Richard Osman (Essex, 50) has been a well-known face in the UK for years as a presenter for the BBC
Pointless
pageant
.
Now, in addition, he is one of the best-selling authors thanks to the series starring The Thursday Crime Club, whose first installment equaled records not known in the publishing world since Harry Potter.
We offer the first chapter of the sequel to that success, a book entitled
The following Thursday
(Espasa) and whose first lines you can read here.
THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY
"I was talking to a woman in Ruskin Court the other day and she said she was on a diet," Joyce says between sips of wine.
Eighty-two years old!
"Walkers make you look fatter," Ron replies.
It is because of the legs, which are very thin.
"What's the point of a diet at eighty-two?"
Joyce insists.
What can make you a sausage roll?
Kill you?
The same as everything else!
- The Thursday Crime Club has ended its meeting.
This week they studied the case of a Hastings newsstand who killed a guy who had sneaked into his premises with a crossbow.
The newsstand was arrested, but then the press came into play and the consensus was generated that everyone has the right to protect their business with a crossbow, obviously! So the man went free, with his head held high .
The black comedy that equaled Harry Potter in sales
About a month later, police discovered that the crossbow victim was dating the kiosk's teenage daughter and that the kiosk had a long history of serious damage and injury, but by then the case had fallen into oblivion.
After all, it was 1975. There were no surveillance cameras, and no one wanting to investigate.
"Do you think a dog would keep me company?"
Asks Joyce.
I can't quite decide between adopting a dog or opening an account on Instagram.
"I wouldn't advise it," Ibrahim replies.
"You're always against everything," Ron replies.
"Broadly speaking, that's right," agrees Ibrahim.
"I'm not saying a big dog," Joyce continues.
I couldn't handle him.
Joyce, Ron, Ibrahim and Elizabeth are eating at the restaurant located right in the center of the Coopers Chase residential complex.
On the table there is a bottle of white wine and another of red.
It's a quarter to twelve, more or less.
"You don't want a small dog either, Joyce," says Ron.
Little mutts are like short men: they always have something to prove.
They scream, they bark at cars ... Joyce nods.
"Maybe a medium one?"
What do you think, Elizabeth?
"Uh ... good idea," she answers, though he's not really listening.
How to pay attention, after the letter you have received?
You know what the general theme is, naturally.
Elizabeth is always on the alert, because you never know what might come your way.
He has heard all sorts of things over the years: a snippet of conversation in a Berlin bar, a Russian sailor with a loose tongue on leave in Tripoli ...
This Thursday, over lunch in a quiet retirement complex in Kent, it appears that Joyce wants a dog, that there is debate about sizes and that Ibrahim has his doubts.
But his mind is elsewhere.
At some point an anonymous hand has slipped a letter under the door.
Dear Elizabeth, I don't know if you will remember me. Maybe not; but without being arrogant, I would dare to say yes. Life has worked its magic again and this week, as soon as I moved in, I discovered that we are neighbors. You see that now I rub shoulders with good society! You must be thinking that they let anyone into this complex. I know we haven't seen each other for a long time, but it would be wonderful to renew our relationship after so many years. Would you like to come have a drink with me at 14 Ruskin Court? To inaugurate my new home? If so, what do you say to me tomorrow at three in the afternoon? You don't have to answer. Anyway, I'll be waiting for you with a good wine. I would love to see you again. There are so many things to tell! A lot of water has passed under the bridge, right? I hope you remember me,and hope to see you tomorrow.
Your old friend, Marcus Carmichael
Elizabeth hasn't stopped mulling over the message since last night.
The last time she saw Marcus Carmichael it must have been late November 1981, a very dark and icy night, on Lambeth Bridge, with the Thames at its lowest level.
His breath puffed in the icy air.
They were a team of specialists and Elizabeth was in command.
They came aboard a rickety-looking Transit van, supposedly owned by a certain G. Procter.
Cleaning windows and drains.
All sorts of construction and repairs, but actually housed a gleaming constellation of screens, keys, and switches.
A young police officer had cordoned off part of the riverbank, and the docks of the Albert Embankment were closed to the public.
Osman, at a London premiere in 2015.John Phillips / Getty Images
Elizabeth and her team descended the stone staircase, risking their necks from the slippery mold that covered the steps. The low tide had exposed a corpse, almost sitting, with its back against the nearest stone pillar of the bridge. The procedure had been adequate. Elizabeth had made sure that was so. A member of his team had examined the clothing and searched the pockets of the heavy coat, a Highgate woman had taken photographs and the doctor had certified the death. It was obvious that the man had jumped into the water upstream, or maybe someone had pushed him. That would be decided by the coroner. Someone else would record everything in a typewritten report, and Elizabeth would just initial herself at the bottom of the document. As simple as that.
The journey up the stairs with the corpse on a military stretcher had taken time.
The young agent, delighted to be called to lend a hand, had stumbled and broken an ankle, which was just 14 T-The following Thursday.indd 14 7/13/21 2:37 PM which they did not need under the circumstances .
They explained to him that at that time they couldn't call an ambulance and he took it quite well.
Several months later he received an unexpected promotion, so the negative consequences were minimal.
Finally, Elizabeth's small unit arrived at the dock and the body was loaded into the white Transit van.
All kinds of works and repairs.
Then the team dispersed, except for Elizabeth and the doctor, who stayed in the van, along with the body, all the way to the Hampshire morgue.
It was the first time Elizabeth had worked with that doctor, a big man with a reddened face and a black mustache with some gray hair, but quite interesting.
A man difficult to forget.
They talked about euthanasia and cricket until the doctor fell asleep.
Ibrahim defends his point of view, wine glass in hand.
"I wouldn't advise any dog, Joyce, big, small, or medium."
At this point in your life, it doesn't suit you.
"Oh, I see where you're going," says Ron.
'A medium-sized dog,' Ibrahim continues, 'such as a terrier or a Jack Russell, has a life expectancy of about fourteen years.
-And who says that?
- Ron asks.
"The breeders' associations, Ron, unless you want to contradict them."
Is that what you want?
-No;
you're right.
"Let's see, Joyce," Ibrahim continues, "you're seventy-seven years old, aren't you?"
Joyce nods.
"Seventy-eight next year."
"Yes, of course, obviously," agrees Ibrahim.
So if you are seventy-seven, we have to calculate your life expectancy to make a forecast.
-Oh yeah!
Joyce replies.
I love this kind of thing!
Once a woman on the dock gave me the tarot cards.
He predicted that I would receive a lot of money.
"Specifically, we have to calculate the chances that your life expectancy is longer than that of a medium-sized dog."
"It's a mystery to me that you were never married, boy," Ron says to Ibrahim, pulling the bottle of white wine out of the bucket.
With that golden peak you have, I don't understand.
Another drink?
"Thanks, Ron," Joyce replies.
Fill it to the top so you won't have to do it again right away.
Ibrahim continues to develop his reasoning.
"A seventy-seven-year-old woman has a fifty-one percent chance of living fifteen more years."
"Look how good!"
By the way, I have not received any money, not much or little.
"So if you got a dog now, Joyce, would you live longer than the animal or less?"
There's the quid of the question.
"I'd live longer, out of sheer bad temper," says Ron.
We would sit face to face in a room, looking into each other's eyes, to see who dies first.
Not me, of course.
It's like when we were negotiating with the Leyland employers in 1978. As soon as one of them got up to go to urinate, I knew we had them in the boat.
Ron takes a drink of wine.
Never be the first to go to the toilet.
Tie a knot in the pile, if necessary.
"The truth, Joyce," continues Ibrahim, "is that maybe yes and maybe no."
A fifty-one percent chance is the same as tossing a coin.
I don't think the risk is worth it.
No one should die before their dog.
-And what is that?
An old Egyptian proverb or a maxim of the psychiatrists?
She asks.
Or something you just made up?
Ibrahim tilts the glass again in Joyce's direction, as if to indicate that he has not yet finished wasting wisdom.
"You have to die before your children, of course, because you have taught them to live without you."
But not before your dog, because you teach your dog to live with you.
"What you say deserves a good reflection, Ibrahim," Joyce replies. Although maybe it's a bit crude. What do you think, Elizabeth? Elizabeth hears her, but her mind is still in the cargo cabin of the Transit van, hurtling through the streets of London, between the corpse and the doctor with the mustache. It is not the only such episode in his career, but it stands out enough to be memorable; anyone who knew anything about Marcus Carmichael would agree.
"Adopt a dog that is already older and then you will nullify Ibrahim's calculations," he replies.
After so many years, Carmichael has reappeared.
What will you want?
A chat?
Kindly recall the past, by the fire in the fireplace?
Who knows.
The new girl, who's called Poppy, has a daisy tattooed on her forearm.
He has been working at the restaurant for about two weeks and, at the moment, the opinions are not very good.
"You brought us the bill for table twelve, Poppy," says Ron.
The young woman nods.
"Yeah right ... Oh ...!"
What a fool!
What table is this?
"Fifteen," Ron replies.
You can see it because it has a big fifteen painted on the center card.
-Sorry!
She exclaims.
It is not easy to remember the dishes, bring them, look at the numbers ... But I'll get used to it - he adds before going back to the kitchen.
"She's a good girl," says Ibrahim, "but she's not good for this job."
"She has beautiful nails," Joyce points out.
Immaculate.
Have you seen her nails, Elizabeth?
"Very pretty," she agrees with an affirmative gesture.
It is not the only thing that has caught the attention of Poppy, seemingly out of nowhere, with her nails and her incompetence.
But for now, he has other concerns, and the Poppy mystery can wait.
Mentally review the text of the letter again.
"I don't know if you remember me ... A lot of water has passed under the bridge ..." Did Elizabeth remember Marcus Carmichael?
What a ridiculous question!
He had found his body lying against a Thames bridge at low tide.
She had helped carry him, climbing those slippery stone steps in the middle of the night.
He had sat a foot from her lifeless body, in a white Transit van touting window cleaning services.
He had given the news of his death to his young wife and had attended her funeral, as a mark of respect.
So, yes, Elizabeth remembers Marcus Carmichael very well.
But you'd better pay attention to the other diners again.
Each thing at it's time.
Grab his glass of white wine.
"It's not all a matter of numbers, Ibrahim."
And you, Ron, would die long before the dog.
The life expectancy of men is considerably lower than that of women, and you know what the doctor has told you about your threat of diabetes.
As for you, Joyce, we both know you've made up your mind.
You will adopt a dog from a shelter.
Right now he will be alone, with sad eyes, waiting for you to go pick him up.
You won't be able to resist and it will also be fun for all of us, so stop thinking about it.
Task accomplished.
"What about Instagram?"
- Joyce insists.
"I don't even know what it is, so do what you think is best," Elizabeth responds before drinking the wine.
An invitation from a dead man?
On second thought, he will accept it.
