Blending the charm of The Thursday Murder Club with a twisty
international mystery, Richard Osman returns with a thrilling new
series. Steve Wheeler is enjoying his quiet retirement, filled with
pub quizzes and cat cuddles, while his daughter-in-law Amy lives
for adrenaline. As a private security officer, Amy is currently on a
remote island, guarding a famous author, Rosie D’Antonio—a job
that was supposed to be easy. But when a dead body, a bag of
money, and a killer enter the picture, Amy turns to Steve for help.
Can they outsmart their enemies in a high-stakes race around
the world?
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.
“She hasn’t shot at anyone in a while, but you can’t have everything.”
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.
Extracted from We Solve Murders by Richard Osman, out now.
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