The Thursday Murder Club

by Richard Osman

  Bogdan came home, buried his mother and left for England the next day. Nearly twenty years later he is looking at a stupid lawn.

  Bogdan is thinking that he will maybe close his eyes for a moment when, from the other side of the house, comes the deep sound of the front-door chimes. A rare visitor to this big, quiet house, and the reason Ian has asked Bogdan to be here today. Ian slides back the patio door of his study.

  ‘Bogdan. Door.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Bogdan gets to his feet. He goes in via the conservatory he designed, through the music room he’d soundproofed and into the hallway he had once sanded in his underpants on the hottest day of the year.

  Whatever you needed him to do.

  Father Matthew Mackie is regretting asking his cabbie to drop him at the bottom of the drive. It had been quite the walk from the front gates to the front door. He fans himself a little with his file, then, quickly using the camera on his phone to check his dog collar is straight, rings the bell. He is relieved to hear noises from within the house, because you never know, even when you’ve made arrangements. He was happy to meet here, it makes things easier all round.

  He hears footsteps on a wooden floor and the door is opened by a broad, shaven-headed man. He wears a tight, white T-shirt and he has a cross tattooed on one forearm and three names on the other.

  ‘Father,’ says the man. Good news, a Catholic. And, judging by the accent, Polish.

  ‘Dzień dobry,’ says Father Mackie.

  The man smiles back, ‘Dzień dobry, dzień dobry.’

  ‘I have an appointment to see Mr Ventham. Matthew Mackie.’

  The man takes his hand and shakes it. ‘Bogdan Jankowski. Come in please, Father.’

  ‘We understand, believe me, that you have no legal imperative to help us,’ says Father Matthew Mackie. ‘We disagree with the council’s ruling, of course, but we must accept it.’

  Mike Griffin from the Planning Committee had done his job well, thinks Ian. Feel free to dig up the graveyard, Ian, he’d said, be our guest. Mike Griffin is addicted to online casinos and long may that continue.

  ‘However, I do think you have a moral obligation to leave the Garden of Eternal Rest, the graveyard, exactly where it is,’ continues Father Mackie. ‘And I wanted to meet you face to face, man to man and see if we can come to a compromise.’

  Ian Ventham listens closely, but, in honesty, is really thinking about how clever he is. He is the cleverest person he knows, that’s for certain. That’s how he gets what he wants. It feels almost unfair sometimes. He’s not even one step ahead of you, he’s on an entirely different path.

  Karen Playfair had been an easy one. If he can’t persuade Gordon Playfair to sell his land, then he knows she will. Dads and daughters. And she’d see a chunk of the money, surely? An old man can only turn down a seven-figure sum for a big hill for so long. Ian would always find a way.

  But Father Mackie is trickier than Karen Playfair, he sees that. Priests weren’t like divorcees in their early fifties who could stand to lose a few pounds, were they? You had to pretend to have some respect, and maybe you actually should have some respect. After all, what if they were right? Open mind. Which was another example of cleverness being useful.

  That’s why Ian has asked Bogdan to join them. He knows this lot like to stick together, and quite right, who doesn’t? He realizes he should probably speak.

  ‘We’re only moving the bodies, Father,’ says Ian. ‘It will be done with the greatest of care and the greatest of respect.’

  Ian knows that this is not strictly true. Legally he had had to put the job out for public tender. Three bids had come in. One was from the University of Kent Forensic Anthropology Department, who would certainly do the job with the greatest care and respect. One was from a firm of ‘Cemetery Specialists’ in Rye, who had recently moved thirty graves from the site of a new Pets at Home and included pictures of solemn men and women in dark blue overalls, digging out graves by hand. The last was from a company set up two months ago by Ian himself, with a funeral director from Brighton he had met playing golf and Sue Banbury from Ian’s village, who rented out diggers. That final pitch was extremely competitive and had won the business. Ian had looked into the excavation of cemeteries online and it wasn’t rocket science.

  ‘Some of these graves are nearly one hundred and fifty years old, Mr Ventham,’ says Father Mackie.

  ‘Call me Ian,’ says Ian.

  Ian hadn’t strictly needed to have this meeting, but he feels it’s better to be safe than sorry. A lot of the residents can get quite ‘churchy’ when it suits them and he wouldn’t want Father Mackie stirring up trouble. People get funny about corpses. So hear the man out, reassure him, send him happily on his way. Donate to something? There’s a thought to keep in the back pocket.

  ‘The company you’ve employed to relocate the cemetery,’ Mackie looks at his file, ‘Angels in Transit – the Cremoval Specialists, they know what they’re going to find, I hope? There won’t be many intact coffins, Ian, just bones. And not skeletons; loose bones, broken down, scattered, half-rotted, sunk through the earth. And every single fragment of every bone, in every single grave, needs to be found, needs to be documented and needs to be respected. That’s basic decency, but don’t forget that it is also the law.’

  Ian nods, though he is actually wondering if it is possible to paint a digger black. Sue will know.

  ‘I am here today,’ continues Father Mackie, ‘to ask you to think again, to leave these ladies where they are, to leave them in peace. Man to man. I don’t know what it would cost you to do that, that’s your business. But you have to understand, as a man of God, that it’s my business too. I don’t want these women moved.’

  ‘Matthew, I appreciate you coming to see us,’ says Ian. ‘And I see what you’re saying about angels. Souls in torment et cetera, if I’m reading you right? But you said it yourself, all we’ll find now is bones. That’s all there is. And you can choose to be superstitious, or religious in your case, I see that, but I can choose not to be. Now, we’ll take care of the bones, and I’m happy for you to be there and watch the lot if that’s what floats your boat. But I want to move the cemetery, I’m allowed to move the cemetery and I’m going to move the cemetery. If that makes me whatever I am then so be it. Bones don’t mind where they are.’

  ‘If I can’t change your mind then I will make this as difficult as I possibly can for you. I need you to know that,’ says Father Mackie.

  ‘Join the queue, Father,’ says Ian. ‘I’ve got the RSPCA up in arms about badgers. I’ve got the Kent Forestry Something banging on about protected trees. With you, it’s nuns. I’ve got to comply with EU regulations on heat emissions, on light pollution, on bathroom fittings and a hundred other things, even though I seem to remember we voted to leave. I’ve got residents bleating about benches, I’ve got English Heritage telling me my bricks don’t qualify as sustainable and the cheapest cement guy in the entire south of England has just gone to prison for VAT fraud. You are not my biggest problem, Father, not even close.’

  Ian finally draws breath.

  ‘Also, Tony died, so is difficult time for everyone,’ adds Bogdan, crossing himself.

  ‘Yeah, yep. Also, Tony died. Difficult time,’ agrees Ian.

  Father Mackie turns to Bogdan, now he has broken his silence.

  ‘And what do you think, my son? About moving the Garden of Eternal Rest? You don’t think we’re disturbing souls? You don’t think there will be penance for this?’

  ‘Father, I think God watches over everything and judges everything,’ says Bogdan. ‘But I think bones is bones.’

  22

  Joyce is having her hair cut.

  Anthony comes in every Thursday and Friday and appointments at his mobile salon are like gold dust. Joyce always books the first appointment, because that’s when you get the best stories.

  Elizabeth knows this and so is sitting outside by the open doorway. Waiting and listening. She could ju
st walk in, but waiting and listening are old habits she can’t break. In a lifetime of listening you pick up all sorts. She looks at her watch. If Joyce isn’t out in five minutes she will make her presence known.

  ‘One day I’m just going to dye the whole thing, Joyce,’ says Anthony. ‘Send you out of here bright pink.’

  Joyce giggles.

  ‘You’d look like Nicki Minaj. You know Nicki Minaj, Joyce?’

  ‘No, but I like the sound of her,’ says Joyce.

  ‘What do we think about this fella they killed?’ asks Anthony. ‘Curran? I’ve seen him round here.’

  ‘Well, it’s very sad, obviously,’ says Joyce.

  ‘They shot him, that’s what I heard,’ says Anthony. ‘I wonder what he’d done?’

  ‘I think he was bludgeoned to death, Anthony,’ says Joyce.

  ‘Bludgeoned, was he? You really do have lovely hair, Joyce. You have to promise you’ll leave it to me in your will.’

  Outside, Elizabeth rolls her eyes.

  ‘I heard they gunned him down on the seafront,’ says Anthony. ‘Three guys on motorbikes.’

  ‘No, just bludgeoned in his kitchen, apparently,’ says Joyce. ‘No motorbikes.’

  ‘Who’d do that?’ says Anthony. ‘Bludgeon someone in their kitchen?’

  Who indeed? thinks Elizabeth, and looks at her watch again.

  ‘I bet he had a lovely kitchen too,’ says Anthony. ‘What a shame. I always had a bit of a thing for him. Like you could tell he was a wrong ’un, but you still would?’

  ‘Well, we’re agreed there, Anthony,’ says Joyce.

  ‘I hope they catch whoever did it.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ says Joyce, and takes a sip of her tea.

  Elizabeth decides enough is enough, stands and walks into the room. Anthony turns and sees her.

  ‘Ooh, here she is. Dusty Springfield.’

  ‘Good morning, Anthony. I’m afraid you’re going to have to release Joyce. I need her.’

  Joyce claps her hands.

  23

  Joyce

  So that was a day I wasn’t expecting when I was having my muesli this morning. First the nun business and now this.

  If you think I have muesli every morning you’ve got the wrong idea, but this morning I did and, as things turned out, I was glad of the energy. It has gone 10 p.m. now and I have only just put my things down. At least I had a snooze on the train home.

  I was having my hair cut this morning, with Anthony. We were nearly done and were just having a lovely gossip when who should arrive but Elizabeth. With a tote bag and a flask, both of which were out of character. She told me a taxi was on its way and to get ready for a day out. I have learned to be spontaneous since I moved to Coopers Chase, so I didn’t bat an eyelid. I asked her where we were going, so I would have an idea about the weather etc., and she said London, which surprised me, but explained the flask. I know exactly how cold London can be, so I popped home and put on a nice coat. And thank goodness I did!

  We still use the Robertsbridge taxis, even though they once took Ron’s granddaughter to the wrong station, and to their credit they have got better. The driver, Hamed, was Somalian, and Somalia sounds very beautiful. Surprise, surprise, Elizabeth has been there and they had a right old chat. Hamed has six children and the eldest is a GP in Chislehurst, if you know it? I once went to a car boot there, so was at least able to chip in.

  All this time Elizabeth was waiting for me to ask where we were going, but I didn’t crack. She likes to be in charge and, don’t get me wrong, I like her to be in charge too, but it doesn’t harm to make your presence felt every now and again. I think she rubs off on me, and in a good way. I have never really thought that I was a pushover, but the more time I spend with Elizabeth, the more I think I probably am. Maybe if I’d had Elizabeth’s spirit then I would have been to Somalia too? That’s just an example of what I mean.

  We got on the train at Robertsbridge (the 9.51 stopper) and she’d cracked by Tunbridge Wells and let me in on it. We were off to see Joanna.

  Joanna! My little girl! You can imagine my questions. Elizabeth had me back exactly where she wanted me.

  So why were we going to see Joanna? Well, this is what it seems had transpired.

  Elizabeth explained, in that way she has that makes everything sound so reasonable, that we knew as much as the police did about many things in this case, which was a good thing for everyone. However, it would also be good if there were areas where we knew more than the police. In case we needed to ‘trade’ at any point. This might be useful, according to Elizabeth, because Donna is, unfortunately, a bit too canny to tell us everything. After all, who are we?

  The big gap, the way Elizabeth would have it, was the financial records of Ian Ventham’s companies. Might there be a useful connection between Ventham and Tony Curran there? A reason for their row? A motive for murder? It was important we found out.

  To this end, Elizabeth had, of course, acquired detailed financial records of Ian Ventham’s companies. By hook or, more likely, by crook. It was all in a big, blue file, hence the tote bag, which she put on the empty seat beside her. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but we were travelling First Class. I kept hoping someone would ask to see my ticket, but no one did.

  Elizabeth had taken a look through all the financial bumf and couldn’t make head or tail of it. She needed someone to take a look and tell her what was what. Was there anything out of the ordinary? Anything we might poke our noses into when we had a spare moment? Hidden in the records would be leads, of that Elizabeth was sure. But hidden where?

  I asked if the same person who had found her the records in the first place might be the man for the job. Elizabeth had said that unfortunately this person had owed her one favour, not two. She also said she was surprised I had said ‘man’ for the job, given my politics. She was right, it was not best practice, but I told her that I bet it was a man all the same and she confirmed that it was.

  Somewhere around Orpington I in turn cracked and asked why Joanna? Well, Elizabeth gave her reasons. We needed someone up to speed on modern business accounting and who knows how to value companies, both of which Joanna, apparently, is. Was Ventham in trouble? Did he owe money? Are there any further property developments on the horizon? Are they funded? We needed someone we could trust absolutely and Elizabeth was spot on about Joanna here. Joanna is many things, but she won’t let you down over a secret. Finally, we needed someone we could have quick access to and who owed us a favour. I asked Elizabeth what favour Joanna owed us and she said the universal guilt of a child who doesn’t see their mum often enough. She had Joanna pegged there too.

  It boiled down, Elizabeth said, to needing someone ‘forensic, loyal and nearby’.

  Anyway, she had emailed Joanna and not taken no for an answer. She told Joanna not to discuss it with me, so it would be a nice surprise, and here we were.

  This all looks convincing written down, but then Elizabeth always has the knack of sounding convincing. I didn’t buy it for a moment, though. I don’t doubt she could have found many better people for the job. You want the truth? I think Elizabeth just wanted to meet Joanna.

  Which, by the way, was fine by me. It was a chance to see Joanna and a chance to show her off to Elizabeth. And all without the embarrassment of trying to arrange it myself. One way or another, if I arrange it, I always get something wrong and Joanna gets exasperated.

  Also, today I wouldn’t be talking to Joanna about her job, or her new boyfriend or the new house (in Putney; I haven’t been, but she’s sent me pictures and there is talk of Christmas). I would be talking about a murder. Try acting like a cool teenager when someone has been murdered. Good luck, darling, as they say.

  We arrived at Charing Cross fourteen minutes late due to ‘the slow running of this service’, which Elizabeth had a good mutter about. I didn’t need the loo on the train, which was a blessing. Last time I had been in London was for Jersey Boys with the gang, which was a while ag
o now. We used to go three or four times a year if we could. There were four of us. We would do a matinee and be back on the train before rush hour. In Marks they do a gin and tonic in a can, if you’ve ever had it? We would drink them on the train home and giggle ourselves silly. The gang has all gone now. Two cancers and a stroke. We hadn’t known that Jersey Boys would be our last trip. You always know when it’s your first time, don’t you? But you rarely know when it’s your final time. Anyway, I wish I had kept the programme.

  We took a black cab (what else?) and off we set to Mayfair. When we were on Curzon Street, Elizabeth pointed out an office where she used to work. It had been closed down in the 1980s for efficiencies.

  I have been to Joanna’s offices before, when they first moved in, but they have redecorated since then. There is a table tennis table and you can just help yourself to drinks. There is also a lift where you just say the number, instead of pressing a button. Not for me, but very swish all the same.

  I know I sometimes go on about her, but really, it was so lovely to see Joanna. She even gave me a proper hug, because we were in company. Elizabeth then excused herself to use the bathroom (I had gone at Charing Cross, in case you were thinking I was superhuman). The second she was out of earshot, Joanna beamed.

  ‘Mum! A murder?’ she said. Or words to that effect. She looked like the child I remembered from long ago.

  ‘He was bludgeoned, JoJo. Of all things,’ I replied. These were my exact words and I think the fact she didn’t immediately screw up her face and tell me not to call her ‘JoJo’ speaks volumes. (On a side note, I could feel and see that she was a bit too thin, so I don’t think her new man is good for her. I almost took advantage and said something, but I thought, don’t push your luck, Joyce.)