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.
