1.

The following Thursday . . .

I was talking to a woman in Ruskin Court, and she said she's on a diet," says Joyce, finishing her glass of wine. "She's eighty-two!"

"Walkers make you look fat," says Ron. "It's the thin legs."

"Why diet at eighty-two?" says Joyce. "What's a sausage roll going to do to you? Kill you? Well, join the queue."

The Thursday Murder Club has concluded its latest meeting. This week they have been looking at the cold case of a Hastings newsagent who murdered an intruder with a crossbow. He'd been arrested, but then the media had got involved, and the consensus was that a man should be allowed to protect his own shop with a crossbow, for goodness' sake, and he walked free, head held high.

A month or so later, police had discovered that the intruder was dating the newsagent's teenage daughter, and the newsagent had a long record of assault, but at that point everybody had moved on. It was 1975, after all. No CCTV, and no one wanting to make a fuss.

"Do you think a dog might be good company?" asks Joyce. "I thought I might either get a dog or join Instagram."

"I would advise against it," says Ibrahim.

"Oh, you'd advise against everything," says Ron.

"Broadly, yes," agrees Ibrahim.

"Not a big dog, of course," says Joyce. "I haven't got the Hoover for a big dog."

Joyce, Ron, Ibrahim, and Elizabeth are enjoying lunch at the restaurant that sits at the heart of the Coopers Chase community. There is a bottle of red and a bottle of white on their table. It is around a quarter to twelve.

"Don't get a small dog, though, Joyce," says Ron. "Small dogs are like small men: always got a point to prove. Yapping it up, barking at cars."

Joyce nods. "Perhaps a medium dog, then? Elizabeth?"

"Mmm, good idea," replies Elizabeth, though she is not really listening. How could she be, after the letter she received last night?

She's picking up the main points, of course. Elizabeth always stays alert, because you never know what might fall into your lap. She has heard all sorts over the years. A snippet of conversation in a Berlin bar, a loose-lipped Russian sailor on shore leave in Tripoli. In this instance, on a Thursday lunchtime in a sleepy Kent retirement village, it seems that Joyce wants a dog, there is a discussion about sizes, and Ibrahim has doubts. But her mind is elsewhere.

The letter was slipped under Elizabeth's door last night, by unseen hand.

Dear Elizabeth,

I wonder if you remember me? Perhaps you don't, but without blowing my own trumpet, I imagine you might.

Life has worked its magic once more, and I discover, upon moving in this week, that we are now neighbors. What company I keep! You must be thinking they let in any old riffraff these days.

I know it has been some while since you last saw me, but I think it would be wonderful to renew our acquaintance after all these years.

Would you like to join me at 14 Ruskin Court for a drink?

A little housewarming? If so, how would three p.m. tomorrow

suit? No need to reply, I shall await with a bottle of wine regardless.

It really would be lovely to see you. So much to catch up on. An awful lot of water under the bridge, and so on.

I do hope you remember me, and I do hope to see you tomorrow.

Your old friend,

Marcus Carmichael

Elizabeth has been mulling it over ever since.

The last time she had seen Marcus Carmichael would have been late...