The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club) Read online

  Donna had recently introduced Chris, her boss, to Patrice, her mum. She thought they might get along. As it turned out, they are getting along a little bit too well for her liking.

  Stakeouts with Chris Hudson used to be more fun. There would be crisps, there would be quizzes, there would be gossip about the new DS who’d just started at Fairhaven and had accidentally sent a picture of his penis to a local shopkeeper who was asking for advice on security grilles.

  They’d laugh, they’d eat, they’d put the world to rights.

  But now? Sitting in Chris’s Ford Focus on a late-autumn evening, keeping a watchful eye on Connie Johnson’s lock-up? Now Chris has a Tupperware container filled with olives, carrot batons and hummus. The Tupperware container bought by her mum, the hummus made by her mum and the carrot batons sliced by her mum. When Donna had suggested buying a KitKat he’d looked at her and said ‘empty calories’.

  Connie Johnson was their friendly local drug dealer. Well, Connie was more a drug wholesaler these days. The two Antonio brothers from St Leonards had controlled the local drug trade for some years, but they had gone missing around a year ago and Connie Johnson had stepped into the breach. Whether she was just a drug wholesaler, or whether she was a murderer too, was open to question, but, either way, that’s why they were spending their week sitting in a Ford Focus, training binoculars on a Fairhaven lock-up.

  Chris has lost a bit of weight, he has had a nice haircut, and is now wearing a pair of age-appropriate trainers – everything Donna had ever told him to do. She had used all the tricks in the book to encourage him, to convince him, to cajole him into looking after himself. But it turned out that, all along, the only real motivation he needed to change was to start having sex with her mum. You have to be so careful what you wish for.

  Donna sinks back into her seat and puffs out her cheeks. She would kill for a KitKat.

  ‘Fair enough, fair enough,’ says Chris. ‘OK, I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with Y.’

  Donna looks out of the window. Far below she sees the line of lock-up garages, one of which belongs to Connie Johnson, the new drugs kingpin of Fairhaven. Queenpin? Beyond the lock-ups is the sea. The English Channel, inky black, moonlight picking out gentle waves. There is a light on the horizon, far out to sea.

  ‘Yacht?’ says Donna.

  ‘Nope,’ says Chris, shaking his head.

  Donna stretches and looks back towards the row of garages. A hooded figure on a BMX bike rides up to Connie’s lock-up and bangs on the door. They can hear the faint metallic thunder even up on the hill.

  ‘Youth on bicycle?’ says Donna.

  ‘Nope,’ says Chris.

  Donna watches as the door opens and the boy walks inside. All day, every day, this was happening. Couriers in and out. Leaving with coke, Es and hash, coming back with cash. It was non-stop. Donna knows they could raid the place right now and find a nice little haul of drugs, a bored middleman sitting at a table and a youth on a bicycle. But, instead, the team were biding their time, taking photographs of whoever walked in or out, following them wherever they were going, trying to build up a full picture of Connie Johnson’s operation. Gathering enough evidence to take the whole thing down in one go. With any luck there would be a series of dawn raids. With a bit more luck they would have a tactical support group armed with pneumatic battering rams to smash a few doors down and one of the tactical support officers would be single.

  ‘Yellow jacket?’ says Donna, seeing a woman walking along the high path towards the car park.

  ‘Nope,’ says Chris.

  The big prize was Connie Johnson herself. That’s why she and Chris were there. Had Connie murdered two rivals and got away with it?

  Occasionally, among the youths on bicycles they would see more familiar faces. Senior figures from the Fairhaven drug scene. Every name was noted. If Connie had murdered the Antonio brothers, then she hadn’t done it by herself. She was no fool. Sooner or later, in fact, she would notice she was being watched. Then things would become less blatant, harder to track. So they were getting all their evidence lined up while they could.

  Donna jumps as a knuckle raps on her side window. She turns and sees the yellow jacket of the woman who had been walking along the path. A smiling face appears at the window and holds up two cups of coffee. Donna registers the shock of blonde hair and the smear of red lipstick. She winds down her window.

  The woman crouches, then smiles. ‘Now, we haven’t been introduced, but I think you’re Donna and Chris. I bought you coffees from the garage.’

  She hands the coffees over, and Donna and Chris look at each other and take them.

  ‘I’m Connie Johnson, but I think you know that,’ says the woman. She pats the pockets of her jacket. ‘I also bought sausage rolls, if you’d like one?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ says Chris.

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Donna.

  Connie hands Donna a sausage roll in a paper bag. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t buy anything for the policewoman hiding behind the bins, taking all the photographs.’

  ‘She’s vegan anyway,’ says Donna. ‘From Brighton.’

  ‘Anyway, just wanted to introduce myself,’ says Connie. ‘Feel free to arrest me any time.’

  ‘We will,’ says Chris.

  ‘What’s your eye-shadow?’ Connie asks Donna.

  ‘Pat McGrath, Gold Standard,’ says Donna.

  ‘It’s lush,’ says Connie. ‘Anyway, business all done for today if you wanted to go home. And you haven’t seen anything I didn’t want you to see for the last two weeks.’

  Chris sips his coffee. ‘Is this really from the garage? It’s very good.’

  ‘They’ve got a new machine,’ says Connie. She reaches into an inside pocket, takes out an envelope and hands it to Donna. ‘You can have these. There’s photographs of you in there, photographs of all the other officers you’ve had crawling around, too. Two can play at that game. Bet you didn’t see anyone take them, eh? Followed a few of you home too. They took a nice one of you on a date the other day, Donna. You can do better, that’s my opinion.’

  ‘Yep,’ says Donna.

  ‘I’ll be on my way, but nice to finally say hello in person. I’ve been dying to meet you.’ Connie blows them a kiss. ‘Don’t be strangers.’

  Connie straightens up and walks away from the Ford Focus. Behind them a Range Rover appears. The passenger door is opened and Connie climbs in and is driven away.

  ‘Well,’ says Chris.

  ‘Well,’ agrees Donna. ‘What now?’

  Chris shrugs.

  ‘Great plan, boss,’ says Donna. ‘What was your I spy? Something beginning with Y?’

  Chris turns his key in the ignition and puts on his seatbelt. ‘It was your mother’s beautiful face. I see it every time I close my eyes.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ says Donna. ‘I’m asking for a transfer.’

  ‘Good idea,’ says Chris. ‘Not until we’ve nicked Connie Johnson though, eh?’

  3

  Joyce

  I do wish something exciting would happen again. I don’t mind what.

  Perhaps a fire, but where no one gets hurt? Just flames and fire engines. We can all stand around watching, with flasks, and Ron can shout advice to the firefighters. Or an affair, that would be fun. Preferably mine, but I’m not greedy, so long as there’s a bit of scandal, like a big age difference, or someone suddenly needing a replacement hip. Perhaps a gay affair? We haven’t had one of those at Coopers Chase yet, and I think everyone would enjoy it. Maybe someone’s grandson could go to prison? Or a flood that doesn’t affect us? You know the sort of thing I mean.

  When you think of how many people have died around here recently, it is quite hard to just go back to pottering around the garden centre and watching old episodes of Taggart. Although I do like Taggart.

  When I was a nurse, patients would die all the time. They were popping off left, right and centre. Don’t get the wrong idea, I never killed anyone, although it
would have been very easy to. Easier than a doctor. They used to check up on doctors a lot. They probably check up on everyone these days, but I bet you could still do it if the mood took you.

  Ibrahim doesn’t want me to get a dog, but I am sure I can change his mind. Before you know it, he’ll be dog this and dog that. You can bet he’ll be first in line to walk it, too. I wish I’d got my hands on Ibrahim thirty years ago.

  There is an animal rescue centre just across the border in Sussex, and they have all sorts there. The usual cats and dogs, but then also donkeys and rabbits and guinea pigs. I’ve never thought that a guinea pig might need rescuing before, but I suppose they do. We all need it once in a while, and I don’t see why guinea pigs would be any different. They eat guinea pigs in Peru, did you know? It was on MasterChef the other day. They just mentioned it, they didn’t actually eat one.

  Lots of the dogs are from Romania; they save them and bring them over. I don’t know how they bring them over, that’s something I will ask. I don’t imagine they have a plane full of dogs. In a big van? They will have worked out a way. Ron says they will bark in a foreign accent, but that’s Ron.

  We looked on the rescue centre website and you should see the dogs, honestly. There is one called Alan I have got my eye on. ‘Indeterminate terrier’, according to his profile. You and me both, I thought when I saw that. Alan is six years old, and they say you mustn’t change their names, because they get used to them, but I won’t call a dog Alan, whatever pressure I am put under.

  Maybe I can persuade Ibrahim to drive me over next week. He’s gone car mad recently. He’s even driving into Fairhaven tomorrow. He has really come out of his shell since everyone started getting murdered. Driving here, there and everywhere like he’s Murray Walker.

  I’m still wondering why Elizabeth was in a funny mood at lunch. Listening but not listening. Perhaps something is wrong with Stephen? You remember, her husband? Or perhaps she’s still not over Penny. Either way, she has something on her mind, and she walked away from lunch with a purpose. That’s always bad news for someone. Your only real hope is that it’s not you.

  I am also knitting. I know, can you imagine?

  I got talking to Deirdre at Knit & Natter. Her husband was French but died some time ago – I think he fell off a ladder, but it might have been cancer, I can’t remember. Deirdre has been knitting little friendship bracelets for charity and has given me the pattern. You make them in different colours, depending on who you make them for. People pay you whatever they choose and all the money goes to charity. I also put sequins on mine. The pattern doesn’t say to put sequins on, but I’ve had some in a drawer for ages.

  I made a red, white and blue bracelet for Elizabeth. It was my first go and was rather ragged but she was very good about it. I asked her what charity she wanted the money to go to and she said Living With Dementia and that’s the closest we have got to talking about Stephen. I don’t think she can keep him to herself for much longer, though; dementia just ploughs on through the woods and never turns back. Poor Elizabeth. Poor Stephen as well, obviously.

  I also made a friendship bracelet for Bogdan. It was yellow and blue, which I had mistakenly thought were the colours of the Polish flag. According to Bogdan, the colours of the Polish flag are red and white, and, to give him his due, he would know. He thought that perhaps I had been thinking of Sweden, and perhaps I had. Gerry would have put me right. Like all good husbands, Gerry knew all the flags.

  I saw Bogdan wearing his bracelet the other day. He was on his way up to work at the building site at the top of the hill, and he gave me a little wave and there it was on his wrist, wrapped around his tattoos of goodness knows what. I know it’s silly, but I couldn’t stop smiling. The sequins were sparkling in the sunshine and so was I.

  Elizabeth hasn’t worn hers yet, and I can’t say I blame her. I am getting better at it though, and, besides, Elizabeth and I don’t need a bracelet to show we are friends.

  Last night I dreamt of the house Gerry and I lived in when we were first married. We opened a door and found a new room we hadn’t ever seen before, and we were full of schemes as to what to do with it.

  I don’t know what age Gerry was, he was just Gerry, but I was me now. Two people who never met, touching and laughing and making plans. A pot plant here, a coffee table there. The stuff of love.

  When I woke up, and realized Gerry had gone, my heart broke once again, and I sobbed and sobbed. I imagine if you could hear all the morning tears in this place it would sound like birdsong.

  4

  It is another glorious autumn day, but there is a bite in the air that tells you there won’t be too many left. Winter is waiting impatiently round the corner.

  It is 3 p.m., and Elizabeth is carrying flowers for Marcus Carmichael. The dead man. That drowned body, suddenly alive as you like and living at 14 Ruskin Court. The man she saw lowered into a grave in a Hampshire churchyard, now unpacking boxes and struggling with his new Wi-Fi.

  She walks past Willows, the nursing home at the heart of Coopers Chase. The place Elizabeth would visit every day while Penny was there, just to sit and chat to her old friend, to plot and to gossip, not knowing whether Penny could hear her or not.

  No more Penny now, of course.

  The nights are beginning to draw in a little, and the sun is sinking behind the trees on top of the hill as Elizabeth reaches Ruskin Court and rings the bell for number 14. Here goes nothing. There is a brief wait and she is buzzed up.

  There are lifts in all the buildings, but Elizabeth will use the stairs while she still can. Stairs are good for hip and knee flexibility. Also, it is very easy to kill someone in a lift when the doors open. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and a ping to announce you’re about to appear. Not that she’s worried about being killed, it doesn’t feel to her like that’s what is happening here, but it’s always important to remember best practice. Elizabeth has never killed anyone in a lift. She once saw someone pushed down an empty lift shaft in Essen, but that was different.

  She turns left at the top of the stairs, transfers the flowers to her left hand and knocks on the door of number 14. Who will answer the door? What is the story here? Should she be worried?

  The door opens, and she sees a very familiar face.

  It’s not Marcus Carmichael, how could it have been? But it is certainly someone who knew the name Marcus Carmichael. And who knew it would get her attention.

  And it turns out that, yes, she should be worried.

  The man is handsome and tanned, strands of sandy grey hair still gamely holding on. She might have known he would never go bald.

  How to play this one?

  ‘Marcus Carmichael, I assume?’ says Elizabeth.

  ‘Well, I assume so, too,’ says the man. ‘Good to see you, Elizabeth. Are those flowers for me?’

  ‘No, I have taken to carrying flowers around with me as an affectation,’ says Elizabeth, handing them over as she is ushered in.

  ‘Quite right, quite right, I’ll put them in water, nonetheless. Come in, sit down, make yourself at home.’ He disappears into the kitchen.

  Elizabeth takes in the flat: bare, not a picture, not an ornament, not a single frill to be seen. No sign of anyone ‘moving in’. Two armchairs, both ready for the skip, a pile of books on the floor, a reading lamp.

  ‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ says Elizabeth in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Not my choice, dear,’ says the man, re-entering the room with the flowers in a kettle. ‘I daresay I’ll grow into it, though I hope I shan’t be here for long. Can I get you a glass of wine?’ He sets the kettle on a windowsill.

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Elizabeth, settling into an armchair. What was happening? Why was he here? And what did he want from her after all this time? Whatever it was looked like trouble to her. A room barely furnished, blinds drawn, a padlocked bedroom. Number 14 Ruskin Court had the look of a safe house.

  But safe from what?

  Th
e man walks back in, with two glasses of red wine. ‘A Malbec for you, if I’m not mistaken?’

  Elizabeth takes her glass as the man sits in the armchair opposite her. ‘You seem to think that’s a stunning feat of memory, to remember the wine I drank for the twenty-odd years we knew each other?’

  ‘I’m nearly seventy, darling, everything is a stunning feat of memory these days. Cheers!’ He raises his glass.

  ‘And to you,’ says Elizabeth, raising hers. ‘Long time.’

  ‘Very long time. But you remembered Marcus Carmichael?’

  ‘That was very neat.’

  Marcus Carmichael had been a ghost, invented by Elizabeth. She was an expert in it. A man who never existed, concocted entirely to pass secrets to the Russians. A man with a past created from false documents and staged photographs. An agent who never existed, passing secrets that never existed, to the enemy. And when the Russians got a bit closer, and wanted a bit more from their new source, it was time to kill Marcus Carmichael off, to ‘borrow’ an unclaimed cadaver from one of the London teaching hospitals and bury it in a Hampshire churchyard, with a young typist from the pool bawling her eyes out as the grieving widow. And bury the lie with him. So Marcus Carmichael was a dead man who had never lived.

  ‘Thank you, I thought it might amuse you. You look very well. Very well. How is … remind me … is it Stephen? The current husband?’

  ‘Shall we not do this?’ sighs Elizabeth. ‘Shall we cut to you telling me why you’re here?’

  The man nods. ‘Certainly, Liz. Plenty of time to catch up when everything is out in the open. I believe it is Stephen, though?’

  Elizabeth thinks about Stephen, back at home. She left him with the television on, so hopefully he is dozing. She wants to be back with him, to sit with him, to have his arms around her. She does not want to be here, in this empty flat with this dangerous man. A man she has seen kill before. This is not the adventure she was hoping for today. Give her Stephen and his kisses. Give her Joyce and her dogs.