The Thursday Murder Club

by Richard Osman

  27

  Donna looks out of the window of the Ford Focus. What do people see in trees? There are just so many of them. Trunk, branches, leaves, trunk, branches, leaves, we get it. Her mind wanders.

  Chris has shown her the photograph left by the body. Surely it’s a red herring though? It must be. If you’re Jason Ritchie, or Bobby Tanner, or whoever took the photo, it’s asking for too much trouble. It would be idiocy for any of the men to have left the photograph by the body. A hundred different people might have murdered Tony Curran; why do the police’s job for them and narrow it down to three?

  So someone else must have got hold of a copy of the photograph? But how?

  Perhaps Tony Curran had had a copy? That would make sense. And perhaps Ian Ventham had seen it one day? Tony showing off? Ian had clocked it and tucked it away for future use? A bit of misdirection to confuse the bungling cops? From what Donna has read, he seems the type who might try to do that.

  They are passing through a village, which is a respite from the trees, but there is still not enough concrete for Donna. Maybe she’ll grow to love it? Maybe there was more to life than south London?

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asks Chris, eyes off to the left, trying to find the right road sign.

  ‘I’m thinking of Atlanta Fried Chicken on Balham High Road. And I’m thinking we should show the photo to Ian Ventham,’ says Donna. ‘Ask him if he’s ever seen it before.’

  ‘Look him in the eye when he tells us he hasn’t?’ says Chris, indicates left and turns onto a narrow country road. ‘Good plan.’

  ‘I’m also thinking, why don’t you ever iron your shirts?’ says Donna.

  ‘So this is what it’s like to have a shadow?’ says Chris. ‘Well, I used to iron just the front bit, because the rest was always under a jacket. And then I thought, well I’m wearing a tie too, so why bother at all? Does anyone really notice?’

  ‘Of course they notice,’ says Donna. ‘I notice.’

  ‘Well, you’re a police officer, Donna,’ says Chris. ‘I’ll start ironing shirts when I get a girlfriend.’

  ‘You won’t get a girlfriend until you start ironing your shirts,’ says Donna.

  ‘It’s a real Catch 22 for sure,’ says Chris and turns onto a long driveway. ‘Anyway, I’ve always found that shirts sort of iron themselves while you’re wearing them.’

  ‘Have you now?’ says Donna, as they pull up in front of Ian Ventham’s house.

  28

  ‘You can hold your breath for three minutes if you really put your mind to it,’ says Ian Ventham. ‘It’s all about controlling your diaphragm. The body doesn’t need as much oxygen as they say. Look at mountain goats, if you need proof.’

  ‘That makes sense, Mr Ventham,’ says Chris. ‘But perhaps we can get back to the photograph?’

  Ian Ventham looks at the photograph again, and shakes his head again. ‘No, I’m certain, I’ve never seen it. I recognize Tony, of course, God rest his soul, and that’s the boxer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Jason Ritchie,’ says Chris.

  ‘My boxing trainer says I could have turned pro,’ says Ian. ‘Physique plus mentality. There’s some stuff you can’t teach.’

  Chris nods again. Donna looks around Ian Ventham’s living room. One of the more extraordinary rooms she has ever seen. There is a bright red grand piano, with golden keys. The piano stool is ebony and zebra-skin.

  ‘I don’t suppose you and Tony had a falling out, Mr Ventham?’ says Chris. ‘Before he died?’

  ‘A falling out?’ asks Ian.

  ‘Mmm,’ says Chris.

  ‘Me and Tony?’ asks Ian.

  ‘Mmm,’ repeats Chris.

  ‘We never argued,’ says Ian. ‘Arguing is very bad for your wellbeing. You look at the science of it, it thins the blood. Thinner blood, less energy. Less energy, slippery slope.’

  Donna is listening to every word, just taking it all in, but her eyes continue to scan the room. There is a large oil painting in a huge gold frame above the fireplace. It is a painting of Ian, carrying a sword. There is a stuffed eagle in front of it. Wings outstretched.

  ‘Well, we can all agree with that,’ says Chris. ‘But what if I told you I’ve got three witnesses who saw the two of you arguing before he was killed?’

  Donna watches as Ian leans forward slowly, puts his elbows on his thighs and rests his chin on his clasped hands. He is giving every impression of pretending to think.

  ‘Well, listen,’ says Ian, taking his elbows off his thighs and spreading his hands. ‘We had an argument, sure, sometimes you have to, don’t you? Just to release the toxins. I guess that would explain what they saw.’

  ‘OK, yes, that would explain it,’ agrees Chris. ‘But I wonder if I could ask what the argument was about?’

  ‘Of course, sure,’ says Ian. ‘It’s a valid question and I appreciate you asking it, because, when all’s said and done, Tony died.’

  ‘Tony was murdered, actually. Shortly after the argument,’ says Donna, looking at an emerald-encrusted skull and getting bored of being quiet.

  Ian nods at her. ‘Accurate, yep, he was. You have a bright future. Well, listen, how much do you know about automatic sprinkler systems?’

  ‘As much as the next man,’ says Chris.

  ‘I want to fit them to all the new flats; Tony didn’t want the expense. To me – and listen, this is just me, just how I do business – the safety of my clients is paramount. And I mean paramount. So I said this to Tony, and he’s more laissez-faire about the whole thing, not my style and we, I’m not going to say “argued”, I’m going to say we “bickered”.’

  ‘And that was that?’ asks Chris.

  ‘And that was that,’ says Ian. ‘Just sprinklers. If you want to find me guilty of something, find me guilty of going above and beyond as regards building safety.’

  Chris nods, then turns to Donna. ‘I think that’s us done for now, Mr Ventham. Unless my colleague has any questions?’

  Donna wants to ask why Ventham is lying about the row, but that’s probably a bit much. What should she ask? What would Chris want her to ask?

  ‘Just one question, Ian,’ says Donna. She doesn’t want to call him Mr Ventham. ‘Where did you go when you left Coopers Chase that day? Did you come home? Perhaps you visited Tony Curran? To continue discussing the sprinklers?’

  ‘I did neither,’ says Ian, and seems on solid ground. ‘I drove up the hill and met with Karen and Gordon Playfair, they own the land up there. They’ll vouch for me, I’m sure. At least Karen will.’

  Chris looks at her and nods. Her question was OK.

  ‘You’re very beautiful, by the way,’ says Ian to Donna. ‘For a police officer.’

  ‘You’ll see how beautiful I am if I ever have to arrest you,’ says Donna, remembering, a moment too late, that rolling her eyes was probably unprofessional.

  ‘Well, not beautiful,’ adds Ian. ‘But attractive enough for round here.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Ventham,’ says Chris, standing. ‘If there’s anything else we’ll be in touch. And if you ever need to tell me that I’m beautiful, you have my number.’

  As Donna stands, she takes a final look around the room. The last thing she notices is Ian Ventham’s aquarium. At the bottom of the tank is an exact scale replica of Ian Ventham’s house. A clownfish emerges from an upstairs window as Donna and Chris make their way out.

  Donna’s phone pings as she and Chris reach the car.

  A text from Elizabeth. Which doesn’t seem right to Donna at all. Surely a message from Elizabeth should be delivered in Morse code, or by an intricate series of flags?

  Donna smiles to herself and opens the text. ‘The Thursday Murder Club, asking if we could come over to Coopers Chase, sir? They have some information.’

  ‘The Thursday Murder Club?’ asks Chris.

  ‘That’s what they call themselves. There’s four of them, a little gang.’

  Chris nods. ‘I’ve met Ibrahim and poor old Ron Ritchi
e. Are they in this gang?’

  Donna nods. She has no idea why he said ‘poor’ Ron Ritchie, but no doubt Elizabeth will be behind that, somehow. ‘Shall we go and see them? Elizabeth says Jason Ritchie will be there.’

  ‘Elizabeth?’ says Chris.

  ‘She’s their …’ Donna thinks. ‘I don’t know what you’d say. Whatever Marlon Brando was in The Godfather.’

  ‘Last time I went to Coopers Chase someone clamped the Ford Focus,’ says Chris. ‘I was charged £150 to release it, by a pensioner with a high-vis jacket and an adjustable spanner. You reply to Elizabeth and you tell her we’ll visit when we decide, not when she decides. We’re the police.’

  ‘I’m not sure that Elizabeth will take no for an answer,’ says Donna.

  ‘Well, she’s going to have to, Donna,’ says Chris. ‘I’ve been in this job for nearly thirty years and I’m not going to be pushed around by four pensioners.’

  ‘OK,’ says Donna. ‘I’ll let her know.’

  29

  It turned out that Chris had been wrong and Donna had been right.

  Chris Hudson finds himself jammed uncomfortably on a sofa, with Ibrahim, whom he has met before, on one side, and tiny, chirpy, white-haired Joyce on the other. It is clearly a two-and-a-half-seater sofa and when Chris had been shown to it, his assumption was that he would be sharing it with only one other person. Then, with a grace and swiftness he hadn’t expected from two people deep into their pensionable years, Ibrahim and Joyce had slid in one either side of him and so here he was. If he had known, he would have declined the invitation and taken one of the armchairs, now occupied by Ron Ritchie, looking sprightlier than when they last met, and the terrifying Elizabeth. Who really doesn’t take no for an answer.

  More to the point, he could have taken that cosy-looking IKEA recliner that Donna is virtually curled up in, feet tucked underneath her, without a care in the world.

  Could he move? There is another seat, a hard-backed chair, but Joyce and Ibrahim would surely take offence? They seem oblivious to his discomfort and the last thing he wants to do is seem churlish. He is sitting where he is sitting because of their kindness and because he is to be the centre of attention. He understands and appreciates that. There is a psychology to seating arrangements that any good police officer picks up over the years. He knows they have tried their best to make him feel important and they would be horrified to know that the effect is actually the complete opposite.

  Chris has just been given a cup of tea on a saucer, yet he is so hemmed in that he fears any attempt to drink it might be physically impossible. So here he is, stuck, but like a professional, he will make the best of it. Look at Donna though, she’s even got a side table for her tea. Unbelievable. They couldn’t have made this more awkward for him if they’d tried. Still, stay professional.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ says Chris. He attempts to shift his weight forward, but, without realizing it, Ibrahim has his elbow nestling against Chris’s hip and Chris is forced to settle back again. His teacup is too full to safely hold in one hand and too hot to sip. He would feel annoyance, but the kindly, attentive looks on the faces of the four residents make annoyance impossible.

  ‘As you know, myself and PC De Freitas, over there in the chair, making herself comfortable, are investigating the murder of Tony Curran. He’s a man I believe you all have some knowledge of, a local builder and property developer. As you also know, Mr Curran tragically passed away last week, and we have certain questions pertaining to this event.’

  Chris looks at his audience. They are nodding with such innocence, taking it all in. It makes him glad he’s adopted a slightly more formal way of speaking. Saying ‘pertaining’ had been a good call. He attempts a sip at the tea, but it is still scalding hot and any blowing would send a wave over the brim. It would also suggest to whoever made the tea that he would have preferred it to be less scalding, which would look rude.

  Joyce has more bad news for him. ‘We have forgotten our manners, Detective Chief Inspector. We haven’t offered you any cake.’ She produces a lemon drizzle, already cut into slices and offers it across.

  Chris, unable to raise a hand to say no thank you, says ‘I won’t, I had a big lunch.’ No such luck.

  ‘Just try a slice. I made it specially,’ says Joyce, in a voice so proud that Chris has no choice.

  ‘Go on then,’ he says, and Joyce balances a slice of the cake on his saucer.

  ‘So perhaps you have a suspect by now?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Or are you only looking at Ventham?’

  ‘Ibrahim says it’s better than M&S lemon drizzle,’ says Joyce.

  ‘He will have a number of suspects,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If I know DCI Hudson. He is very thorough.’

  ‘If you notice anything unusual, that’s the almond flour,’ says Joyce.

  ‘Is that right, son? You got any suspects?’ Ron asks Chris.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be …’

  ‘Narrowing it all down. Bet you got forensics?’ says Ron Ritchie. ‘I always watch CSI with Jason. He’ll love all this. What you got? Fingerprints? DNA?’

  Chris remembers Ron as being more confused than this the other day. ‘Well, that’s why I’m here, as you know. I know you and Joyce were having a drink with your son, Mr Ritchie, and I think he may be joining us? It would be good to talk to him too.’

  ‘He just texted,’ says Ron. ‘He’ll be ten minutes.’

  ‘I bet he’d love to know the circumstances,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘He’d love that,’ confirms Ron.

  ‘Well, again, it’s not really in my …’ says Chris.

  ‘M&S lemon drizzle cake is oversugared, Inspector, that’s my opinion,’ interrupts Ibrahim. ‘Not just my opinion either, if you look at the discussion boards.’

  Chris is struggling further now, because the slice of cake is slightly too big for the gap between the bottom of the cup and the edge of the saucer and it is taking all his efforts to keep it balanced. Still, he has had a career of interviewing killers, psychopaths, con artists and liars of every sort, so he ploughs on.

  ‘We really just need to talk to Mr Ritchie and his son – and Joyce, I think you also saw …’

  ‘CSI is too American for me,’ interrupts Joyce. ‘Lewis is my favourite. It’s ITV3. I’ve got them backing up on my Sky Plus. I think I’m the only one in the village who can work Sky Plus.’

  ‘I like the Rebus books,’ adds Ibrahim. ‘If you know them? Rebus is from Scotland and, goodness me, he has a terrible time of it.’

  ‘Patricia Highsmith for me,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘They’ll never top The Sweeney though and I’ve read all the Mark Billinghams,’ says Ron Ritchie, again with more confidence than Chris remembers.

  Elizabeth, meanwhile, has opened a bottle of wine and fills up the glasses that have suddenly appeared in her friends’ hands.

  Chris cannot even attempt to sip his tea now, as lifting it to his lips would unbalance the cake and lifting the cup off the saucer would tip the cake in the saucer’s centre and make it impossible to put the cup back down again. He feels sweat start to trickle down his back, reminding him of the time he interviewed a twenty-five-stone Hell’s Angels enforcer with ‘I KILL COPPERS’ tattooed around his neck.

  Fortunately, Elizabeth is on hand to help him out. ‘You look a little hemmed-in on that sofa, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘We normally meet in the Jigsaw Room, you see,’ says Joyce. ‘But it’s not Thursday and the Jigsaw Room is being used by Chat and Crochet.’

  ‘Chat and Crochet is a fairly new group, Detective Chief Inspector,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Formed by members who had become disillusioned with Knit and Natter. Too much nattering and not enough knitting, apparently.’

  ‘And the main lounge is off limits,’ says Ron. ‘The Bowls Club have got a disciplinary hearing.’

  ‘To do with Colin Clemence and his defence of medicinal marijuana,’ says Joyce.

  ‘So why don’t we sit you on the upright,’ say
s Elizabeth, ‘and you can talk us through the whole thing?’

  ‘Ooh yes,’ says Joyce. ‘Talk slowly because it’s not really our area, but that would be lovely. And there’s some coffee and walnut where the lemon drizzle came from.’

  Chris looks over at Donna. She simply shrugs and holds out her palms.

  30

  Father Matthew Mackie walks slowly up the hill, through the avenue of trees.

  He had hoped Tony Curran’s death might be the end of all this. No need for any further action on his behalf. But he had visited Ian Ventham to put his case and he had been disappointed. The Woodlands was continuing as planned. The cemetery was to go.

  Time to conjure up a plan B. And quickly.

  As the path curves to the left, then straightens, the Garden of Eternal Rest comes into view, further and higher up the path. From here Father Mackie can see the iron gates, wide enough for a vehicle, set into the red-brick wall. The gates look old, the wall looks new. In front of the gates is a turning circle, once for hearses and now for maintenance vehicles.

  He reaches the gates and pushes them open. There is a central path, leading to a large statue of Christ on the cross at the very far end. He walks silently towards Christ, through the sea of souls. Beyond the statue, beyond the Garden, are tall beech trees, reaching further up the hill to the open farmland. Father Mackie crosses himself, by the plinth at Christ’s feet. No kneeling for him these days though, arthritis and Catholicism being an uneasy mix.

  Matthew Mackie turns and looks back across the Garden, squinting into the sun. Either side of the path are the gravestones, neat, ordered, symmetrical, stretching forward in time towards the iron gates. The oldest graves are nearest to Christ, with the newest joining the line when their time had come. There are around 200 bodies high on the hill, a spot so beautiful, so peaceful, so perfect, Mackie thinks it could almost make him believe in God.

  The first grave is dated 1874, a Sister Margaret Bernadette and this is where Mackie eventually turns and starts his slow walk back.