The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)

by Richard Osman

Life is about understanding opportunities. Understanding how rarely they come along, and then rising to meet them when they do.

“Everyone wants to feel special, but nobody wants to feel different,” says Bogdan.

People were always trying to tell you something, and all you really had to do was let them.

Ron’s route to meet him has been fairly straightforward, all things considered. Ron simply spoke to his son, Jason, who spoke to one of his old boxing pals, Danny Duff, who messaged a man named Pump-Action Dave, who happened to drink with a man who declined to be named, who happened to do some work from time to time with Jack Mason. A message had come back along that same line—pausing briefly at Danny Duff, who had been arrested on suspicion of cocaine importation and wasn’t allowed his phone for a couple of hours—and Jack had suggested he and Ron meet for a game of snooker in Ramsgate.

“A QR code is a ‘Quick Response’ code that can be read by a computer and link you to a specific URL. A type of matrix barcode would be the simplest way of putting it.”

I sometimes daydream, and this will sound silly, but I sometimes daydream about Ron sitting there on my sofa, and Gerry is in his armchair, and the two of them just laughing and arguing until all hours. I can play the whole thing out in my head. Gerry would have loved him, and that’s the greatest compliment I have.”

“But you can’t be ruled by hindsight, can you?”

“Well,” says Elizabeth. “I used to be much younger, so you’re excused.”

He is thankful that the towel is around his waist. God knows what his backside looks like these days. A moon landscape.

People drift in and out of your life, and, when you are younger, you know you will see them again. But now every old friend is a miracle.

If life ever seems too complicated, if you think no one can help, sometimes the right person to turn to is an eight-year-old.

The Viking looks up and sees the swimming pool, suspended in the sky high above him. If you fired a rocket launcher at it, the whole structure would collapse, and everyone would plunge to their deaths. Though no one is currently in it, so it would be a waste of a rocket.

Gerry was my type, Bernard was my type. Perhaps another one will be along one day. He’d better get a move on though, I’m nearly seventy-eight.

Bent as a nine-bob note. Bogdan always likes to discover a nice new idiom.

had the Timurid Quran, for goodness’ sake, and a volume of the Yongle Encyclopedia.

Joyce, understandably, looks puzzled as Fiona peeks into her bag. There, in pride of place, is Elizabeth’s gun.

Thirdly, Blackfriars Station has the tiniest branch of WHSmith you’ve ever seen in your life.

I had chamomile and raspberry, because it was the first one I was offered and my brain switches off when someone reads me a long list.

“I’ve known you for just over two weeks, and I’ve already been in a grave with a KGB colonel, I’ve seen a tiny old woman drug a Viking, and I’ve shared a bed with the most handsome man in Kent. For three or four years in the eighties I did a lot of magic mushrooms. I once did LSD in Bratislava with Iron Maiden. But nothing—nothing I’ve ever done—compares to a couple of days in your company. What else have you got in store?” “Well,” says Elizabeth. “Tomorrow we’re digging up a garden with the Chief Constable of Kent, looking for a body and a gun.”

but Joyce goes through the front door because she wants to be nosy. And the lovely thing about investigating a murder is that you can be nosy and call it work.

One of the constables slides open the doors, and Joyce walks out onto the patio decking. Joyce watches her step: decking gets too slippery, you are so much better off with stone.

“Henrik, how is your murderous rage? Subsided?” “It is forgotten,” says Henrik. “It was tactically naive.”

“I wonder if I could ask you to put a lace doily under your teacup,” says Ibrahim. “To prevent the wood from marking.” “Could I use your bathroom?” asks Henrik. “I forgot to moisturize this morning, and I can feel myself drying out.” Ron looks at Ibrahim. “So much testosterone in one room, mate. So much testosterone.” Alan barks at a chaffinch.

Mervyn is so handsome I have to stop my tail from wagging when I’m around him.

She is getting old. She uses a foot spa these days. She’s even going to get Joyce one for Christmas. Is it time to quit all this nonsense? All this running around after shadows?

“It’s the people, in the end, isn’t it?” says Viktor. “It’s always the people. You can move halfway around the world to find your perfect life, move to Australia if you like, but it always comes down to the people you meet.”

It is far too cold to swim, but Joyce would not be dissuaded. Elizabeth had told her not to be so silly, and that the pool would still be here in the summer. “Ah, but we may not be,” Joyce had replied, and she was right. It was best to grab everything while you could. Who knows when your final swim might come, your final walk, your final kiss? Elizabeth has an idea what secret Bogdan is keeping from her. So be it. Joyce sees Elizabeth looking, and gives her a wave. Elizabeth waves back. You keep swimming, Joyce. You keep swimming, my beautiful friend. You keep your head above the water for as long as you can.

I write this with, as so often, Liesl Von Cat stretched out on my desk. Her paw idly flicks out at me every now and again when my typing gets too loud for her delicate ears. Whether Liesl is sleeping on my keyboard, blocking my screen or meowing loudly for food, even though she has literally just been fed, I know that she is constantly trying to help.