The Man Who Died Twice

Description

An instant New York Times bestseller!

The second gripping novel in the New York Times bestselling Thursday Murder Club series, soon to be a major motion picture from Steven Spielberg at Amblin Entertainment

“It’s taken a mere two books for Richard Osman to vault into the upper leagues of crime writers. . . The Man Who Died Twice. . . dives right into joyous fun.”
—The New York Times Book Review

Elizabeth, Joyce, Ron and Ibrahim—the Thursday Murder Club—are still riding high off their recent real-life murder case and are looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet at Cooper’s Chase, their posh retirement village.
 
But they are out of luck.
 
An unexpected visitor—an old pal of Elizabeth’s (or perhaps more than just a pal?)—arrives, desperate for her help. He has been accused of stealing diamonds worth millions from the wrong men and he’s seriously on the lam.
 
Then, as night follows day, the first body is found. But not the last. Elizabeth, Joyce, Ron and Ibrahim are up against a ruthless murderer who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at knocking off four septuagenarians. Can our four friends catch the killer before the killer catches them?  And if they find the diamonds, too? Well, wouldn’t that be a bonus?  You should never put anything beyond the Thursday Murder Club.
 
Richard Osman is back with everyone’s favorite mystery-solving quartet, and the second installment of the Thursday Murder Club series is just as clever and warm as the first—an unputdownable, laugh-out-loud pleasure of a read.Praise for The Man Who Died Twice:

“These septuagenarian sleuths of the Thursday Murder Club don’t miss a beat…”
—People

“It’s taken a mere two books for Richard Osman to vault into the upper leagues of crime writers… The Man Who Died Twice. . . dives right into joyous fun. Osman’s writing reminds me of Anthony Berkeley’s in its mixing of sparkling humor and resonant emotion. . . No wonder readers, myself included, have surrendered to [the Thursday Murder Club members’] abundant charms.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“Think of the Thursday Murder Club itself as a senior version of ‘The A-Team’. . . Funny, moving and suspenseful. . .  So delicious, even adorable . . A wildly entertaining book.”
—The Washington Post

“[Feels] like a reunion with old friends. Clever, witty, and touching, this thriller has it all.”
—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Before She Disappeared

“A thing of joy. Osman has a natural sense of humor that he’s able to translate into both character and dialogue.”
—Kate Atkinson, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Big Sky

“Osman delivers another must read full of humor and heart. I loved it.”
—Harlan Coben, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Win

“This book is SO MUCH FUN! Fiendishly clever and brimming with wit on every page, The Man Who Died Twice is the tonic we all need. Osman just gets better.”
—Shari Lapena, New York Times bestselling author of The Couple Next Door

“He’s back and he’s better than ever! By turns moving, hilarious, and brilliantly suspenseful, the novel keeps us flipping pages from start to finish.”
—Jeffery Deaver, #1 international bestselling author of The Final Twist

“Osman’s novels are so much more than just brilliantly engineered mysteries… They’re also funny, warm, and big-hearted. He can’t possibly write them fast enough to suit me. These books are absolute gold.”
—Joe Hill, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Fireman

“Richard Osman’s action-packed second outing with the Thursday Murder Club overflows with wit, friendship, and derring-do, as the eccentric quartet of British crime solvers joins forces from a countryside retirement village. They tussle with the mafia, investigate murders, and, of course, enjoy teatime.”
—The Christian Science Monitor

“The club makes a triumphant return… The Man Who Died Twice, like its series predecessor, is an unalloyed delight, full of sharp writing, sudden surprises, heart, comedy, sorrow and great banter.”
—Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal
 
“Fun and ingenious … Osman blends humor and pathos while weaving his tangled web of intrigue and deception. This is the perfect book with which to unwind.”
—Malcolm Forbes, Minneapolis Star-Tribune

“Osman follows The Thursday Murder Club, his supremely entertaining debut, with an even better second installment. . . A clever, funny mystery peopled with captivating characters that enhance the story at every quirky turn.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“It’s impossible to single out any one feature that makes The Man Who Died Twice such an absolute treat… Richard Osman creates real magic with his characters. They are frequently laugh-out-loud hilarious but also entirely real and three-dimensional…If possible, this sequel is even better than the Osman’s charmer of a debut, The Thursday Murder Club. This series is both a load of fun and an ode to how the power of friendship is important throughout one’s life but especially during the final stretch. Don’t miss it.”
—BookPage (starred review)

“[The Man Who Died Twice] captures the spirit of older folks who don’t want to be pigeonholed by their age and who capture the charming insouciance of those who’ve seen a lot. . . the dialogue at a sprightly clip, while the plot itself often gallops. But it is the four very different. . . but utterly endearing members of the club who will leave readers eager for Osman to call the next meeting to order.”
—Booklist

“Riveting. . . The twisty plot, knotty issues of relationships with life partners, and steadfast loyalty among the sleuths provide depth and poignancy. Those who prefer their mysteries with touches of spycraft, humor, and eccentricity will be well pleased.”
—Publishers Weekly

“This slick sequel will leave you buzzing with ‘the gentle hum of contentment.’” 
—The Times (London)

“If you liked The Thursday Murder Club, you’re in for a treat, as this sequel is even better.”
—Good Housekeeping (UK)

“It’s balm for the soul.” 
—Daily Express (London)

“It’s an unalloyed pleasure to spend time with Osman’s sparkling, well-observed characters who are also wittily perceptive about our foibles and the quirks of modern life.” 
—Sunday Express (London)

“Osman’s characters are beautifully drawn, and the result is a novel that’s pure pleasure to read.” 
—The Observer (London)Richard Osman is an author and television presenter. His novels, The Thursday Murder Club, The Man Who Died Twice, The Bullet That Missed, and The Last Devil to Die, were number one, million-copy international bestsellers as well as New York Times bestsellers. He lives in London with his wife, Ingrid, and Liesl the cat. We Solve Murders is his fifth novel.QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION

1. The novel kicks off when Elizabeth is reunited with her ex-husband, Douglas, who admits to stealing twenty million pounds’ worth of diamonds. Where do you think Douglas hid the diamonds? Were you correct?

2. What do you think you and your friends would do if you stumbled across twenty million dollars? How would you split it? What’s the first thing you would buy? What do you think your friends would buy? What charities would you support?

3. Ibrahim is accosted by teenagers while out on the town by himself, a traumatic event that lands him in the hospital and ultimately results in him completely withdrawing from his friends’ outings. As he recovers, Ibrahim thinks to himself: “They say a man who desires revenge should dig two graves, and this is surely right.” What do you think he meant by this?  

4. Once more, Elizabeth somehow seems to be ten steps ahead of everyone else. Did you doubt her instincts at any point? If so, why? What makes her such a good leader for the group? Who would you rather have on your side, Elizabeth or Bogdan?

5. Have you ever been lonely in a new town? How did you overcome it?

6. Did you suspect Joyce’s friendship bracelets would play the role they did in solving the mystery of the missing diamonds? What about the locket? When did you know, and why?

7. Who is your worst ex?

8. How do you think the dynamics of the Thursday Murder Club shifted once Ibrahim stepped back after his assault? Did the Club’s relationship with Donna and Chris or Bogdan change in any way? Discuss. 

9. Do the books in the Thursday Murder Club series make you want to visit England, or avoid it at all costs?

10. Did you guess how the dead-letter drops would be used in the novel? If you had to hide something, what would you use for a dead-letter drop?

11. Who did you think was behind the murders? Were you correct?

12. Would you be happy with a dog named Alan? What is an acceptable name for a pet, and what is unacceptable?

1.

The following Thursday . . .

I was talking to a woman in Ruskin Court, and she said she’s on a diet,” says Joyce, finishing her glass of wine. “She’s eighty-two!”

“Walkers make you look fat,” says Ron. “It’s the thin legs.”

“Why diet at eighty-two?” says Joyce. “What’s a sausage roll going to do to you? Kill you? Well, join the queue.”

The Thursday Murder Club has concluded its latest meeting. This week they have been looking at the cold case of a Hastings newsagent who murdered an intruder with a crossbow. He’d been arrested, but then the media had got involved, and the consensus was that a man should be allowed to protect his own shop with a crossbow, for goodness’ sake, and he walked free, head held high.

A month or so later, police had discovered that the intruder was dating the newsagent’s teenage daughter, and the newsagent had a long record of assault, but at that point everybody had moved on. It was 1975, after all. No CCTV, and no one wanting to make a fuss.

“Do you think a dog might be good company?” asks Joyce. “I thought I might either get a dog or join Instagram.”

“I would advise against it,” says Ibrahim.

“Oh, you’d advise against everything,” says Ron.

“Broadly, yes,” agrees Ibrahim.

“Not a big dog, of course,” says Joyce. “I haven’t got the Hoover for a big dog.”

Joyce, Ron, Ibrahim, and Elizabeth are enjoying lunch at the restaurant that sits at the heart of the Coopers Chase community. There is a bottle of red and a bottle of white on their table. It is around a quarter to twelve.

“Don’t get a small dog, though, Joyce,” says Ron. “Small dogs are like small men: always got a point to prove. Yapping it up, barking at cars.”

Joyce nods. “Perhaps a medium dog, then? Elizabeth?”

“Mmm, good idea,” replies Elizabeth, though she is not really listening. How could she be, after the letter she received last night?

She’s picking up the main points, of course. Elizabeth always stays alert, because you never know what might fall into your lap. She has heard all sorts over the years. A snippet of conversation in a Berlin bar, a loose-lipped Russian sailor on shore leave in Tripoli. In this instance, on a Thursday lunchtime in a sleepy Kent retirement village, it seems that Joyce wants a dog, there is a discussion about sizes, and Ibrahim has doubts. But her mind is elsewhere.

The letter was slipped under Elizabeth’s door last night, by unseen hand.

Dear Elizabeth,

I wonder if you remember me? Perhaps you don’t, but without blowing my own trumpet, I imagine you might.

Life has worked its magic once more, and I discover, upon moving in this week, that we are now neighbors. What company I keep! You must be thinking they let in any old riffraff these days.

I know it has been some while since you last saw me, but I think it would be wonderful to renew our acquaintance after all these years.

Would you like to join me at 14 Ruskin Court for a drink?

A little housewarming? If so, how would three p.m. tomorrow

suit? No need to reply, I shall await with a bottle of wine regardless.

It really would be lovely to see you. So much to catch up on. An awful lot of water under the bridge, and so on.

I do hope you remember me, and I do hope to see you tomorrow.

Your old friend,

Marcus Carmichael

Elizabeth has been mulling it over ever since.

The last time she had seen Marcus Carmichael would have been late November, 1981, a very dark, very cold night by Lambeth Bridge, the Thames at low tide, her breath clouding in the freezing air. There had been a team of them, each one a specialist, and Elizabeth was in charge. They arrived in a white Transit van, shabby on the outside, seemingly owned by g. procter-windows, gutters, all jobs considered, but, on the inside, gleaming, full of buttons and screens. A young constable had cordoned off an area of the foreshore, and the pavement on the Albert Embankment had been closed.

Elizabeth and her team had clambered down a flight of stone steps, lethal with slick moss. The low tide had left behind a corpse, propped, almost sitting, against the near parapet of the bridge. Everything had been done properly; Elizabeth had made sure of that. One of her team had examined the clothing and rifled through the pockets of the heavy overcoat, a young woman from Highgate had taken photographs, and the doctor had recorded the death. It was clear the man had jumped into the Thames further upstream, or been pushed. That was for the coroner to decide. It would all be typed into a report by somebody or other, and Elizabeth would simply add her initials at the bottom. Neat and tidy.

The journey back up those slick steps with the corpse on a military stretcher had taken some time. A young constable, thrilled to have been called to help, had fallen and broken an ankle, which was all they needed. They explained they wouldn’t be able to call an ambulance for the time being, and he took it in fairly good part. He received an unwarranted promotion several months later, so no lasting harm was done.

Her little unit eventually reached the embankment, and the body was loaded into the white Transit van. all jobs considered.

The team dispersed, save for Elizabeth and the doctor, who stayed in the van with the corpse as it was driven to a morgue in Hampshire. She hadn’t worked with this particular doctor before-broad, red faced, a dark mustache turning gray-but he was interesting enough. A man you would remember. They’d discussed euthanasia and cricket until the doctor had dozed off.

Ibrahim is making a point with his wine glass. “I’m afraid I would advise against a dog altogether, Joyce-small, medium, or large-at your time in life.”

“Oh, here he comes,” says Ron.

“A medium dog,” says Ibrahim, “say a terrier, or a Jack Russell perhaps, would have a life expectancy of around fourteen years.”

“Says who?” asks Ron.

“Says the Kennel Club, in case you want to take it up with them, Ron. Would you like to take it up with them?”

“No, you’re all right.”

“Now, Joyce,” Ibrahim continues, “you are seventy-seven years old?”

Joyce nods. “Seventy-eight next year.”

“Well, that goes without saying, yes,” agrees Ibrahim. “So, at seventy-seven years old, we have to take a look at your life expectancy.”

“Ooh, yes?” says Joyce. “I love this sort of thing. I had my tarot done on the pier once. She said I was going to come into money.”

“Specifically, we have to look at the chances of your life expectancy exceeding the life expectancy of a medium dog.”

“It’s a mystery to me why you never got married, old son,” says Ron to Ibrahim, and takes the bottle of white wine from the cooler on the table. “With that silver tongue of yours. Top-up, anyone?”

“Thank you, Ron,” says Joyce. “Fill it to the brim to save having to do it again.”

Ibrahim continues. “A woman of seventy-seven has a fifty-one percent chance of living for another fifteen years.”

“This is jolly,” says Joyce. “I didn’t come into money, by the way.”

“So if you were to get a dog now, Joyce, would you outlive it? That’s the question.”

“I’d outlive a dog through pure spite,” says Ron. “We’d just sit in opposite corners of the room, staring each other out, and see who went first. Not me. It’s like when we were negotiating with British Leyland in ‘seventy-eight. The moment one of their lot went to the loo first, I knew we had ’em.” Ron knocks back more wine. “Never go to the loo first. Tie a knot in it if you have to.”

“The truth is, Joyce,” says Ibrahim, “maybe you would, and maybe you wouldn’t. Fifty-one percent. It’s the toss of a coin, and I don’t believe that is a risk worth taking. You must never die before your dog.”

“And is that an old Egyptian saying, or an old psychiatrist’s saying?” asks Joyce. “Or something you just made up?”

Ibrahim tips his glass toward Joyce again, an indication of more wisdom to come. “You must die before your children, of course, because you have taught them to live without you. But not your dog. You teach your dog only to live with you.”

“Well, that is certainly food for thought, Ibrahim; thank you,” says Joyce. “A bit soulless perhaps. Don’t you think, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth hears, but her mind is still in the back of the speeding Transit van with the corpse and the doctor with the mustache. Not the only such occasion in Elizabeth’s career, but unusual enough to be memorable-

anyone who knew Marcus Carmichael would have known that.

“Get a dog that’s old already; beat Ibrahim’s system,” Elizabeth says.

And here was Carmichael again, years later. Looking for what? A friendly chat? Cozy reminiscence by an open fire? Who knew?

Their bill is brought to the table by a new member of the serving staff. Her name is Poppy, and she has a tattoo of a daisy on her forearm. Poppy has been at the restaurant for nearly two weeks now and, thus far, the reviews have not been good.

“You’ve brought us table twelve, Poppy,” says Ron.

Poppy nods. “Oh, yes, that’s . . . silly me . . . what table is this?”

“Fifteen,” says Ron. “You can tell because of the big number fifteen written on the candle.”

“Sorry,” says Poppy. “It’s just remembering the food, and carrying it, and then the numbers. I’ll get the hang of it eventually.” She walks back to the kitchen.

“She is very well-meaning,” says Ibrahim. “But ill-suited to this role.”

“She has lovely nails, though,” says Joyce. “Immaculate. Immaculate, aren’t they, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth nods. “Immaculate.” Not the only thing she has noticed about Poppy, who seems to have sprung from nowhere, with her nails and her incompetence. But she has other things on her mind for now, and the mystery of Poppy can wait for another day.

She is going through the text of the letter again in her head. “I wonder if you remember me?” “An awful lot of water under the bridge, and so on.”

Did Elizabeth remember Marcus Carmichael? What a ridiculous question. She had found Marcus Carmichael’s dead body slumped against a Thames bridge at low tide. She had helped to carry his dead body up those slick stone steps in the dead of night. She had sat feet away from his corpse in a white Transit van advertising window cleaning services. She had broken the news of his death to his young wife and she had stood beside the grave at his funeral, as an appropriate mark of respect.

So, yes, Elizabeth remembers Marcus Carmichael very well indeed. Time to be back in the room, though. One thing at a time.

Elizabeth reaches for the white wine. “Ibrahim, not everything is about numbers. Ron, you would die long before the dog; male life expectancy is far lower than female life expectancy, and you know what your GP has said about your blood sugar. And Joyce, we both know you’ve already made up your mind. You’ll get a rescue dog. It’ll be sitting somewhere right now, all alone with big eyes, just waiting for you. You will be powerless and, besides, it’ll be fun for all of us, so let’s stop even discussing it.”

Job done.

“And how about Instagram?” says Joyce.

“I don’t even know what that is, so feel free,” says Elizabeth, and finishes her wine.

An invitation from a dead man? On reflection, she will be accepting.

2.

We were watching Antiques Roadshow last night,” says DCI Chris Hudson, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “And this woman comes on, and she’s got these jugs, and your mum leans over to me and says-“

PC Donna De Freitas slams her head against the dashboard. “Sir, I am begging you. I am literally begging you. Please stop talking about my mum for ten minutes.”

Chris Hudson is supposed to be mentoring her, smoothing her eventual path into CID, but you wouldn’t know it from the almost total disrespect with which they treat each other or, indeed, from their friendship, which had blossomed the moment they met.

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 lockup? 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 Kit-Kat, 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 lockup.

Chris has lost of bit of weight, he has had a nice haircut and is now wearing a pair of age-appropriate trainers-everything Donna has 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 Kit-Kat.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” says Chris. “Okay, I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with Y.”

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

US

Additional information

Weight	18.8 oz
Dimensions	1.2400 × 6.2000 × 9.2800 in
Series	A Thursday Murder Club Mystery
Imprint	Pamela Dorman Books
Format	General Trade
ISBN-13	09781984880994
ISBN-10	1984880993
Author	Richard Osman
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC022000, FIC022100
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