- Published: 17 September 2024
- ISBN: 9780241608371
- Imprint: Viking
- Format: Trade Paperback
- Pages: 464
- RRP: $38.00
We Solve Murders
Extract
PROLOGUE
You must leave as few clues as possible. That’s the only rule.
You have to talk to people sometimes; it’s inevitable. There are orders to be given, shipments to be arranged, people to be killed, etc., etc. You cannot exist in a vacuum, for goodness’ sake.
You need to ring François Loubet? In an absolute emergency? You’ll get a phone with a voice-changer built-in. And, by the way, if it’s not an absolute emergency, you’ll regret ringing very soon.
But most communication is by message or email. High-end criminals are much like millennials in that way.
Everything is encrypted, naturally, but what if the authorities break the code? It happens. A lot of very good criminals are in prison right now because a nerd with a laptop had too much time on their hands. So you must hide as well as you can.
You can hide your IP address – that is very easy. François Loubet’s emails go through a world tour of different locations before being sent. Even a nerd with a laptop would never be able to discover from where they were actually sent.
But everyone’s language leaves a unique signature. A particular use of words, a rhythm, a personality. Someone could read an email, and then read a postcard you sent in 2009 and know for a fact they were sent by the same person. Science, you see. So often the enemy of the honest criminal.
That’s why ChatGPT has been such a godsend.
After writing an email, a text, anything really, you can simply run the whole thing through ChatGPT and it instantly deletes your personality. It flattens you out, irons your creases, washes you away, quirk by quirk, until you disappear.
‘ChatGPT, rewrite this email as a friendly English gentleman, please.’ That is always Loubet’s prompt.
Handy, because if these emails were written in François Loubet’s own language, it would all become much more obvious. Too obvious.
But, as it stands, you might find a thousand emails, but you would still have no way of knowing where François Loubet was, and you would still have no way of knowing who François Loubet is.
You would, of course, know what François Loubet does, but there would be precious little you could do about it.
CHAPTER 1
It had finally happened.
Andrew Fairbanks had always known he would be famous one day. And that day – a quiet, sunny Tuesday in early August – had, at last, arrived.
The years of Instagram fitness videos had given him a following, sure, but nothing like this. This was insane.
There had been an on–off relationship with a minor pop singer, which had seen his picture in the papers from time to time. But not on the front pages like today.
The notoriety Andrew Fairbanks had chased for so long was finally his. His name on lips around the world. Trending on social media. That selfie on the yacht was everywhere. Andrew, shirtless and tanned, winking into the camera, the warm sun winking along behind him. His bottle of Krusher energy drink raised in a happy toast.
And the comments beneath the photo! The heart emojis, the fire emojis, the lust. Everything Andrew had ever dreamt of.
Some of the other comments might have dampened his spirits a little, however. ‘Gone too soon’, ‘So fit, RIP’, ‘So haunting to see that photo when you knew what was about to happen’ – but you couldn’t argue with the volume. Impressive traffic. In the offices of the Love Island production team, his photograph was passed around, and there were discussions about how perfect he might have been if only, well, you know.
Yes, finally, everybody knew Andrew Fairbanks. Or, as he was now more commonly known, ‘Tragic Instagram influencer, Andrew Fairbanks’.
So it wasn’t all upside. And, in fact, even that slim upside is beginning to dim. It is Wednesday afternoon by now, and his name is already beginning to slip down the rankings. Other things are happening in the world. A baseball star has driven his pick-up into his ex-wife’s swimming pool. A beauty vlogger has said something inappropriate about Taylor Swift. The conversation, like the tide, is turning.
Andrew Fairbanks had been found dead: shot in the head, tied to a rope and thrown from a yacht bobbing about in the Atlantic. There was no one else on the yacht, and no sign that anyone had ever been there, with the exception of a leather bag containing nearly one million dollars.
But none of this gives you the right to be famous more than a day or so. One day, perhaps, there might be a podcast about the case or, better still, a Netflix true-crime documentary, but, for now, Andrew’s limelight is turning to dusk.
Soon Andrew Fairbanks will be just a photograph, holding a purple energy drink in front of a blue sea, a corpse in a South Carolina mortuary, and the odd ‘Remember that guy who died on that yacht with all that money?’
Who killed him? Who knows? Someone or other, certainly, and social media has a lot of opinions on it. Why did they kill him? No idea – someone must have had their reasons, mustn’t they? Jealous partner? Instagram fitness rival? Could be all sorts of explanations. Can you believe what this vlogger has said about Taylor Swift?
Just for the one day, though, what a ride it had been. If Andrew had still been alive, he would have been looking for a full-time manager. Get me a few more deals, protein bars, teeth-whitening clinics, perhaps I could launch my own vodka?
Yes, just for a day, everybody had wanted a piece of Andrew Fairbanks. Although, after the sharks had finished with him, there weren’t that many pieces left.
And that’s showbusiness.
CHAPTER 2
‘What don’t you like about yourself?’ asks Rosie D’Antonio. She sits on an inflatable chair shaped like a throne, in a swimming pool shaped like a swan. ‘I always ask people.’
Amy Wheeler is sitting, bolt upright, on a garden chair at the poolside, the sun in her eyes and her gun within easy reach. She likes South Carolina. This hidden offshoot of it, at least. Early morning and the temperature in the nineties, an Atlantic breeze, and nobody, for the time being, trying to kill her. She hasn’t shot at anyone in a while, but you can’t have everything.
‘My nose, I suppose,’ says Amy.
‘What’s wrong with your nose?’ asks Rosie, sipping something green through a non-recyclable straw, her trailing hand rippling the water.
‘Don’t know,’ says Amy. She is impressed that Rosie D’Antonio is in full, perfect, make-up while in the pool. How old is she? Sixty? Eighty? A mystery. The age on her file reads Refused to disclose. ‘It’s just wrong, when I look at it. It’s off.’
‘Get it done,’ says Rosie. ‘Bigger, smaller, whatever you think you need. Life’s too short to not like your nose. Hunger and famine are problems, or no Wi-Fi, but noses aren’t a problem. What else?’
‘Hair,’ says Amy. She is in danger of relaxing. Feels it creeping up on her. Amy hates relaxing. Too much time to think. She prefers to do. ‘It never does what it’s told.’
‘I see that,’ says Rosie. ‘But it’s easily fixed. There’s a hair technician I use. She flies in from somewhere. Chile, I think. Five thousand dollars and your troubles are over. I’ll pay.’
‘And my ears are lopsided,’ says Amy.
Rosie tilts her head and paddles herself towards Amy, considering her very carefully. ‘I’m not seeing that. You have great ears. Like Goldie Hawn’s.’
‘I measured them with a ruler once,’ says Amy, ‘when I was at school. It’s only a millimetre, but I always see it. And my legs are too short for my body.’
Rosie nods, pushing herself back into the middle of the pool, where the sun is hitting hardest. ‘More to the point, though, Amy, what do you like about yourself?’
‘I’m English,’ says Amy. ‘I don’t like anything about myself.’
‘Yawn,’ says Rosie. ‘I used to be English too, and I got over it. Pick something.’
‘I think I’m loyal,’ says Amy.
‘That’s a good quality,’ agrees Rosie. ‘For a bodyguard.’
‘And my short legs give me a low centre of gravity,’ says Amy. ‘So I’m very good at fighting.’
‘There you go,’ Rosie nods. ‘Loyal, and very good at fighting.’
Rosie raises her face to the sun.
‘If someone does try to shoot me this week, do you have to dive in front of the bullet?’
‘That’s the idea,’ says Amy, without conviction. ‘Though that’s mainly in films.’
It’s hard to dive in front of a bullet, in Amy’s experience. They go very fast indeed.
‘Or in books, sure,’ says Rosie. ‘Would you like a joint? I’m going to have one.’
‘Best not,’ says Amy. ‘Maximum Impact gives us mandatory blood tests every three months, company policy. A single trace of any drug and I’m fired.’
Rosie gives a ‘fair enough’ grunt.
It’s not the most exciting job Amy has ever had, but it’s sunny, and she likes the client. Rosie D’Antonio, the world’s bestselling novelist, ‘if you don’t count Lee Child’. Her Spanish-style mansion on her own private island just off the coast of South Carolina. With her own personal chef.
For various operational reasons Amy once had to spend the best part of a month living inside an abandoned oil pipeline in Syria, so this is a step up. The chef brings her a plate of smoked salmon blinis. He’s not really a chef – he’s a former Navy SEAL called Kevin – but he is learning fast. Last night his bœuf bourguignon was a triumph. Rosie’s regular chef has been given two weeks’ leave. Amy, Rosie and Kevin the Navy SEAL, are the only people on the island, and that’s how it’s going to stay for now.
‘No one’s allowed to kill me,’ says Rosie. She has paddled over to the side of the pool, and is now rolling a cigarette. ‘Except me.’
‘And I won’t let you,’ says Amy.
‘But someone might try to shoot me,’ says Rosie. ‘Given one never knows any more, the world being as it is and so on. So, if they do try, no jumping in front of the bullet, okay? Not on my account. Let them kill the old woman.’
Maximum Impact Solutions, Amy’s employer, is the world’s biggest close-protection agency, possibly the second biggest since Henk Van Veen left and took half his clients with him. If someone steals from you, or someone wants to kill you, or if there is discontent among your private army, they are the people to call. Maximum Impact Solutions has many mottos, but ‘Let them kill the old woman’ is not one of them.
‘I’m not going to let anybody kill you,’ says Amy.
Amy remembers watching Rosie on the communal TV when she was growing up. Those shoulder pads, that attitude. It had meant a lot to Amy, seeing how strong a woman could be, while she slept each night curled up in a ball under her bed and dreamt of better days. Rosie will not die on her watch.
CHAPTER 3
‘Cat, ginger, unapproachable. Haughty even, the little bugger. Mason’s Lane. Contact attempted but rebuffed. 3.58 a.m.’
Steve puts his Dictaphone back in his pocket. He hears the sound of the ginger cat inexpertly scaling a back fence. It was not often he saw an unfamiliar cat on his walk. It was almost certainly nothing, but almost everything was almost certainly nothing, wasn’t it? And yet some things did eventually turn out to be something. He once caught an armed robber because of a Twix wrapper in a blast furnace. One rarely knows the significance of things at the time, and it doesn’t cost a penny piece to note things down.
Steve turns left on to the top of the High Street, and sees it stretch out like an unspooling grey ribbon before him, lit by the dim bulb of the moon.
If you were to visit Axley – and you should, you’d like it – you might think you had found the perfect English village. A gently sloping high street, looping around a touch at the bottom where it skirts the bank of the village pond. There are two pubs, The Brass Monkey and The Flagon, identical to the tourists but teeming with subtle and important differences to the locals. For example, one flies a Union Jack and the other the Ukrainian flag. There’s a butcher, a baker. No candlestick-maker, but you will find a little gift shop selling scented candles and bookmarks. Striped awnings, bicycles leant against shopfronts, chalk boards promising cream teas or tarot readings or dog treats. There is a church at the top of the village, and a small bookmakers at the bottom of the village, take your pick. Steve used to visit both, and now visits neither.
And, all around, there is the New Forest. The forest is the whole point of the place. The village itself simply found itself a small clearing and settled in. There are walks and trails, the chirrup and buzz of wildlife, and the backpacks and rain macs of the tourists. Stray New Forest ponies some days wander on to the main road and are accorded due reverence. It was their forest long before it was yours, and it will be theirs long afterwards too. Axley simply shelters among the trees, curled into a little nutshell.
When Steve first moved here – twelve years ago, was it? Something like that, Debbie would remember, probably fifteen the way time goes – it hadn’t fooled him for a second. Steve hadn’t been hoodwinked by the hollyhocks and the cupcakes and the cheery ‘Good morning’ greetings. Steve had seen secrets behind every pastel front door, seen corpses in every back alley, and every time the church bells rang in the hour, Steve had heard the chimes of death.
A crisp packet has blown into a hedge. Steve retrieves it and places it in a bin. Monster Munch. They don’t sell Monster Munch in the local shop, so that will have been a tourist.
No, Steve had refused to be fooled by Axley. Twenty-five years in the police force had taught him to always think the worst of everyone, and everything. Someone offers to help you fix the flat tyre on your bicycle? She will kill you. Someone offers to carry your shopping home from the local shop? He will rob you. And then kill you. Someone is raising funds for a local hospice? She will abscond with those funds, and her husband will be found buried in the garden. Always expect the worst, and you’ll always be prepared. Never let anyone, or anything, take you by surprise.
Ironic, given what soon happened.
Steve stops by the window of the estate agent and peers through the glass. If he was moving to the village today, he wouldn’t be able to afford it. The only way anyone can afford to buy a house these days is to have bought it fifteen years ago.
Steve had been wrong about Axley – he’d be the first to admit it. There were no murderers lurking behind the doors, no mutilated corpses in blood-soaked alleys. When people raised money for hospices, that money went to the hospice, and the husbands could go about their gardening unharmed. And, thus, Steve had begun to relax.
Steve had never relaxed as a child; his dad had made sure of that. School? Too bright to fit in but not bright enough to get out. Then joining the Metropolitan Police at the age of eighteen, seeing the worst that London had to offer, day after day. Sometimes this included his own colleagues. Every day a fight.
Steve takes out his Dictaphone once more. ‘Pale-blue Volkswagen Passat, registration number PN17 DFQ, in car park of The Brass Monkey.’ Steve walks around the car. ‘Tax disc up to date.’ There is the wrapper from a Greggs in the footwell. Where is the nearest Greggs? Southampton? The services on the M27?
He resumes his walk. He will go as far as the pond, sit there for a while, then head back up. Of course he will – that’s what Steve does every night.
Axley had transformed Steve. Not all at once, but, smile by smile, favour by favour and scone by scone, the people and the place had taken down the wall that he had built up over so many years. Debbie had told him it would, and he hadn’t believed her. She had been born here, and, when Steve finally left the Met, she had persuaded him to make the move. She knew.
Steve had worried there would be no excitement, no adrenaline, but Debbie had reassured him. ‘If you get bored, we’re only twenty miles from Southampton, and there are plenty of murders there.’
But Steve didn’t miss the excitement, and he didn’t miss the adrenaline.
Steve liked to stay in; he liked to cook for Debbie; he liked to hear birdsong; he found himself a solid pub-quiz team. Good but improvable.
A stray cat, a proper bruiser, came to visit them and refused to leave. After a week or two of snarling and bullying, from both Steve and the cat, they each let down their guard. And now you’ll find Steve, reading his paper in an old armchair, Trouble curled up on his lap, purring in his sleep. Two old rascals, safe and sound.
Debbie persuaded him to set up his agency. He was happy not working – she was bringing in enough money from painting – but she was right. He probably needed something to do, and probably needed to contribute something to the community. The name of his agency, ‘Steve Investigates’, was his idea. He remembers a Sunday lunch when his boy, Adam, had come round with his wife, Amy. Amy is a bodyguard, works with billionaires and oligarchs, always on the other side of the world. Adam does something or other with money. Steve speaks to Amy more than he speaks to Adam. She’s the one who rings; she’s the one who makes sure they visit if she’s in England on a job.
Amy had told him to call the company ‘Maverick Steel International Investigations’. Branding is very important in the world of private investigations, she had said, but Steve had countered that his name was Steve, and he investigates things, and if that wasn’t a brand, what was?
Amy is working with Rosie D’Antonio, the author, somewhere or other in America. Steve will play it cool when he talks to Amy later, but he will want all the gossip. There’s always gossip when she’s protecting celebrities. Once Amy was working with a singer in a boy band, and he took heroin on an elephant.
‘Google America time difference,’ says Steve into his Dictaphone.
Steve Investigates keeps him pleasantly busy and adequately afloat. He has a few contacts with insurance companies. If you’ve ever claimed a year’s salary because of a bad back anywhere in the New Forest, Steve has probably sat outside your house at some point, perhaps followed you to the gym. It makes Steve happy to find that people are almost always telling the truth about these things. He’ll look into affairs if you really, really want him to. His only rule is that he won’t travel any distance. Steve doesn’t want to stray too far from Axley. He’ll drive up to Brockenhurst if you need him to, couple of nice pubs up there. At a push he’ll head over towards Ringwood or down towards Lymington, but ask him to go to Southampton, or Portsmouth, and Steve will politely decline.
Get yourself involved in a murder case, say, and before you know it your time is not your own. Steve never misses the Wednesday-night quiz at The Brass Monkey now. A murder would almost certainly get in the way of that at some point. No thank you.
We Solve Murders Richard Osman
Combining the heart and humour of The Thursday Murder Club with a puzzling international mystery, welcome to the blockbusting new series from the biggest new fiction author of the decade, Richard Osman.
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