The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club)

by Richard Osman

  They went to the market, not the supermarket, but the actual market, and they bought a bit of this and a bit of that. As Patrice asked a man in an apron where his raspberries were from, Chris felt like a proper human being. It was like they were a couple from an advert. Chris kept hoping people would see him. ‘What, this? Oh, it’s just me and my girlfriend buying beansprouts.’

  This place was empty without Patrice. Without her falling asleep on the floor in the living room while doing an online yoga class on her laptop. It was all very good in theory to have a girlfriend who did online yoga classes, but even better to have a girlfriend who was happy to have a nap in the afternoon.

  Chris hadn’t wanted this week to end. On Monday Patrice will be back to school in south London. They’ll be back to Skype calls, and watching the same TV shows in different rooms.

  His heart sinks, though, at the thought of the lock-up, and the thought of surveillance food. Would he go back to his old ways the moment Patrice was gone? He thinks back to last night.

  Chris had circled coconut oil into a wok. They had had to buy coconut oil. And they’d had to buy the wok. And, once he had completely come clean to Patrice, they had had to buy the chopping board, the sharp knives and the sea salt and black pepper too. What a heady ride that shopping trip had been.

  A fifty-one-year-old man, tossing peppers and beansprouts and spring onions and tofu (which was a whole other story) into a wok and hearing the sizzle so familiar from television. He had started to cry. Where had that come from? From the years of late-night takeaways by himself? The snacks, the numbing release of empty fat and carbs, the long nights, the long years, on his sofa with no one to put his arms around? And now this, the colours, the smells, the sheer, everyday normality of it.

  Chris hadn’t looked after anyone in a long time, and that included himself. He let the tears run down through the steam and into the pan.

  As the first tear sizzled, arms had encircled his waist. Patrice had woken up. He had turned and she tilted her head up to kiss him.

  ‘You have to stand back from the wok if you don’t want your eyes to water.’

  ‘Good tip,’ said Chris. ‘How was yoga? You get it all done?’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Patrice. ‘Intense though.’

  She had pushed herself up and sat on the worktop. Chris was aware that he had seen women blithely sitting on worktops in films, but he didn’t think it was ever something that would happen in his own kitchen. This lovely, sleepy woman, perched on his worktop, happy to be there.

  ‘So, have you fallen in love with me yet?’ Patrice had said with a laugh.

  ‘Of course,’ said Chris, smiling, and gave her a kiss.

  ‘I should hope so, too,’ said Patrice, and hopped down from the worktop. ‘I’ll get bowls.’

  Chris had turned back to the wok. He angled his head away from Patrice, now busily rooting through a cupboard. The tears came again then, heavier this time. What was wrong with him? It was just a stir fry, Chris. It was just a stir fry, and a woman sitting on a worktop.

  It was then he realized. Realized? Understood? It doesn’t matter which, it only mattered that, in the instant he knew that, yes, he had fallen in love with her.

  Oh, God, yes, and oh, God, no.

  At some point, would he really have to tell Patrice? Perhaps she could just work it out.

  Chris had wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. The pain from a stray chilli flake on his finger was immediate, and all thoughts of love and happiness and shame and vulnerability and fear and excitement had to take second place for the moment.

  At least he didn’t have to explain why he was crying any more.

  Being healthy was easy when Patrice was here; it seemed so simple. Eat fruit, drink slimline tonic, don’t have a KFC.

  But the evenings were longer when she wasn’t here. And Chris Hudson wasn’t about to steam broccoli for himself, that seemed weird. Was it OK to have a biscuit, if it was just one biscuit? Perhaps he could have some chocolate if it was just that dark chocolate you could buy in health-food shops? It tasted awful, so surely that made it OK?

  Ibrahim had once told him that walnuts were very good for you, so now Chris is eating a lot of walnuts.

  Where to draw the line?

  Everywhere delivered now. Not just the restaurants, that was bad enough, but the local shops. Chris could have Pringles and an Aero brought to his door within ten minutes.

  He eats another handful of walnuts, chewing begrudgingly. Perhaps he would have a herbal tea? Or just order a Twix. What harm would that do? Or two Twixes, because they were so small?

  Maybe a curry? But with a vegetable side dish instead of poppadums?

  Stop thinking about food, Chris. Think about work. Ryan’s Baird’s hearing is coming up. That should be an easy win. Think about Connie Johnson. Has she made any mistakes? He doesn’t like the thought of her being driven around Fairhaven in that Range Rover like she owns the place.

  Chris’s entryphone starts to ring. 9.45. Late for a visitor.

  49

  Strictly speaking, it is not a date.

  She and a DCI from London had been on surveillance all evening, keeping an eye on Connie Johnson’s lock-up. Donna would rather have been on the stakeout with Chris, and now her mum has gone back to south London she’ll get her wish soon enough.

  There was nothing to report at the lock-up: a few lads on bikes, coming and going. No new faces, no Connie. Donna had half-expected to see Ryan Baird cycling up to the door at some point, but perhaps he is lying low until his court appearance?

  Connie had their number, that was for sure. But if she and Chris could find a way of nailing her, then medals and promotions would surely follow.

  The DCI was one of a crew down from London for a couple of weeks. Connie Johnson was being taken seriously, and reinforcements had been brought in. He is currently sitting opposite her drinking beer from the bottle (‘I don’t need a glass, it’s already in glass’). He was the only single man in the whole bunch, if Donna’s extensive Facebook investigations were to be believed.

  The DCI is called Jordan, or maybe Jayden. With desserts on the way it was probably too late to ask which now. She has just been calling him ‘sir’ all evening and he doesn’t seem to mind. So far she has found out that he has never watched Bake Off because it is ‘mind-numbing rubbish’ but, nevertheless, he thinks that 5G phone-masts are a government conspiracy, and something to do with cancer. Something we should be keeping an eye on, at the very least.

  He must be thirty-five or forty, it’s so hard to tell with men at that age. He looks like he has strong arms, and that was enough for Donna to agree to dinner at Le Pont Noir after their shift. God, she is lonely.

  She is nearly thirty, with friends pairing off and disappearing. Carl, her ex, was engaged already, he’d wasted no time. And this a man who ‘needed space’ and ‘wasn’t ready for commitment, babe’. His fiancée is a shoe influencer, rather than a police officer, and they are getting married in Dubai.

  So Donna is the new girl in a new town. A black girl in a seaside town, where she feels unwelcome or a novelty, and has no interest in feeling either. ‘Where are you from then?’ ‘South London.’ ‘No, where are you really from?’ ‘Oh, I see, I’m really from Streatham.’

  A town where Boots doesn’t have your shade of foundation, and the nearest person you can trust with your hair is in Brighton. None of this will kill her, but none of it helps her feel any less lonely.

  But you have to make the best of things. And you also have to hang out with people under fifty every now and again. Hence this too-obvious man, whatever he might actually be called. Best foot forward, Donna.

  ‘I can’t believe you haven’t caught her yet,’ says the DCI with the possibly strong arms.

  ‘Connie’s smart,’ says Donna.

  ‘Smart for a small town, I suppose,’ says the DCI. ‘Not smart for London. Lucky for you lot, me and the cavalry have arrived.’

  ‘You haven’t cau
ght her either,’ says Donna. Not unreasonably, she thinks.

  ‘London has different rhythms, love. A different heartbeat.’

  ‘I know,’ says Donna. ‘I’m from London.’

  ‘You have to live it, really. You breathe it in. The big, bad city.’

  ‘As I say, I was born there. Where are you from?’

  ‘High Wycombe,’ says the DCI.

  ‘The mean streets,’ says Donna.

  ‘Is that a joke?’ asks the DCI.

  ‘No, it’s just conversation,’ says Donna. ‘You can join in.’

  Does he have nice eyes? Well, they’re a nice colour. That’s something.

  ‘I’m staying at the Travelodge, by the way,’ says the DCI, looking at his watch, a fake Rolex, no doubt ‘borrowed’ from an evidence store.

  Donna nods. So she is going to have to have sex in a Travelodge this evening if she doesn’t want to be alone? So be it. Let’s get the bill, get a bottle of wine on the way and get it over with. A bit of oblivion, while her mum and her boss are falling in love.

  ‘Your guv’nor, then?’ says the DCI. ‘Chris Hudson? He seems a bit hopeless?’

  ‘I wouldn’t underestimate him if I were you,’ says Donna. Be very careful now, Jordan or Jayden.

  ‘He wouldn’t last a second in London,’ says the DCI.

  ‘Would he not?’ asks Donna.

  ‘Nah, he couldn’t catch Covid, that one.’

  Well, there it was. Donna wasn’t going to have to have disappointing sex in a Travelodge this evening after all. Wasn’t going to have to boost the ego of this nondescript man. What was she even doing here? What was she looking for? The waiter brings over the bill and the mediocre DCI, who just made the mistake of insulting her best friend, takes a look.

  ‘You OK going halves?’ asks the DCI. ‘Also, you had wine, so …?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ says Donna, reaching for her bag. She is going to have to do something about her life. In fact, she knows just the man she should talk to. Ibrahim.

  She’s just sent him the CCTV from the station. Would he mind if she came to see him sometime?

  Donna doesn’t need therapy, but she wouldn’t mind a nice long chat with a friend who happens to be a therapist.

  Her phone pings. It’s a message from Chris.

  50

  Chris Hudson pads over to the handset on the wall and picks it up.

  ‘Hello?’ Perhaps it’s Donna on her way home from a disastrous date with an ice-cream salesman?

  ‘Hi, Chris, it’s me,’ says a disembodied female voice. Not Donna.

  ‘OK,’ says Chris. ‘Any other clues?’

  The voice on the phone laughs. ‘I told you I knew where you lived, silly!’

  Chris freezes. Connie Johnson.

  ‘Are you going to let me up? I have something to discuss with you. Won’t take long.’

  Chris curses beneath his breath and buzzes her in. What is this going to be? He quickly types out a text message to Donna.

  Connie Johnson at flat. If I don’t ring in 15 mins, send squad car.

  Chris looks around to see if the flat is in any way presentable. And, of course, it is, because he’d made it presentable for Patrice, and hasn’t had enough time to ruin it yet. There is a knock at the door. Chris takes a deep breath and opens it.

  ‘Hello, Chris,’ says Connie Johnson.

  Chris refuses to respond, but ushers her in.

  ‘Well, this is nice, isn’t it?’ says Connie, surveying the flat. ‘Small, but nice.’

  ‘Well, it’s all I can afford without selling cocaine to children,’ says Chris.

  ‘All right, Mother Teresa,’ says Connie, and sits on Chris’s sofa. Chris takes a dining chair, places it opposite her, and sits.

  ‘You know you’re on thin ice?’ says Chris. ‘Coming round to a police officer’s home?’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Connie. ‘You’re probably on thin ice inviting me up. Do you have anything to drink?’

  ‘No,’ says Chris. Which is, actually, pretty much the truth.

  ‘Be like that then,’ says Connie. ‘I’ll just get straight to it. What do you know?’

  ‘About you?’

  ‘Yep,’ says Connie.

  ‘I know you killed the Antonios. I know you’ve got a Range Rover. I know you’re clever, but not quite clever enough to get away with what you’re doing, so I’ll just keep plodding on.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Connie again. ‘Well, firstly, no comment, and secondly, I think you’re pretty smart too. That’s what people say.’

  ‘I’m not smart,’ says Chris. ‘I’m smarter than you, but I’m not smart.’

  Connie nods. ‘Maybe. It was certainly easy to find out where you lived.’

  Chris shrugs. ‘It’s quite easy to follow someone home, Connie.’

  ‘It is,’ agrees Connie. ‘It was easy to follow you here, and it was easy to follow Donna De Freitas to 19 Barnaby Street too. She’s on a date tonight, by the way. Pont Noir.’

  Chris laughs. ‘This isn’t the school playground. We’re Fairhaven police officers, we live in Fairhaven. It’s pretty easy to track us down. But if you’re trying to scare me, try harder, you wouldn’t touch a police officer, and you know it.’

  ‘I do,’ says Connie.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Well, nothing really, I just wanted to say that, as a businesswoman, there’s a limit to how much I’m going to tolerate you poking into my affairs.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘There is. Taking photographs of my customers and so on. I’m approaching my limit now, so, just between friends, I’m telling you to tread very carefully.’

  Chris nods. ‘Sure, because you know my address, and you know Donna’s address? Terrifying.’

  ‘It’s just a friendly warning,’ says Connie, pushing herself up off the sofa. ‘If you’re not worried, you can just ignore it.’

  ‘I will, thanks,’ says Chris, showing her to the door.

  ‘Sorry I called so late,’ says Connie. ‘I keep funny hours. She’s gorgeous, by the way.’

  Chris had been about to shut the door behind her, but has stopped in his tracks.

  Connie laughs. ‘You’ve done very well for yourself, if you don’t mind me saying. I bet you’re missing her already? You here, and her up in south London?’

  ‘Don’t even think about this, Connie,’ says Chris.

  ‘Think about what?’ asks Connie. ‘Just saying Streatham’s a long way away, eh?’

  ‘Connie, I’m not kidding, you’re not smart enough to pull this off. Let it go.’

  ‘I might not be smart enough,’ smiles Connie, ‘but I’m quite dangerous. Or unpredictable, that’s the nicest way of putting it. I followed you home, but someone else followed Patrice home for me.’

  ‘Get out,’ says Chris.

  ‘I’m already out, silly,’ says Connie. ‘I promise we’ll keep an eye on her for you. Make sure she’s not up to mischief. She’s really very pretty. Bet she keeps you on your toes. Like all the best women.’

  As Connie blows him a kiss, Chris slams the door and slumps back against it. Think quickly, assess the risk. Tell Patrice that Connie has just threatened her? Ask her to be careful? Look out for Range Rovers? Terrify her? For what? For some amateurish bluff? Jesus! Was it a bluff? Just how unpredictable was Connie Johnson? Could he –

  Chris’s phone rings. Donna. His fifteen minutes are up. He knows he has to pick up.

  ‘All clear,’ he says.

  ‘What did she want?’ asks Donna.

  Tell Donna the truth? Chris makes an instant decision. He hopes it’s the right one.

  ‘She just wanted to threaten me. And you. Just letting me know she had our addresses. Telling us to ease off.’

  Donna laughs. ‘She thinks we’ll be scared of her?’

  ‘I laughed her off too. Told her to do her worst.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ asks Donna. ‘Just some amateur intimidation?’

  ‘Yep, sorry if I wo
rried you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You OK? You want me to pop over? We could watch another episode of Ozark?’

  Chris opens a kitchen drawer and looks at the takeaway menus, neatly tidied away by Patrice.

  ‘No, I should get some sleep. You had a good evening?’

  ‘Surveillance with that guy from the Met. Jayden? Jordan?’

  ‘Jonathan,’ says Chris. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Night, skipper,’ says Donna.

  Chris looks at the menus again. He would kill for a curry. He slams the drawer shut.

  If you don’t love yourself, who’s going to love you?

  51

  Ibrahim is propped up in bed. He has a cigar and a glass of brandy on his bedside table, and his laptop open in front of him. He clicks on the CCTV file Donna has sent him. You will go a long way to find someone else in Coopers Chase who knows as much as Ibrahim about IT. A long way.

  ‘Now, I need you to listen carefully,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Douglas and Poppy were murdered sometime before five p.m. on the twenty-sixth, so we only need to watch the footage from then until Elizabeth and Joyce check the locker on Thursday. Just the next three days or so.’

  ‘OK,’ says Kendrick, and leans his head on Ibrahim’s shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t I look through the twenty-sixth on my laptop, and you look through the twenty-seventh on your iPad?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ says Kendrick.

  ‘And if you see anyone trying to open locker 531 then just shout.’

  ‘OK,’ says Kendrick. ‘Well, I won’t shout, I’ll just tell you.’

  ‘That’s a good plan,’ agrees Ibrahim. ‘And let’s talk while we’re watching.’

  ‘So we don’t get bored!’ says Kendrick.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Ibrahim, and presses play on the CCTV footage. The fastest he can play it is at 8x speed. The facility opens at 7 a.m. and shuts at 7 p.m., so it will take him ninety minutes to get through the day. With Kendrick he can cover two days in that time. Perhaps it’s not the perfect job for an eight-year-old, but children were far too mollycoddled these days.