The last devil to die, p.1
The Last Devil To Die, page 1
About the Author
Richard Osman is an author, producer and television presenter. His first three novels, The Thursday Murder Club, The Man Who Died Twice and The Bullet That Missed, were multi-million-copy record-breaking bestsellers around the world. The Last Devil To Die is his fourth novel. He lives in London with his wife, Ingrid, and their cat, Liesl.
‘Funny, clever and achingly British’
ADAM KAY
‘A warm, wise and witty warning never to underestimate the elderly’
VAL McDERMID
‘Funny, clever and compelling. Mystery fans are going to be enthralled’
HARLAN COBEN
‘Utterly charming and very, very clever’
SARAH PINBOROUGH
‘Full of brilliantly observed humour, spot-on dialogue, and twists and turns aplenty’
NINA STIBBE
‘Robert Galbraith meets Tom Sharpe. Plot-driven with great characters … I don’t ever want to finish this book!’
PHILIPPA PERRY
‘A bundle of joy … Absolutely loved it’
JANE FALLON
‘Endearing characters, a page-turning mystery and sudden throat-lump moments of tenderness’
ABIGAIL DEAN
‘I read the first page, then put all else on hold to devour this pitch-perfect book in one sitting’
JEFFERY DEAVER
‘Marvellous … comfort, humour and smarts’
BELLA MACKIE
‘This is slick sequel will leave you buzzing’
THE TIMES
‘Balm for the soul’
DAILY EXPRESS
‘Superbly entertaining’
GUARDIAN
‘Darkly funny, offbeat and deftly written’
IRISH INDEPENDENT
‘So entertaining it’s a crime’
SAGA
‘Osman’s world is a soothing place to be’
SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
‘Pure pleasure to read’
OBSERVER
‘This is is the most perfect Sunday afternoon read’
RED
‘A joy’
WOMAN & HOME
‘Twisty, witty fun’
SUNDAY EXPRESS
‘Packed full of charm, warmth and a wonderful cast of characters’
MY WEEKLY
‘Clever, warm and very funny’
RICHARD AND JUD Y, DAILY EXPRESS
‘Unlike the bullet, Richard Osman seems incapable of missing’
THE TIMES
‘You’ll love the latest Richard Osman mystery’
YOURS MAGAZINE
‘I snickered so much reading this one that it was remarked upon by my family’
OBSERVER
‘Expect intrigue, red herrings and loads of charm’
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
‘One of the most purely enjoyable crime novels of the year’
IRISH TIMES
‘Intricate plots, humour and the most endearing cast of characters’
WOMAN’S WEEKLY
‘Delivered with the sharp wit that we associate with Osman’
FINANCIAL TIMES
‘Terrific … the writing is joyful, celebratory, tinged with nostalgia’
IRISH EXAMINER
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE: So What Are You Waiting For? Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
PART TWO: Whatever you’re Looking for you’re Sure to Find it Here! Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
PART THREE: There’s No Place Like Home Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Acknowledgements
To Fred and Jessie Wright, with love and thanks.
You will always be the start of my story.
Thursday, 27th December, eleven p.m.
Kuldesh Sharma hopes he’s in the right place. He parks up at the end of the dirt track, hemmed in on all sides by trees, ghoulish in the darkness.
He had finally made up his mind at about four this afternoon, sitting in the back room of his shop. The box was sitting on the table in front of him, and ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ was playing on the radio.
He made two phone calls, and now here he is.
He switches off his headlights and sits in total darkness.
It’s a hell of a risk, that’s for sure. But he’s nearly eighty years old, so when better to take that risk? What’s the worst that can happen? They find him and kill him?
They would surely do both, but would that be so bad?
Kuldesh thinks about his friend Stephen. How he looks now. How lost, how quiet, how reduced. Is that the future for him too? What fun they used to have, the whole lot of them. The noise they would make.
The world is becoming a whisper to Kuldesh. Wife gone, friends falling. He misses the roar of life.
And then in walked the man with the box.
Somewhere in the distance a faint haze of light plays through the trees. There is engine noise in the cold silence. It is starting to snow, and he hopes the drive back to Brighton won’t be too treacherous.
A sweep of light crosses his back windscreen, as another car approaches.
Boom, boom, boom. There’s that old heart of his. He’d almost forgotten it was there.
Kuldesh doesn’t have the box with him now. It is quite safe though, and that will keep him safe for the time being. That is his insurance. He still needs to buy a bit of time. And if he can, then, well …
The headlights of the approaching car dazzle his mirrors, and then switch off. The wheels crunch to a halt, the engine idles, and all is darkness and silence once again.
Here we go, then. Should he get out? He hears a car door close, and footsteps start their approach.
The snow is heavier now. How long will this take? He’ll have to explain about the box, of course. A bit of reassurance, but then, he hopes, he’ll be on his way before the snow turns to ice. The roads will be deadly. He wonders if –
Kuldesh Sharma sees the flash of the gunshot, but is dead before he can hear the noise.
Part One
* * *
SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
1
Wednesday, 26th December, lunchtime-ish
‘I once married a woman from Swansea,’ says Mervyn Collins. ‘Red hair, the lot.’
‘I see,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Sounds like there’s quite a story there?’
‘A story?’ Mervyn shakes his head. ‘No, we split up. You know women.’
‘We do know them, Mervyn,’ says Joyce, cutting into a Yorkshire pudding. ‘We do.’
Silence. Not, Elizabeth notes, the first silence during this meal.
It is Boxing Day, and the gang, plus Mervyn, are at the Coopers Chase restaurant. They are all wearing colourful paper crowns from the crackers Joyce has brought along. Joyce’s crown is too big and is threatening to become a blindfold at any moment. Ron’s is too small, the pink crêpe paper straining at his temples.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a drop of wine, Mervyn?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Alcohol at lunchtime? No,’ says Mervyn.
The gang had spent Christmas Day separately. It had been a difficult one for Elizabeth, she would have to admit that. She had hoped that the day might spark something, give her husband Stephen a burst of life, some clarity,
They had all arranged to meet for a Boxing Day lunch in the restaurant. At the last minute, Joyce had asked if it might be polite to invite Mervyn to join them. He has been at Coopers Chase a few months and has, thus far, struggled to make friends.
‘He’s all alone this Christmas,’ Joyce had said, and they had agreed that they should ask him. ‘Nice touch,’ Ron had said, and Ibrahim had added that if Coopers Chase was about anything, it was about ensuring that no one should feel lonely at Christmas.
Elizabeth, for her part, applauded Joyce’s generosity of spirit, while noting that Mervyn, in certain lights, had the type of handsome looks that so often left Joyce helpless. The gruff Welshness of his voice, the darkness of his eyebrows, the moustache and that silver hair. Elizabeth more and more is getting the hang of Joyce’s type, and ‘anyone plausibly handsome’ seems to cover it. ‘He looks like a soap-opera villain,’ was Ron’s take, and Elizabeth was happy to accept his word on the matter.
Thus far they have tried to speak to Mervyn about politics (‘not my area’), television (‘no use for it’) and marriage (‘I once married a woman from Swansea’, etc.).
Mervyn’s food arrives. He had resisted the turkey, and the kitchen agreed to make him scampi and boiled potatoes instead.
‘Scampi fan, I see,’ says Ron, pointing to Mervyn’s plate. Elizabeth has to hand it to him, he’s trying to help things along.
‘Wednesdays I have the scampi,’ agrees Mervyn.
‘Is it a Wednesday?’ says Joyce. ‘I always lose track around Christmas. Never know what day it is.’
‘It’s Wednesday,’ confirms Mervyn. ‘Wednesday, the 26th of December.’
‘Did you know that “scampi” is the plural?’ says Ibrahim, his paper crown fashionably askew. ‘Each individual piece is a “scampo”.’
‘I did know that, yes,’ says Mervyn.
Elizabeth has cracked harder nuts than Mervyn over the years. She once had to question a Soviet general who had not uttered a single word in more than three months of captivity, and within the hour he was singing Noël Coward songs with her. Joyce has been working on Mervyn for a few weeks now, since the end of the Bethany Waites case. She has so far gleaned that he has been a headteacher, he has been married, he is on his third dog, and he likes Elton John, but this does not amount to all that much.
Elizabeth decides to take the conversation by the scruff of the neck. Sometimes you have to shock the patient into life.
‘So, our mysterious friend from Swansea aside, Mervyn, how’s your romantic life?’
‘I have a sweetheart,’ says Mervyn.
Elizabeth sees Joyce raise the most subtle of eyebrows.
‘Good for you,’ says Ron. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Tatiana,’ says Mervyn.
‘Beautiful name,’ says Joyce. ‘First I’ve heard of her though?’
‘Where’s she spending Christmas?’ asks Ron.
‘Lithuania,’ says Mervyn.
‘The Jewel of the Baltic,’ says Ibrahim.
‘I’m not sure we’ve seen her at Coopers Chase, have we?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Since you’ve moved in?’
‘They’ve taken her passport,’ says Mervyn.
‘Goodness,’ says Elizabeth. ‘That sounds unfortunate. Who has?’
‘The authorities,’ says Mervyn.
‘Sounds about right,’ says Ron, shaking his head. ‘Bloody authorities.’
‘You must miss her terribly,’ says Ibrahim. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘We haven’t, just as yet, met,’ says Mervyn, scraping tartare sauce off a scampo.
‘You haven’t met?’ asks Joyce. ‘That seems unusual?’
‘Just been unlucky,’ says Mervyn. ‘She had a flight cancelled, then she had some cash stolen, and now there’s the passport thing. The course of true love never did run smooth.’
‘Indeed,’ agrees Elizabeth. ‘Never did it.’
‘But,’ says Ron, ‘once she’s got her passport back, she’ll be over?’
‘That’s the plan,’ says Mervyn. ‘It’s all under control. I’ve sent her brother some money.’
The gang nod and look at each other as Mervyn eats his scampi.
‘Apropos of nothing, Mervyn,’ says Elizabeth, adjusting her paper crown just a jot, ‘how much did you send him? The brother?’
‘Five thousand,’ says Mervyn. ‘All in all. Terrible corruption in Lithuania. Everyone bribing everyone.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I have had many good times in Lithuania. Poor Tatiana. And the cash she had stolen? Was that from you too?’
Mervyn nods. ‘I sent it, and the customs people nicked it.’
Elizabeth fills up the glasses of her friends. ‘Well, we shall look forward to meeting her.’
‘Very much,’ agrees Ibrahim.
‘Though, I wonder, Mervyn,’ says Elizabeth, ‘next time she gets in touch asking for money, perhaps you might let me know? I have contacts and may be able to help?’
‘Really?’ asks Mervyn.
‘Certainly,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Run it past me. Before you have any more bad luck.’
‘Thank you,’ says Mervyn. ‘She means a great deal to me. Been a long time since someone paid me any attention.’
‘Although I’ve baked you a lot of cakes in the last few weeks,’ says Joyce.
‘I know, I know,’ says Mervyn. ‘But I meant romantic attention.’
‘My mistake,’ says Joyce, and Ron drinks to stifle a laugh.
Mervyn is an unconventional guest, but Elizabeth is learning to float on the tides of life these days.
Turkey and stuffing, balloons and streamers, crackers and hats. A nice bottle of red, and what Elizabeth assumes are Christmas pop songs playing in the background. Friendship, and Joyce flirting unsuccessfully with a Welshman who appears to be the subject of a fairly serious international fraud. Elizabeth could think of worse ways to spend the holidays.
‘Well, Happy Boxing Day, everyone,’ says Ron, raising his glass.
They all join in the toast.
‘And a Happy Wednesday, 26th of December, to you, Mervyn,’ adds Ibrahim.
2
Mitch Maxwell would normally be a million miles away when a consignment was unloaded. Why take the risk of being in the warehouse when the drugs were present? But, for obvious reasons, this is no ordinary consignment. And the fewer people involved, the better, given his current circumstances. The only time he has stopped drumming his fingers is to bite his nails. He is not used to being nervous.
Visit iDEB.io for more books - Also it’s Boxing Day, and Mitch wanted to be out of the house. Needed to be out, really. The kids were playing up, and he and his father-in-law had got into a fist fight about where they’d seen one of the actors on the Call the Midwife: Christmas Special before. His father-in-law is currently in Hemel Hempstead Hospital with a fractured jaw. His wife and his mother-in-law are both blaming Mitch, for reasons he can’t fathom, and so he thought discretion might be the better part of valour, and driving the hundred miles to East Sussex to oversee things himself turned out to be very convenient.
Mitch is here to ensure one simple box containing a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of heroin is unloaded from a truck straight off the ferry. Not a lot of money, but that wasn’t the point.
The shipment had made it through customs. That was the point.
The warehouse is on an industrial estate, haphazardly constructed on old farmland about five miles from the South Coast. There were probably barns and stables here hundreds of years ago, corn and barley and clover, horses’ hooves clattering, and now there are corrugated-iron warehouses, old Volvos and cracked windows on the same footprint. The old creaking bones of Britain.
A high metal fence surrounds the whole plot to keep out petty thieves, while, inside the perimeter, the real villains go about their business. Mitch’s warehouse bears the aluminium sign SUSSEX LOGISTICS SYSTEMS. Next door, in another echoing hangar, you’ll find FUTURE TRANSPORT SOLUTIONS LTD, a front for stolen high-performance cars. To the left is a Portakabin with no sign on the door, which is run by a woman Mitch has yet to meet, but who apparently churns out MDMA and passports. In the far corner of the lot is the winery and storage warehouse of BRAMBER – THE FINEST ENGLISH SPARKLING WINE, which Mitch recently discovered is actually a genuine business. The brother and sister who run it could not be more charming, and had given everyone a crate of their wine for Christmas. It was better than Champagne, and had led, in no small part, to the fist fight with his father-in-law.
