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

by Richard Osman

“You must die before your children, of course, because you have taught them to live without you. But not your dog. You teach your dog only to live with you.”

I imagine if you could hear all the morning tears in this place it would sound like birdsong.

You silly old man, he thinks as he turns the key in the ignition, you made the biggest mistake of them all. You forgot to live, you just hid away, safe and sound.

The twinkle you soon realize is actually the beam of a lighthouse, warning you off the rocks.

The brain is tremendously clever, one of the reasons Ibrahim likes it so much. Your foot was your foot and would remain your foot through thick and thin. But the brain changes, in form and in function. Ibrahim has respect for podiatrists, but really, looking at feet all day? The brain. That magnificent, dumb beast. He knows that alien chemicals are currently racing around his brain, protecting him in this moment of crisis. In time these chemicals would fade, leaving nothing but a faint stain.

Revenge is not a straight line, it’s a circle. It’s a grenade that goes off while you’re still in the room, and you can’t help but be caught in the blast.

Ibrahim had once had a client, Eric Mason, who had bought a used BMW from a dealer, an old school friend, in Gillingham. He soon discovered that the car had a faulty clutch. His friend at the dealership refused to accept liability, and Eric Mason, who, it should be said, had issues around emotional control and anger management, had replaced the clutch at his own expense and then driven the BMW straight through the window of the dealership in the dead of night.

Unfortunately, he fell and impaled himself on a large shard of glass, and was saved from bleeding to death only by the arrival of the police. Recovering in the hospital, Eric Mason received a huge bouquet of flowers from the dealership, but, upon opening the card, discovered they had attached a court summons and a bill for £14,000. A spell of community service and bankruptcy followed. His fury grew. Eric’s daughter and the son of the car dealer had also been friends at school. Eric forbade his daughter from ever talking to the boy and so, as winter follows summer, they had got married two years later, with Eric refusing to attend the wedding.

Neither side would give ground, so Eric was unable to see his first grandchild. All because of a faulty clutch. It was at this point that Eric felt perhaps he should take responsibility for his own actions and decided to see a psychotherapist. Twelve months later, on his final visit to Ibrahim, Eric Mason had brought in his daughter and his son-in-law to say thank you in person. He had also brought in his infant grandson, and they had posed together for a photograph, smiles all round.

They say a man who desires revenge should dig two graves, and this is surely right.

Eric Mason, years later, discovered that nothing had been wrong with the clutch at all. He simply hadn’t understood the electronic controls, and pressing a reset button for five seconds would have cleared it up. So you do have to be careful with revenge but, in all honesty, Ibrahim has spent most of his life being careful, and sometimes you had to do things differently if you wanted to grow as a human being.

“Ron, I took a folder out of my bag. Midway through your rant.” “It wasn’t a rant, but let me ring the Queen and get you a medal for taking a folder out of a bag.” “I did it quite slowly and deliberately. A buff-colored folder, not the sort of thing I would normally carry in my bag. I thought you might notice.” “Joyce noticed, I suppose?” says Ron. “Clever old Joyce?” “Well, yes, she did, but the point is moot. Joyce hasn’t seen this folder yet.

People here came and went, they came and went. Knowing they were here to live out their days made them vital. They moved slowly, but their time ran fast. Bogdan liked to be among them. They will die, but so will we all. We are all gone in the blink of an eye, and there is nothing to do but live while you’re waiting. Cause trouble, play chess, whatever suits you.

Martin Lomax had breached security somehow. Which meant somebody had told him where he was hiding. But who? Douglas has his suspicions. He had messed up, that was for sure, showing his face on the security cameras. He had put the Service in a very bad position. Perhaps someone felt a debt needed to be repaid? Would they really sacrifice one of their own? He’d seen it done. Rarely, but he’d seen it. Could he trust Sue and Lance? Sue he was sure of. But Lance? The man he broke into Lomax’s house with? What did he really know about him?

Douglas was no longer a popular man. He knew that, and he could see why. My God, he used to be popular. But now? Now he was the type of man to take his mask off during a robbery, and the type of man to make a joke about a gay colleague in a briefing. He meant no harm by either, but he saw he was out of step, and he knew, deep down, that a man less self-regarding than himself would have the ability to act more professionally and kindly. He had hoped to reach the end of his service without having to change one bit. Afraid not, old boy. The diamonds were his way out.

So perhaps the Service has finally had enough of him? Perhaps Sue thinks he is no longer useful? That life would be better with him out of the way? Perhaps she has persuaded everyone it was a small price to pay for peace with Martin Lomax. Had Sue done a deal with Lomax and disclosed his location? How many other people had known that Douglas was at Coopers Chase? Five or six? Including Poppy, of course.

Was that an act? He’d seen it all, to be honest, so perhaps there was more to her, perhaps she was in league with the others against him? But then why shoot the intruder? Elizabeth? That was a bigger question. Would Elizabeth have disclosed where he was? Surely not. He had told her about Martin Lomax, though, hadn’t he? Had she tracked him down? Elizabeth could track anyone down. Douglas had had four affairs during their marriage, and Elizabeth had discovered all of them.

Heaven knows how many affairs Elizabeth had had. Plenty. But Douglas had never caught her once. You only marry one Elizabeth in your life. If Douglas was any sort of a man he could have kept hold of her. But Douglas was just a boy, he knows that. He was charming and funny, and life came easily to him. Whatever Douglas wanted, he got; everybody fell for him, everybody fell for the act.

It’s not every day that Bogdan Jankowski wants to buy ten grand’s worth of prime Colombian blow, and Connie has been excited all day. The lockup next door sells fake perfume, and she had dabbed some on earlier, only to have to wash it off immediately as the smell overpowered her. She has even had to reapply her mascara after the tears streamed down her face. She thinks she has got rid of the worst of it.

Perhaps he had developed a drug problem and needed to fund his habit? Connie hopes so; it would certainly mean she would see more of him. What was it about him? The sense of extreme danger and absolute safety in the same man? Or just the looks? There is a rattling knock on the metal lockup door. Connie adjusts her hair, spits her gum into an old filing cabinet, and lights a menthol cigarette. Here we go.

Bogdan. Shaven headed, tattoos snaking up both arms, deep blue eyes, and an expression of total indifference. The full package. He shuts the door behind him, and it is just the two of them. How should she play this? Nice and cool? She had tried flirting with Bogdan before, and it had got her nowhere. But she suspects he had just been playing hard to get. Is he undressing her with his eyes? Connie thinks so.

Bogdan doesn’t have far to walk. He is meeting Ron by the pier. It had gone okay with Connie, there didn’t seem to be any hard feelings. He had felt for her because she had lipstick on her teeth. He was going to mention it, because it looked like she was going on a date later. But she had obviously noticed herself as it was gone when she came back with the cocaine. He was relieved he didn’t have to mention it, as she didn’t seem in a very good mood with him. He is glad to be outside, not least because there was an awful smell.

“How is Ibrahim?” asks Bogdan. “When is he back?” “He’s all right, old son. Knocked about a bit, you know? Nasty.” Bogdan nods. “You need help with the guy who did it?” Ron takes the bag. “You’re already helping.” “I thought so,” says Bogdan. “Good, I am pleased. You know you just ask, and I do whatever.” “You’re a good lad.” Ron sniffs. “Jesus, Bogdan, what’s that smell?”

They reach Number 38. Blinds drawn in all the rooms facing the street and a four-year-old Vote Lib Dem poster in the front window. Absolutely textbook. There is a Virgin Media van parked across the road and Elizabeth knocks on the window. She is expected. The driver folds her newspaper, lowers her window, and raises an eyebrow. Elizabeth repeats exactly what she has been told to say. “My reception is on the blink, and I don’t want to miss Love Island.” Someone in MI5 will have enjoyed thinking that one up for her.

“It is fine to say ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ It is admirable. But it no longer applies when you’re eighty. When you are eighty, whatever doesn’t kill you just ushers you through the next door, and the next door and the next, and all of these doors lock behind you. No bouncing back. The gravitational pull of youth disappears, and you just float up and up.”

The driver has run into the house, so Elizabeth takes a brisk walk, dislodges a loose brick from the low wall, slides her mobile phone into the gap, and then replaces the brick. The perfect dead-letter drop. So now there are diamonds and killers to be found.

“In the absence of the phone for now, can you remember what the message said?” asks Sue. “The exact words?” Elizabeth nods and recites from memory.

I have been moved to Thirty-eight St. Albans Avenue, Hove. I would be obliged if you would meet me there. There is something I want to show you.”

“So you can remember the exact words of the message,” says Lance. “But not where your phone is?” Elizabeth taps her head. “My palace has many rooms. Some are dustier than others.” Sue notices that Lance can’t hide...

And that was the whole message? Nothing else?” “Well, it also said come alone, but I thought Joyce would enjoy it.”

“And do you have any idea of what he wanted to show you?” Elizabeth pauses. She looks up at the cameras. As she looks back at Sue Reardon, she makes up her mind. “Honestly, I assumed he wanted to show me the diamonds.”

“That’s assuming he stole the diamonds in the first place,” says Lance. “And we have no evidence of that.” “Well,” says Elizabeth, “and I realize I probably should have passed this on before now, but I know he stole them. He told me.”

“That’s very good, Joyce,” says Elizabeth. “And now, of course, whoever killed Douglas and Poppy—let’s assume Martin Lomax—will have that information instead.

“Perhaps Martin Lomax isn’t the only person with a motive for shooting Douglas and Poppy, though?” says Joyce. “Of course,” says Sue. “All that money. Twenty million. We’d all like it, wouldn’t we?” Joyce adds.

I mean no offense by this, Lance, but we don’t know you one bit, do we? Who’s to say you didn’t see Douglas steal the diamonds? And you’ve been looking for a chance to get your hands on them?”

“Discuss away,” says Lance, “I have nothing to hide.” “Almost certainly not,” agrees Elizabeth. “But you were in the house on the evening of the theft. You knew where Douglas and Poppy were being kept.

Douglas and Poppy are dead. Elizabeth and I went to Hove, which, I have to say, was busier than I’d expected for a Tuesday. Does nobody go to work anymore? Douglas had wanted to show Elizabeth something. We walked into a house on St. Albans Avenue (near the King Alfred swimming pool?) and there they were, shot dead. Douglas is fair game I think, but how awful about Poppy? I’m afraid it has left me very sad, even though I try not to get too sad these days.

How unfair to die in your twenties with all that fun ahead of you. The kisses and the boat rides and the flowers and the new coats. Those poems she will never read to a new lover? You will go completely mad waiting for life to be fair, but whoever killed Poppy took something beautiful.

So we have two murders on our hands. Three if you count Andrew Hastings, but we already know who did that. Every time I walk into a bedroom these days someone has been shot. I was going to plump up the pillows in the spare room earlier but got cold feet.

People love to sleep, and yet they are so frightened of death. Bogdan has never understood it.

“Some people in life, Sue, are weather forecasters, whereas other people are the weather itself.”

“The first trip I ever went on with Stephen was to Venice. He wanted to look at the art and the churches for a weekend, and I wanted to look at him for a weekend.” “That’s romantic,” says Joyce. “Looking at a man you love isn’t romantic, Joyce,” says Elizabeth. “It’s just the sensible thing to do. Like watching a television program you like.”

“Gerry and I never used to plan our weekends away,” says Joyce. “And we always had a wonderful time.” “That’s because Gerry planned them and never told you,” says Elizabeth. “Because things are more fun for you when they’re not planned, and they were more fun for him when they were planned. It’s best to have one of each in every relationship.”

Douglas faking his death? Ibrahim likes the theory. He can see that Sue does too. It was implausible, but possible. The perfect combination.

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

Why did people always get so angry? We’ll all be dead soon enough.

She takes a final look at the photograph of Dennis. Her husband, her love. Gone to dementia, then gone forever. The man who died twice.

Sylvia pushes open the door, and the faces around the table and the face at the flip chart all turn toward her. She feels giddy. The flip chart is branded with the logo of the charity. “Living With Dementia—Living With Love.” They had done all they could for her and Dennis, and she gives everything she can to them in return. She has no money to give, and so she gives her time.

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