Netflix's Thursday Murder Club Sequel Should Skip Book 2 for the Best Novel in the Series

When Netflix dropped Chris Columbus’s The Thursday Murder Club in late 2025, the world of cozy crime fiction experienced the cinematic equivalent of a perfectly poured G&T. Helen Mirren, Pierce Brosnan, Celia Imrie, and Ben Kingsley formed a retirement-village sleuthing squad so charming that the streamer’s phones must have melted with demands for a sequel. Now, in 2026, the only real question isn’t if a follow-up arrives, but which Richard Osman novel it plunders. The obvious answer—the second book, The Man Who Died Twice—is also the wrong one. The sequel should commit the most delicious betrayal a literary adaptation can manage: ignore book order entirely and leap straight to the series’ undisputed crown jewel, The Last Devil to Die.

Netflix didn’t assemble a cast of Oscar magnets to let them grow old politely. The first film proved that audiences crave geriatric genius mixed with genuine emotional weight. The Cooper’s Chase gang—Elizabeth the spymaster, Ron the union firebrand, gentle Ibrahim, and the gloriously mundane Joyce—became instant streaming darlings. A sequel is practically guaranteed provided the viewership numbers don’t flatline. But here’s the twist: streaming franchises aren’t novels. They live and die on cultural momentum, not patient world-building. A straightforward adaptation of The Man Who Died Twice would certainly deliver missing diamonds, an ex-husband-shaped complication, and a thrilling international chase. Yet it risks feeling like a holding pattern, a second course that’s merely fine when what Netflix needs is an event.

Enter The Last Devil to Die. Published in 2023, it’s the fourth book in Osman’s series and the one that critics and readers alike have crowned the best. A staggering 4.47 Goodreads score isn’t earned by playing it safe. The novel plunges the gang into the shadowy world of underground art and antiques, where a long-lost masterpiece triggers a cascade of violence, betrayal, and some truly inventive scam artistry. The setting is cinematic catnip: dim auction houses, forged signatures, ancient vendettas, and the kind of high-stakes dealing that makes pensioners look like action heroes. Film it with the same warmth Columbus brought to the first movie, and you’ve got something rarer than a genuine Rembrandt—a sequel that feels both cosy and razor-sharp.

What about the narrative shrapnel from skipping two books? Let’s not clutch our pearls just yet. The first film already reshuffled several plot points and character introductions to suit a screen-friendly rhythm, and the sky didn’t fall. Adaptations like Reacher have cheerfully hopscotched through their source material, a reminder that film and print are different beasts. Character dynamics—Elizabeth’s cool ruthlessness, Joyce’s unexpected steel, Ron’s dodgy-kneed recklessness—can be recalibrated without solemn fidelity to publication order. Borrow a few emotional beats from the intervening novels, weave in the relevant backstory, and The Last Devil to Die can stand on its own. What’s sacrilege to a purist is often artistry to a screenwriter.

There’s a mercenary logic here too. Streaming platforms are fickle patrons; they bankroll sagas only as long as the subscriber graph bends upward. Audiences for mystery series don’t expand forever. By jumping to the most acclaimed story now, Netflix locks in a second outing that is virtually critic-proof—a film that doesn’t just continue the charm but amplifies it. The alternative is a slow march through the chronologically correct novels, each requiring a greenlight that becomes less certain with time. Wouldn’t it be a crime to wait until 2030 to see the best yarn on screen?

Let’s not forget Osman’s expanding bibliography. The fifth novel, The Impossible Fortune, landed in late 2025, further proving these characters have stamina. But franchise planning shouldn’t be a hostage to sequence. The wisest move is to treat the books like a greatest-hits album: cherry-pick the absolute banger. Below, a little comparison that makes the case better than any paragraph can:

See? Film thrives on texture, and The Last Devil to Die oozes it. The clink of dodgy bronze casts, the hiss of a restorer’s solvent, the slow unveiling of a fraud that topples empires—this isn’t a mystery; it’s a heist wrapped in a elegy. Director Chris Columbus knows how to balance sentiment with suspense; just recall the way his Harry Potter films layered childish wonder over genuine peril. Give him material that’s already a swan song for one of the characters (no spoilers, but the tears are real), and the sequel becomes the kind of film people rewatch not just for the puzzle, but for the ache.

Naturally, the brave soul who suggests derailing the order will face howls from devotees who want to see Ibrahim’s dating disasters or the unfolding of Donna’s career in real time. But consider this: a franchise that dares to lead with its best hand signals confidence. It tells audiences, “We know what we’ve got, and we’re not going to make you wait for it.” In a landscape where the difference between a green light and a cancellation is often a single quarter’s metrics, haste isn’t just sensible—it’s self-preservation. Let The Man Who Died Twice be a prequel someday, or fold its finest moments into a mosaic. The immediate future demands the tale that made thousands of Goodreads reviewers hit five stars and sob into their tea.

So, Netflix, do the unexpected. Let Elizabeth, Ron, Joyce, and Ibrahim chase a phantom canvas through Europe’s underbelly. Give them a canvas worth stealing. The Thursday Murder Club’s second act shouldn’t be a fine sequel; it should be the reason people sign up to stream in the first place. After all, the best detectives know when to break the rules.