The Thursday Murder Club

by Richard Osman

  ‘You know me. I thought I’d find them myself.’

  ‘And how’s that going?’

  Well, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it, Dad?’

  Ron nods. ‘I’ll call Elizabeth.’

  69

  Donna and Chris are in Fairhaven Police Station. Interview Suite B.

  Not so long ago Donna had been sitting in this interview room talking to someone pretending to be a nun. She now sat in front of a man pretending to be a priest. The parallel was not lost on her.

  Donna herself had made the breakthrough. Just a few background checks on Father Matthew Mackie. Run him through the computer, see what popped up.

  The background checks had taken a couple of days, because nothing at all had popped up. Which had made no sense at all. So Donna had spent a bit of time piecing it together, working out what was what, before taking the information to Chris. And now here they all were.

  ‘At every step of the process, Mr Mackie,’ Chris continues. ‘At every step, you referred to yourself as “Father”? You introduced yourself as “Father”?’

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Matthew Mackie.

  ‘Even now, you’re wearing a dog collar, are we agreed?’

  ‘I am, yes.’ Mackie fingers the dog collar in confirmation.

  ‘And the rest. The full kit, if you like?’

  ‘The vestments, yes.’

  ‘And yet, when we start looking into you, what do we find, do you think?’

  Donna watches and learns. Chris is being gentle with the old man. She wonders if he will turn, given what they know.

  ‘I think … well, I think perhaps, possibly, there may have been a misapprehension.’ Chris sits back and lets Matthew Mackie talk. Which he does in fits and starts. ‘For which I accept my share of the blame, and if you feel I have … fallen short, I suppose, in some way, my intentions were not to mislead, but I see that that’s how it might look, without all the, uh, facts.’

  ‘The facts, Mr Mackie?’ says Chris. ‘Excellent! Let’s get on to the facts. You are not Father Matthew Mackie, that’s a fact. You do not work for the Catholic Church, or any church. That’s another one. You are, and this has taken a full fifteen minutes of research with the local NHS Trust, Doctor Michael Matthew Noel Mackie? Can we have that one as a fact too?’

  ‘Yes,’ admits Matthew Mackie.

  ‘You retired from private practice as a GP fifteen years ago. You live in a bungalow in Bexhill and, asking around there, you don’t even attend Mass.’

  Matthew Mackie looks to the floor.

  ‘All facts?’

  Mackie nods without looking up. ‘All facts.’

  ‘I wonder if you could remove the dog collar for me, Mr Mackie?’

  Mackie looks up, and directly at Chris. ‘No, I’ll keep it on if you don’t mind. Unless I’m under arrest, which you haven’t mentioned.’

  Now Chris nods. He looks over at Donna, then turns back and drums his fingers on the table. Here we go, thinks Donna. It takes a lot to get Chris to drum his fingers on a table.

  ‘A man has just died, Mr Mackie,’ says Chris. ‘And you and I watched it happen, didn’t we? And do you know what I thought I saw? I thought I saw a man pushing a Catholic priest. A Catholic priest protecting a Catholic graveyard. And, as a police officer, that painted things in a certain light for me. You understand?’

  Mackie nods. Donna is staying quiet. There is nothing she can think to add. She wonders if Chris would ever drum his fingers on a table at her. She hopes not.

  ‘But what did I actually see? I actually saw a man pushing someone impersonating a priest, for reasons still known only to himself. Pushing a conman, which is what you are. A conman protecting a graveyard?’

  ‘I’m not a conman,’ says Matthew Mackie.

  Chris holds up a hand to stop him. ‘Moments after scuffling with this conman, the first man drops down dead from a lethal injection. Which puts a different complexion on things, especially when we discover the conman is a doctor. But perhaps I’ve missed something?’

  Mackie remains silent.

  ‘I’m just going to ask you again, sir. I wonder if you could remove the dog collar for me?’

  ‘I am not presently a father, I grant you that,’ says Mackie with a long sigh. ‘But I was, and for many years. And that confers privileges and this collar is one. If I choose to wear it, and if I still choose to call myself Father Mackie, then that is my business.’

  ‘Doctor Mackie,’ says Chris, ‘this is a murder case. I need you to stop lying to me. PC De Freitas here has been through every record. The Church has been very helpful. Whatever you’ve said to us, whatever you said to the council, to Ian Ventham, to the ladies who protected the gate, you are not a priest and you never were a priest. There is no record anywhere, no dusty ledger, no old photo. I have no idea why you are lying to us, but we have ourselves a dead body and we’re looking for a murderer, so it’s probably best that we find out quickly. If I’m missing something important, I need you to tell me.’

  Mackie looks at Chris for a moment, thinking. Then shakes his head.

  ‘Only if you arrest me,’ replies Mackie. ‘Otherwise, I’d like to go home now. And no hard feelings, I know you are doing your job.’

  Matthew Mackie crosses himself and stands. Chris stands too.

  ‘I would stay, Doctor Mackie, if I were you.’

  ‘The moment you charge me, I promise I will,’ says Mackie. ‘But, in the meantime …’

  Donna stands and opens the interview room door for him and Matthew Mackie takes his leave.

  70

  It can be very hard to smoke in a sauna, but Jason Ritchie is giving it his best shot.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK with this, Dad?’ he asks, sweat dripping from his brow.

  ‘Just tell them everything,’ replies Ron. ‘They’ll know what to do.’

  ‘And you reckon they’ll find them?’ asks Jason.

  ‘I should have thought so,’ says Ibrahim, stretched out on a lower bench.

  The sauna door opens and Elizabeth and Joyce enter, with towels wrapped around swimsuits. Jason puts out his cigarette in a pile of hot ash.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ says Joyce. ‘Eucalyptus.’

  ‘Nice to see you, Jason,’ says Elizabeth, taking a seat opposite the half-naked boxer. ‘I believe you think that we might be of use to you. I must say, I agree.’

  That’s it for pleasantries. Elizabeth fixes her eyes on Jason.

  ‘So?’

  Jason tells Elizabeth and Joyce the same story he told his dad. A copy of the photo is passed around the sauna. Ibrahim has had it laminated.

  ‘I get the photo,’ confirms Jason, ‘and I’m, like, what’s this about? Where’s this from? Is this the papers? Is this the front page of the Sun tomorrow? That’s what I was thinking. But there’s no message, nothing. There’s no journalist on the phone, and they’ve got a number for me, so what’s up?’

  ‘And what was up?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Well, I’m thinking, do I ring my PR? Maybe they’ve spoken to her. I was in shock, to be fair, this is twenty-odd years ago, this photo, and a world I’d left behind. So I’m ready to deny whatever, or come up with something, stag-do, fancy dress, anything to explain it away.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s good,’ says Joyce.

  ‘So there I am, still looking at his picture, and something clicks. I think, well maybe this is the game. Maybe Tony’s got hold of this photo, famous boxer, surrounded by cash, jailbirds everywhere. He sends me a copy, looking for a bit of money. Give me twenty K, whatever, and I don’t go to the papers. Fair enough, really, so I think, yeah, I should just ring him, have a little chat. See if we can work something out.’

  ‘Was Tony Curran the sort of man who might blackmail you?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Tony’s the sort of man who might do anything, yeah. So, first things first, I get hold of a new phone, cheap one, in town.’

  ‘Afterwards, will you tell me where, because I’m looking for one at t
he moment,’ says Ibrahim.

  ‘Of course, Mr Arif,’ says Jason. ‘So, I ring him once, and no answer. I ring him again – same; leave it twenty minutes and try again. He’s still not picking up.’

  ‘I never pick up if it’s a number I don’t recognize,’ says Joyce. ‘I saw that on Rogue Traders.’

  ‘Very wise, Joyce,’ continues Jason. ‘Then I came here for a quick drink with Pops and I saw the man himself, Curran, arguing with Ventham.’

  ‘Keeping all this quiet from me,’ says Ron, and Jason raises his hand to acknowledge it.

  ‘So after me and Dad had a couple of beers …’

  ‘And me,’ says Joyce.

  ‘And Joyce,’ agrees Jason. ‘After that, I went for a little drive, just to do a bit of thinking. Then I headed down there, Tony’s house, lovely place. Now, we’re always cautious around each other, me and Tony, too many secrets, but I wouldn’t be at his front door without a reason. His car’s on the drive, so when there’s no answer, I think he’s seen me on his security and doesn’t fancy a chat. And I didn’t blame him, so I rang the bell a few more times and then I left.’

  ‘And this is the day he died?’ asks Joyce.

  ‘The day he died. I couldn’t hear anything from inside, so I don’t know if that was before or after or whatever. Anyway, home I go and a couple of hours later I’m on this WhatsApp group …’

  ‘A WhatsApp group?’ asks Elizabeth, but Joyce waves her away and Jason continues.

  ‘A few of the old faces, and someone says Tony’s been found dead at home. I go cold, you know? I get sent the photo that morning and Tony dies that afternoon. Which leaves me worried. I mean, I can look after myself, but Tony could look after himself too, and see where that got him? So I’m nervous, that’s natural, and then the police get wind that I’ve been to Tony’s and they get records saying I’d rung Tony’s phone that day too. And they’ve got a photo of me that was left by the body. You can’t blame them, they think that stinks and so would I.’

  ‘But you didn’t kill Tony Curran?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘No, not me,’ says Jason. ‘But you can see why the police think I did.’

  ‘Their case is compelling,’ agrees Ibrahim.

  ‘And you’re here to see if we can find your old friend for you?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Well,’ says Jason, ‘the way my dad tells it, however good the police are, you lot are better.’

  There are quiet nods all round.

  ‘And it’s old friends,’ says Jason. ‘There’s the lad who took the photo too.’

  ‘And who was that?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Turkish Gianni, the fourth member of our little gang.’

  ‘And he’s Turkish?’ asks Joyce.

  ‘No,’ says Jason.

  Ibrahim notes this down.

  ‘He’s Turkish Cypriot and scarpered back there years ago.’

  ‘I know some good operatives in Cyprus,’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘Look,’ says Jason. ‘You owe me nothing. Less than that. I’ve done nothing good here and Tony never did. But if Bobby or Gianni killed Tony, then they’re still out there, and if they’re still out there, then why not me next? Again, not your business, I know, but Dad thought it might be up your street, and I’m not going to turn down the help.’

  ‘So … what do you reckon?’ Ron asks.

  ‘Well,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Here’s my take. The others might disagree, though I suspect they won’t. This is a mess of your own making. And a mess that came from greed and from drugs. And those are downsides for me. But there is an upside too. And that is that you are Ron’s son. And I believe you are probably right, I believe we can find Bobby Tanner and Turkish Gianni for you. Probably quickly. And whatever you’ve done, and whatever we might think of that, I would like to catch a murderer. Before that murderer catches you.’

  ‘Agreed,’ says Joyce.

  ‘Agreed,’ says Ibrahim.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Jason.

  ‘Thank you,’ adds Ron.

  ‘Not at all,’ says Elizabeth, standing. ‘Now, I will leave you to your sauna. I have to make a few calls. Ron, I need to see you at the graveyard at ten this evening, if you’re free. Joyce and Ibrahim, I’ll need you there too.’

  ‘Sounds lovely. Wouldn’t miss it,’ says Ron. His son gives him a questioning look.

  ‘And Jason?’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes?’ says Jason.

  ‘If this is a bluff, it’s a high-risk one. Because we will catch this murderer. Even if it’s you.’

  71

  ‘Do you need a hand to get down into the grave?’ asks Ibrahim.

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Austin, ‘that would be terribly kind of you.’

  Bogdan has borrowed an arc light and it is trained on the grave he had opened on the morning that Ian Ventham was murdered. The grave that had revealed an extra occupant on top of the coffin. A skeleton, buried where it had no right to be buried.

  Austin holds on to Ibrahim’s arm and takes a step down into the grave. He is careful not to step on the bones scattered on the lip of the coffin. He looks up at Elizabeth and chuckles. ‘This takes me back, Lizzie. Remember Leipzig?’

  Elizabeth smiles, she certainly does remember. Joyce also smiles, because she has never heard Elizabeth called Lizzie before. She wonders if the others caught it.

  ‘Whaddaya think, Prof?’ asks Ron, sitting happily at the feet of our Lord Jesus Christ, and drinking from a can of Stella.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t ordinarily like to say,’ replies Austin, raising his glasses to get a closer look at the femur he is now holding, ‘but if I were a gossip, among friends, of course, I would say these have been down here some while.’

  ‘Some while, Austin?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘I would say so,’ considers Austin. ‘Just by the colouration.’

  ‘And if you were being more specific?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Well, goodness!’ says Austin. ‘If you want me to be specific, I would say …’ He takes a moment to calibrate his thoughts. ‘I would say really quite some while indeed.’

  ‘So they could have been buried at the same time as Sister Margaret?’ asks Joyce.

  ‘What’s the date on the headstone?’ asks Austin.

  ‘Eighteen seventy-four,’ reads Joyce.

  ‘Not a chance. Thirty, forty, fifty years perhaps, depending on the soil, but not a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘So at some point,’ says Ibrahim, ‘somebody has dug up this grave, buried another body in it and then filled it in again?’

  ‘Certainly,’ agrees Austin. ‘You have yourselves a mystery.’

  ‘Another nun, perhaps, Austin?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Any jewellery down there? Any fragments of clothing?’

  ‘Not a thing on this one,’ says Austin. ‘Stripped bare. If it was murder, then someone knew what they were doing. I’m going to take a few bones with me, if you don’t mind?’ I’ll have a little look at them in the morning, just to give you a clearer picture.’

  ‘Absolutely, Austin, take your pick,’ says Elizabeth.

  Bogdan blows out his cheeks. ‘So we got to tell police now?’

  ‘Oh, I think we can probably keep this to ourselves until Austin gets back to us,’ replies Elizabeth. ‘If everyone agrees?’

  Everyone agrees.

  ‘Someone give me a hand out of the grave,’ says Austin. ‘Bogdan, old chap?’

  Bogdan nods, but seems to want to get something clear first. ‘Listen, I just need to say one thing. Is OK? In case maybe I go mad. This is not normal? Right? An old man in a grave looking at bones. Someone is murdered maybe, but no one tells the police?’

  ‘Bogdan, you didn’t tell the police when you first dug up the bones,’ says Joyce.

  ‘Yes, but I am me,’ says Bogdan. ‘I’m not normal.’

  ‘Well, we’re us,’ says Joyce, ‘and we’re not normal either. Although I did use to be.’

  ‘Normal is an illusory concept, Bogdan,’ adds Ibrahim.

&
nbsp; ‘Bogdan, trust us,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We just want to find out whose these remains might be and who buried them, and that will be a lot easier without the police poking their noses in until absolutely necessary. If the police have the bones first, you can bet that will be the last we hear about them. And that seems unfair, after all our hard work.’

  ‘I trust you,’ says Bogdan, then screws up his face as a thought occurs. ‘Though if it goes wrong I bet it’s me sent to prison.’

  ‘I won’t let that happen; you’re too useful,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Now, please help Austin out of the grave and grab those bones for me. I suggest we all go back to Joyce’s for a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Splendid!’ says Austin, placing his selection of bones on the lip of the grave before reaching out for Bogdan’s arms.

  ‘You lead the way, Lizzie,’ says Ron and finishes off his can of Stella.

  72

  Joyce

  There was a jolly atmosphere, and I can understand the reasons why. We each of us understand we’re in a gang and we understand we are in the middle of something unusual. We understand also, I think, that we are doing something illegal, but we are past the age of caring. Perhaps we are raging against the dying of the light, but that is poetry, not life. There will be other reasons I have missed out, but I know on the walk back down the hill we felt giddy. Like teenagers out too late.

  But when Austin laid the pile of bones on my dining table, while we still knew it was an adventure, I think they began to have a sobering effect on all of us. Even Ron.

  It is all very well, the Thursday Murder Club and all our derring-do, and the freedom of age and whatever we like to tell ourselves. But someone had died, however long ago it might have happened, so it was right to pause for reflection.

  There was no way around it, we couldn’t conjure a single good reason why the extra body was there. On closer inspection, fuelled by orange drizzle cake (Nigella), Austin was fairly sure that the body was a man, so it wasn’t a nun.

  But who was he? And who had killed him? The first step to finding out the answers would be to discover when he had been killed. Thirty years ago? Fifty years ago? There was a big difference.