The Thursday Murder Club

Description

A New York Times bestseller | Soon to be a major motion picture from Steven Spielberg at Amblin Entertainment

“Witty, endearing and greatly entertaining.” —Wall Street Journal
 
“Don’t trust anyone, including the four septuagenarian sleuths in Osman’s own laugh-out-loud whodunit.” —Parade

Four septuagenarians with a few tricks up their sleeves
A female cop with her first big case
A brutal murder
Welcome to…
THE THURSDAY MURDER CLUB

In a peaceful retirement village, four unlikely friends meet weekly in the Jigsaw Room to discuss unsolved crimes; together they call themselves the Thursday Murder Club.

When a local developer is found dead with a mysterious photograph left next to the body, the Thursday Murder Club suddenly find themselves in the middle of their first live case.

As the bodies begin to pile up, can our unorthodox but brilliant gang catch the killer, before it’s too late?Praise for The Thursday Murder Club:

“Witty, endearing and greatly entertaining.”
—Wall Street Journal

“An amusing debut that finds gold in getting older.”
—People

“If you like a good mystery but also want to laugh and go ‘aw,’ the Thursday Murder Club books by Richard Osman are definitely for you.”
—Daisy Rosario, NPR Pop Culture Happy Hour

“Don’t trust anyone, including the four septuagenarian sleuths in Osman’s own laugh-out-loud whodunit.”
—Parade

“[A] jaunty mystery. . . What’s delightful is that there are no stereotypes here — the senior citizens solve the murder with wit, style and ferocious intelligence. The puzzle is intricate and involving, but there’s a breeziness about it that makes it an ideal hammock read.”
–NPR

“Funny, clever, and compelling. Mystery fans are going to be enthralled.”
—Harlan Coben, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Boy from the Woods

“A little beacon of pleasure in the midst of the gloom. . . SUCH FUN!”
—Kate Atkinson, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Big Sky

“The mystery’s good, the characters are wonderful, and [the series are] just very entertaining. . . top notch.”
—R.L. Stine, bestselling author of the Goosebumps series

“Charming, funny, and ultimately, surprisingly, very moving.”
—Linwood Barclay, New York Times bestselling author of Find You First

“I don’t know how to do this brilliant book justice. Diabolically clever, very funny, highly entertaining—utterly delightful.  I completely fell in love with it. I need more of The Thursday Murder Club!”
—Shari Lapena, New York Times bestselling author of The Couple Next Door

“Loved every word. Loved the fleet, nimble plotting, as ingenious as top-shelf Agatha Christie; loved the boisterous cast of characters—think Fredrik Backman; loved the crisp, witty, Carl Hiaasen-caliber dialogue… yet above all, I love The Thursday Murder Club for its psychological texture, emotional depth, and luminous, fireside warmth. What a generous novel. Readers of Louise Penny and Kate Atkinson, rejoice.”
—A. J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window

“Suspenseful, funny, and poignant. The delightful, spirited characters from this witty, sometimes bittersweet story deserve a return engagement.”
—Booklist (starred review)

“An imaginative and witty whodunit… Osman’s careful attention to the realities of life in a retirement village ensures that The Thursday Murder Club is a compassionate, thoughtful tribute to a segment of the population that’s often dismissed and ignored… Great fun.” 
—BookPage (starred review)

“The character-driven mystery, featuring a group of sleuths all too aware of their own mortality, and a likable pair of cops, is suspenseful, funny, and poignant… The delightful, spirited characters from this witty, sometimes bittersweet story deserve a return engagement.”
—Library Journal (starred review)

“Osman mixes mirth and murder in his exceptional debut. . . witty.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“A fascinating primer in detection… A top-class cozy infused with dry wit and charming characters who draw you in and leave you wanting more, please.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“A rather beguiling piece of work, reading like Kingsley Amis’s The Old Devils refracted through an Agatha Christie prism… The ageing protagonists are a winning bunch, and Osman’s skills have already led to greenlighting of further outings for his sleuths.”
—Financial Times

“A sparkling debut… Fiendishly clever and brilliantly funny.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune

“Witty… The characters and the writing are a treat… Everyone in the central quartet, especially the two women, are more complex than they originally seem, and while the tone is predominantly light and funny, Osman finds some moments of sweet poignancy.”
—Seattle Times

“With wry British humor, and a cast of intrepid retirees, Richard Osman’s delightful mystery caper offers surprising depth… The wit and the plot will bring readers back for more of this series.”
—The Christian Science Monitor

“As the bodies pile up, and more is revealed of the lives and loves of Joyce, Ibrahim, Ron and Elizabeth, you can’t help cheering them on–and hoping to meet them again soon.”
—The Times (UK)

“A witty and poignant tale.”
—The Daily Telegraph (UK)

“One of the most enjoyable books of the year. . . well-written, hilarious, and joyously big-hearted. . . The charm of The Thursday Murder Club is that it’s so much more than a crime novel.”
—The Daily Express (UK)

“Brilliant, smart, charming, and wryly funny.”
—Good Housekeeping (UK)

“So smart, so funny, so warm, and such a wonderful mystery. If we’re lucky Richard Osman will keep these characters alive forever.”
—Caroline Kepnes, New York Times bestselling author of You

“So smart and funny. Deplorably good.”
—Ian Rankin, New York Times bestselling author of Westwind

“Grinning like a monkey having just finished The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman. Loved its clever, clever plot, great gags, Ealing comedy set ups and Elizabeth. Can’t say more but I want to be her one day…”
—Fiona Barton, New York Times bestselling author of The Widow

“A rich, textured, twisted, and fabulously funny tale of murder and mayhem.”
—Alan Bradley, New York Times bestselling author of The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

“By turns hilarious and poignant, The Thursday Murder Club offers up a brilliant concept that’s flawlessly executed and told in a unique, captivating voice. These are rare qualities in any novel, let alone a debut. I read the first page, then put all else on hold to devour this pitch-perfect book in one sitting. Bravo!”
—Jeffery Deaver, #1 international bestselling author of The Goodbye Man

“Smart, compassionate, warm, moving and so very funny. I smiled a million times. This book will make a lot of people very, very happy.”
—Marian Keyes, international bestselling author of Grown Ups

“A warm, wise, and witty warning never to underestimate the elderly.”
—Val McDermid, international bestselling author of How the Dead Speak

“Utterly charming and very very clever.”
—Sarah Pinborough, New York Times bestselling author of Cross Her Heart

“Funny, clever, and achingly British–what else would you expect from a book by Richard Osman?”
—Adam Kay, internationally bestselling author of This Is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Medical Resident

“A superb debut. Thrilling, moving, laugh-out-loud funny and packed with characters you will want to see a lot more of.”
—Mark Billingham, international bestselling author of Their Little Secret

“What a joy! Full of brilliantly observed humor, spot-on dialogue, and twists and turns aplenty. Joyce and the gang are now my favorite crime-solving team.”
—Nina Stibbe, author of Reasons to Be CheerfulRichard 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.A PENGUIN READERS GUIDE TO
THE THURSDAY MURDER CLUB
Richard Osman

An Introduction to The Thursday Murder Club

From British television personality, quiz genius, and brilliant comic writer Richard Osman, The Thursday Murder Club is a laugh-out-loud whodunit full of twists and turns; a smart, sympathetic, and warm introduction to four charming amateur sleuths; and an unforgettable romp through the rolling hills of Kent, where a peaceful retirement village becomes the backdrop to a ruthless murder that nobody saw coming . . .

Every Thursday, four unlikely friends meet in the Jigsaw Room at the luxurious Coopers Chase Retirement Village to solve cold cases that have been languishing on the books for years. There’s Red Ron, the infamous former socialist firebrand, still causing trouble wherever he can; gentle Joyce, widowed, pining for another resident, but surely not as innocent as she seems; Ibrahim, a former therapist who understands the darker side of human nature; and Elizabeth? Well, no one is quite sure who she really is, but she’s definitely not a woman to underestimate. Though they may be in their seventies, Elizabeth, Ibrahim, Joyce, and Ron still have a few tricks up their sleeves. When a local property developer winds up dead, The Thursday Murder Club finds themselves in the middle of their first live case—can the four catch the killer before it’s too late?

In The Thursday Murder Club, Richard Osman has employed all of his considerable wit and intelligence to give us just the curl-up-and-read novel we need. It is pure enjoyment, so prepare yourself for a flat-out pleasure of a book.

A Conversation with Richard Osman

Before writing The Thursday Murder Club, now an international bestseller, how did you keep yourself busy?

Well, that’s a good question. For many years I had a career creating television programs, including shows which went on to be big hits in the United States like Survivor and Deal or No Deal. I then accidentally became famous when I was pitching a quiz show called Pointless to the BBC. The BBC loved the show, but they also asked, having enjoyed the pitch, would I like to present it myself?

“Sure,” I thought. “That’ll be something to tell my grandkids about one day: the time I hosted a minor quiz show.” And so I said yes, with no idea of what was to happen next. Pointless quickly became a phenomenon in the UK. It’s on BBC1 every single day of the week and, ten years later, we have now recorded 1,600 episodes. Not bad for a show I thought would disappear after one season.

I now present another daily BBC quiz called House of Games and am annoyingly unavoidable on British television, also regularly guesting on all of the top UK comedy and talk shows. For someone who had never appeared in front of camera until he was nearly forty, and for someone who has always been a deeply comfortable introvert, it has been a bizarre career shift, but a very lovely one.

But I knew I had to return to my first love sometime, and my first love was always writing. I was writing for the English rock magazines in my teens, and my TV career began in comedy writing. I had been waiting to write a novel for a long time. I was waiting for the right time and the right idea to come along at once. It was always going to be crime fiction, as I have always read it so avidly and loved it so much.

What was the inspiration for The Thursday Murder Club?

I was visiting a relative who lives in a beautiful retirement community, nestled in the heart of the English countryside. This place had it all: green fields, gleaming lakes, ancient woodlands, state-of-the-art gym and pool. It even had a Jacuzzi and steam room, for goodness sake. You have to be over sixty-five to live there, but I promise you that if you visited today then you’d want to move in straight away.

We sat down for lunch on the restaurant terrace and I looked at my phone, and I saw that I had no reception. So there I was, in this gorgeous, peaceful place, miles from anywhere, with an English sun beating down, and my phone wouldn’t work. And that was the exact moment I thought, “Well, this would be an amazing place for a murder.”

Rather than commit one, I thought I should probably write about one instead. I looked around at my fellow diners. I was surrounded by interesting people who had led interesting lives, and I had another thought. “If there was a murder here, I bet this lot would solve it.” And so The Thursday Murder Club was born.

The entirety of the novel is set in Kent, England, following four quintessentially British friends. Do you think American readers will connect with the residents at Coopers Chase despite the novel being set across the pond?

To think my book is out in America is an honour I can’t begin to describe, or, rather, “an honor” I can’t begin to describe. I know there has long been a literary love affair between our two countries, and I know an American audience will feel absolutely at home in the English countryside of The Thursday Murder Club—a world made familiar by the works of Agatha Christie and many others.

America has always been my great obsession. My major at Cambridge University was American Politics & Society. I will happily sit and discuss FDR and Nixon, JFK, and Obama, and congressional oversight all evening long if you’d like to. I’m aware that not many people would actually like to, but just so you know the offer’s there. I am also obsessed with American sport, but let’s not get into that. I’m one of the few English people who will argue passionately that baseball is better than cricket. This is just between us; please don’t tell the English.

I can’t wait to discuss the book with an American audience. If nothing else I can take you through the English phrases in the book which foxed my US publishing team. So if you want to know what “going for a mooch” or “having a slash” mean, then it will be my pleasure to enlighten you.

1. Though the book follows the four friends—Joyce, Elizabeth, Ibrahim, and Ron—solving the murder, the only first-person POV is Joyce’s via her diary. Why do you think the author chose to show her perspective in such a way?

2. Joyce was a nurse, Elizabeth was in the secret service, Ibrahim was a psychiatrist, and Ron was a trade union leader. Who do you think was most helpful in solving the crime? What strengths did they each bring to the table? What were their weaknesses?

3. Do you think that PC Donna De Freitas and DCI Chris Hudson make a good team? Do you think Donna was smart to stay in touch with Joyce, even though it was unprofessional at times? Why or why not? What do you make of the relationship between the detectives and the septuagenarians?

4. Joyce says, “I am very happy to be overlooked and always have been. And I do think perhaps that will be helpful in this investigation.” Do you agree? What insights and advantages does she gain by not calling attention to herself, and staying under the radar?

5. Society often writes off the abilities of the elderly—assuming both body and mind are deteriorating. At the heart of The Thursday Murder Club is a lesson to never to underestimate this population. Who misjudges the residents of Coopers Chase the most? What are the consequences of underestimating the four friends?

6. One of the reoccurring themes is the gray area between the law and each character’s moral code. Do you think Penny’s husband, John, did the right thing? How about Penny?

7. At any point, did you have an idea of who might have committed the murder? Who did you suspect, and why? Were you correct?

8. Joyce is always baking, and the others are always eating. The next question is simple: What is the best cake?

9. If you had to solve a murder, which three people—could be friends, family, celebrities—would you choose to help you solve it?

1.

Joyce

Well, let’s start with Elizabeth, shall we? And see where that gets us?

I knew who she was, of course; everybody here knows Elizabeth. She has one of the three-bedroom flats in Larkin Court. It’s the one on the corner, with the decking? Also, I was once on a quiz team with Stephen, who, for a number of reasons, is Elizabeth’s third husband.

I was at lunch, this is two or three months ago, and it must have been a Monday, because we were having shepherd’s pie. Elizabeth said she could see that I was eating, but she wanted to ask me a question about knife wounds, if it wasn’t inconvenient?

I said, “Not at all, of course, please,” or words to that effect. I won’t always remember everything exactly, I might as well tell you that now. So she opened a manila folder, and I saw some typed sheets and the edges of what looked like old photographs. Then she was straight into it.

Elizabeth asked me to imagine that a girl had been stabbed with a knife. I asked what sort of knife she had been stabbed with, and Elizabeth said probably just a normal kitchen knife. John Lewis or somesuch. She didn’t say that, but that was what I pictured. Then she asked me to imagine this girl had been stabbed three or four times, just under the breastbone. In and out, in and out, very nasty, but without severing an artery. She was fairly quiet about the whole thing, because people were eating, and she does have some boundaries.

So there I was, imagining stab wounds, and Elizabeth asked me how long it would take the girl to bleed to death.

By the way, I realize I should have mentioned that I was a nurse for many years; otherwise none of this will make sense to you. Elizabeth would have known that from somewhere, because Elizabeth knows everything. Anyway, that’s why she was asking me. You must have wondered what I was on about. I will get the hang of writing this, I promise.

I remember dabbing at my mouth before I answered, like you see on television sometimes. It makes you look clever, try it. I asked what the girl had weighed.

Elizabeth found the information in her folder, followed her finger, and read out that the girl had been forty-six kilos. Which threw us both, because neither of us was sure what forty-six kilos was in real money. In my head I was thinking it must be about twenty-three stone? Two to one was my thinking. Even as I thought that, though, I suspected I was getting mixed up with inches and centimeters.

Elizabeth let me know the girl definitely wasn’t twenty-three stone, as she had a picture of her corpse in the folder. She tapped the folder at me, then turned her attention back to the room and said, “Will somebody ask Bernard what forty-six kilos is?”

Bernard always sits by himself, at one of the smaller tables nearest the patio. Table 8. You don’t need to know that, but I will tell you a bit about Bernard.

Bernard Cottle was very kind to me when I first arrived at Coopers Chase. He bought me a clematis cutting and explained the recycling timetable. They have four different colored bins here. Four! Thanks to Bernard, I know that green is for glass and blue is cardboard and paper. As for red and black, though, your guess is still as good as mine. I’ve seen all sorts as I’ve wandered about. Someone once put a fax machine in one.

Bernard had been a professor, something in science, and had worked all around the world, including going to Dubai before anyone had heard of it. True to form, he was wearing a suit and tie to lunch, but was nevertheless reading the Daily Express. Mary from Ruskin Court was at the next table; she got his attention and asked how much forty-six kilos was when it was at home.

Bernard nodded and called over to Elizabeth, “seven stone three and a bit.”

And that’s Bernard for you.

Elizabeth thanked him and said that sounded about right, and Bernard returned to his crossword. I looked up centimeters and inches afterward, and at least I was right about that.

Elizabeth went back to her question. How long would the girl stabbed with the kitchen knife have to live? I guessed that unattended she would probably die in about forty-five minutes.

“Well, quite, Joyce,” she said, and then had another question. What if the girl had had medical assistance? Not a doctor, but someone who could patch up a wound. Someone who’d been in the army, perhaps. Someone like that.

I have seen a lot of stab wounds in my time. My job wasn’t all sprained ankles. So I said then, well, she wouldn’t die at all. Which she wouldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fun for her, but it would have been easy to patch up.

Elizabeth was nodding away, and said that was precisely what she had told Ibrahim, although I didn’t know Ibrahim at that time. As I say, this was a couple of months ago.

It hadn’t seemed at all right to Elizabeth, and her view was that the boyfriend had killed her. I know this is still often the case. You read about it.

I think before I moved in I might have found this whole conversation unusual, but it is pretty par for the course once you get to know everyone here. Last week I met the man who invented mint choc chip ice cream, or so he tells it. I don’t really have any way of checking.

I was glad to have helped Elizabeth in my small way, so I decided I might ask a favor. I asked if there was any way I could take a look at the picture of the corpse. Just out of professional interest.

Elizabeth beamed, the way people around here beam when you ask to look at pictures of their grandchildren graduating. She slipped a letter-size photocopy out of her folder, laid it facedown in front of me, and told me to keep it, as they all had copies.

I told her that was very kind of her, and she said not at all, but she wondered if she could ask me one final question.

“Of course,” I said.

Then she said, “Are you ever free on Thursdays?”

And, that, believe it or not, was the first I had heard of Thursdays.

 

2.

PC Donna De Freitas would like to have a gun. She would like to be chasing serial killers into abandoned warehouses, grimly getting the job done despite a fresh bullet wound in her shoulder. Perhaps developing a taste for whisky and having an affair with her partner.

But for now, twenty-six years old, and sitting down for lunch at eleven forty-five in the morning, with four pensioners she has only just met, Donna understands that she will have to work her way up to all that. And besides, she has to admit that the past hour or so has been rather fun.

Donna has given her talk, “Practical Tips for Home Security,” many times. And today there was the usual audience of older people, blankets across knees, free biscuits, and a few happy snoozers at the back. She gives the same advice each time. The absolute, paramount importance of installing window locks, checking ID cards, and never giving out personal information to cold-callers. More than anything, she is supposed to be a reassuring presence in a terrifying world. Donna understands that; also, it gets her out of the station and gets her out of paperwork, so she volunteers. Fairhaven’s police station is sleepier than Donna is used to.

Today, however, she found herself at the Coopers Chase Retirement Village. It seemed innocuous enough. Lush, untroubled, sedate, and on her drive in she spotted a nice pub for lunch on the way home. So getting serial killers in headlocks on speedboats would have to wait.

“Security,” Donna began, though she was really thinking about whether she should get a tattoo. A dolphin on her lower back? Or would that be too cliche? “What do we mean when we say the word security? Well, I think that word means different things to different . . .”

A hand shot up in the front row. Which was not normally how this went, but in for a penny. An immaculately dressed woman in her eighties had a point to make.

“Dear, I think we’re all hoping this won’t be a talk about window locks.” The woman looked around her and picked up murmured support.

A gentleman hemmed in by a walking frame in the second row was next. “And no ID cards, please; we know about ID cards. ‘Are you really from the gas board, or are you a burglar?’ We’ve got it, I promise.”

A free-for-all had commenced.

“It’s not the gas board anymore. It’s Centrica,” said a man in a very smart three-piece suit.

The man sitting next to him, wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a West Ham United shirt, took this opportunity to stand up and stab a finger in no particular direction. “It’s thanks to Thatcher that, Ibrahim. We used to own it.”

“Oh, do sit down, Ron,” the well-dressed woman had said. Then she looked at Donna and added, “Sorry about Ron,” with a slow shake of her head. The comments had continued to fly.

“And what criminal wouldn’t be able to forge an ID document?”

“I’ve got cataracts. You could show me a library card and I’d let you in.”

“They don’t even check the meter now, dear. It’s all on the web.”

“It’s on the cloud, dear.”

“I’d welcome a burglar. It would be nice to have a visitor.”

There had been the briefest of lulls. An atonal symphony of whistles began as some hearing aids were turned up, while others were switched off. The woman in the front row had taken charge again.

“So . . . and I’m Elizabeth, by the way . . . no window locks, please, and no ID cards, and no need to tell us we mustn’t give our PIN to Nigerians over the phone. If I am still allowed to say Nigerians.”

Donna De Freitas had regrouped. She was aware she was no longer contemplating pub lunches or tattoos, but was instead thinking about a riot training course back in the good old days in South London.

“Well, what shall we talk about, then?” Donna asked. “I have to do at least forty-five minutes, or I don’t get the time off in lieu.”

“Institutional sexism in the police force?” said Elizabeth.

“I’d like to talk about the illegal shooting of Mark Duggan, sanctioned by the state and-“

“Sit down, Ron!”

So it went on, enjoyably and agreeably, until the hour was up, whereupon Donna was warmly thanked, shown pictures of grandchildren, and then invited to stay for lunch.

And so here she is, picking at her salad, in what the menu describes as a “contemporary upscale restaurant.” Eleven forty-five is a little early for her to have lunch, but it wouldn’t have been polite to refuse the invitation. She notes that her four hosts are not only tucking in to full lunches but have also cracked open a bottle of red wine.

“That really was wonderful, Donna,” says Elizabeth. “We enjoyed it tremendously.” Elizabeth looks to Donna like the sort of teacher who terrifies you all year but then gives you a grade A and cries when you leave. Perhaps it’s the tweed jacket.

“It was blinding, Donna,” says Ron. “Can I call you Donna, love?”

“You can call me Donna, but maybe don’t call me love,” says Donna.

“Quite right, darling,” agrees Ron. “Noted. That story about the Ukrainian with the parking ticket and the chainsaw, though? You should do after-dinner speaking; there’s money in it. I know someone, if you’d like a number?”

The salad is delicious, thinks Donna, and it’s not often she thinks that.

“I would have made a terrific heroin smuggler, I think.” This was Ibrahim, who earlier raised the point about Centrica. “It’s just logistics, isn’t it? There’s all the weighing too, which I would enjoy, very precise. And they have machines to count money. All the mod cons. Have you ever captured a heroin dealer, PC De Freitas?”

“No,” admits Donna. “It’s on my list, though.”

“But I’m right that they have machines to count money?” asks Ibrahim.

“They do, yes,” says Donna.

“Wonderful,” says Ibrahim, and downs his glass of wine.

“We bore easily,” adds Elizabeth, also polishing off a glass. “God save us from window locks, WPC De Freitas.”

“It’s just PC now,” says Donna.

“I see,” says Elizabeth, lips pursing. “And what happens if I still choose to say WPC? Will there be a warrant for my arrest?”

“No, but I’ll think a bit less of you,” says Donna. “Because it’s a really simple thing to do, and it’s more respectful to me.”

“Damn, checkmate, okay,” says Elizabeth, unpursing her lips.

“Thank you,” says Donna.

“Guess how old I am,” challenges Ibrahim.

Donna hesitates. Ibrahim has a nice suit, and he has great skin. He smells wonderful. A handkerchief is artfully folded in his breast pocket. Hair thinning but still there. No paunch, and just the one chin. And yet underneath it all? Hmmm. Donna looks at Ibrahim’s hands. Always the giveaway.

“Eighty?” she ventures.

She sees the wind depart Ibrahim’s sails. “Yes, spot-on, but I look younger. I look about seventy-four. Everyone agrees. The secret is Pilates.”

“And what’s your story, Joyce?” Donna asks the fourth member of the group, a small white-haired woman in a lavender blouse and mauve cardigan. She is sitting very happily, taking it all in. Mouth closed but eyes bright. Like a quiet bird, constantly on the lookout for something sparkling in the sunshine.

“Me?” says Joyce. “No story at all. I was a nurse, and then a mum, and then a nurse again. Nothing to see here, I’m afraid.”

Elizabeth gives a short snort. “Don’t be taken in by Joyce, PC De Freitas. She is the type who ‘gets things done.'”

“I’m just organized,” says Joyce. “It’s out of fashion. If I say I’m going to Zumba, I go to Zumba. That’s just me. My daughter is the interesting one in the family. She runs a hedge fund, if you know what one is?”

“Not really,” admits Donna.

“No,” agrees Joyce.

“Zumba is before Pilates,” says Ibrahim. “I don’t like to do both. It’s counterintuitive to your major muscle groups.”

A question has been nagging at Donna throughout lunch. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, I know you all live at Coopers Chase, but how did the four of you become friends?”

US

Additional information

Weight	10.6 oz
Dimensions	0.8100 × 5.4400 × 8.2100 in
Series	A Thursday Murder Club Mystery
Imprint	Penguin Books
Format	General Trade
ISBN-13	09781984880987
ISBN-10	1984880985
Author	Richard Osman
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC022000, FIC022070
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