Excerpt from We Solve Murders by Richard Osman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

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 afterward too. Axley simply shelters among the trees, curled into a little nutshell.

When Steve first moved here — 12 years ago, was it? Something like that, Debbie would remember, probably 15 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. 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 15 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. 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 18, 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, favor by favor 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 20 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.

Excerpted from We Solve Murders by Richard Osman. Copyright © 2024 by Richard Osman. Excerpted by permission of Pamela Dorman Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.