing all the training, I suppose, and creeping around with no one knowing, but blowing a man’s head off from four feet away probably doesn’t suit everyone. It wouldn’t suit me, and it doesn’t suit Poppy. Actually, perhaps it would suit me? You never know until you try, do you? I never thought I would like dark chocolate, for example.

She unzips it to reveal bundles of money. “Money,” says Bogdan. “Nothing gets past you, does it, dear?”

She doesn’t even particularly like coffee, she just feels too awkward asking for tea in a coffee shop.

“Oh, good. He made me scrambled eggs. And he gave Ron cocaine. What a champ. I’ll get back to him. I’ll leave you to your murdered spies.”

His mum had told him years ago that if you learn a trade you will never be out of work, and she was absolutely right. Within two hours he was dealing wraps of cocaine.

“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.”

She enters competitions, and last year won a lifetime’s supply of washing powder. Persil must have rubbed their hands with glee when they discovered she was ninety-two.

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.