Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (23 page)

'Thanks, Ted.'

'That's all right. I wouldn't want to meet you if I was a pregnant woman, mind.'

The ferry arrived and they sailed across.

'This is beautiful,' said Israel.

'It's Lough Swilly,' said Ted. 'You can start with the hotel, OK? I'll take the B&Bs. Let's go and find this bastard.'

Ted drove Israel through Rathmullan and dropped him off outside the entrance to a grand country house hotel.

It was early morning in the hotel dining room, and sun was streaming in through the vast picture windows. Israel wandered nonchalantly in, doing his best to look as though he belonged, like he'd just come down to breakfast: smart casual, hung over.

The room was busy with couples, mostly elderly, a grand piano forlorn and threatening in the corner. Diners queued along one side of the room by long tables set with vast metal containers of sausages and bacon, liquidy tomatoes and hard, rubbery scrambled eggs, which glistened under harsh bright lights. There were also vast bowls of fruit salad and muesli.

The bacon and sausage looked pretty good. Israel thought he should maybe take at least one sausage and a couple of rashers of bacon, so as not to draw attention to himself. Then he settled down at a corner table to see if Ted was right, and Mr Dixon had returned to some great good place.

He'd seen a lot of photos of Mr Dixon and he knew exactly what he was looking for: the bland face of a manager; the face of an everyman and a no one. He scanned the room: it could have been any of them.
He
could have been any of them.

Then suddenly, coming into the dining room, he saw someone he recognised–not Mr Dixon, but his accomplice.

There she was: Mrs Dixon, the woman who had wept for the cameras and given moving testimony for local television and radio. Accompanied by her husband.

Israel wiped his mouth with his napkin. His mouth was dry. He allowed them to get their breakfast first–a full fry for Mr Dixon and a fruit salad for Mrs Dixon.

'Excuse me?' he said, as he approached their table once they were settled. 'I wonder if you'd mind if I—'

'Ah!' exclaimed Mrs Dixon, a grapefruit segment and a piece of glacé cherry midway to her mouth.

The diners at the next table glanced across. Israel smiled at them.

'Mrs Dixon,' said Israel. 'And Mr Dixon.'

'Who the hell are you?' said Mr Dixon, under his breath.

'He's the…librarian,' said Mrs Dixon.

'The what?'

'The librarian from the mobile library.'

'Can we help you, sir?' said Mr Dixon. 'Are you collecting library books?'

'No.'

'Well, what are you doing here?'

'I was going to ask you the same question actually,' said Israel. 'So,' he said, 'do you want to tell me all about it?'

'About what? I don't know what you're talking about,' said Mrs Dixon.

'I think you do,' said Israel. 'Here you are, husband and wife. Mrs Dixon with her loving husband, who only forty-eight hours ago you were telling police you feared was dead.'

'Ah. Yes. I…'

'She found me,' said Mr Dixon.

'Clearly,' said Israel.

'We were just going to the police,' said Mrs Dixon.

'But you were having your breakfast first?'

'Yes,' said Mrs Dixon.

'Fine. Well, while you're having breakfast, can you just explain to me why you stole the money from your own business, faked your own disappearance, and nearly had me put away?'

A waiter approached the table.

'Is everything satisfactory?' He looked at Israel suspiciously.

'Yes, thank you,' said Mr Dixon.

'I'm just joining my friends here for breakfast,' said Israel.

'By all means. What room number, sir?'

'Erm.'

'It's all right. You can add his bill to ours,' said Mr Dixon.

'Very well.' The waiter turned to walk away.

'Thanks very much,' said Israel. 'In that case, excuse me, waiter?'

'Sir?' The waiter turned back.

'I wonder if I could trouble you for some more toast, maybe some croissants, pastries, and a pot of strong coffee?'

'Certainly, sir.'

'So, here we all are. First things first: the money. Why would you steal your own money?'

'I needed the money,' said Mrs Dixon.

'For what, exactly?'

'Investments.'

'I see,' said Israel.

'Not my own investments. I have these investment clubs.'

'Yes.'

'I needed some sort of challenge of my own, you see,' Mrs Dixon explained. 'I was always very interested in business, but I was never able to exercise what I felt were my talents.'

'But the investment clubs have hardly displayed your talents?'

'We lost a lot on our technology shares, and then there was a cash-flow problem…'

'So you owed them money, the investors?'

'Yes.'

'How much?'

'A lot.'

'What? The amount you stole from Dixon and Pickering's?'

'Yes.'

'How many of these investment clubs did you have going?'

'About a dozen.'

'A dozen? And you weren't profiting from any of them?'

'No. They're about women empowering women to—'

'Rip each other off?'

'No!'

Israel's croissants and coffee arrived. At last, a continental breakfast. He was going to savour this. But first he had to clear things up with the Dixons.

'So, anyway, what about Mr Dixon faking his disappearance? What was the point of that exactly?'

'Well, sir, like my wife I'm afraid I feel I may have missed my vocation in life.'

'Which was magic?'

'Correct.'

'I spoke to Walter Wilson.'

'Ah. Yes. Fine magician.'

'He doesn't speak very highly of you.'

'No? Well, we've had our differences. I don't think he ever understood my…ambitions.'

'Which were what?'

'To become a professional magician.'

'Well, what I don't understand is why couldn't you just have retired and done that?'

'Dixon and Pickering's is a family business. You can't retire from the family business.'

'Yes, you can.'

'If you have a son to take it on perhaps.'

'Ah, and you don't?'

'That's correct.'

'You have a very angry son who's not interested in the family business.'

'Yes. So I'm afraid in order to pursue my dream it was necessary for me to…disappear. And start again.'

Israel was eyeing a croissant.

'I don't expect you to understand that,' said Mr Dixon. 'You're too young.'

'Well…I think I might have an idea actually. But I'm sure the police will understand perfectly.'

'Yes, I wonder if we might be able to come to an accommodation on that issue?'

'Sorry?'

'Fortunately, we are in a position to be able to offer you a sum of money, if—'

'Oh, no,' said Israel. 'I might be a lot of things, but I'm not crooked.'

'Neither are we, Mr Armstrong.'

'We're not criminals,' said Mrs Dixon.

'We didn't mean to cause all this trouble,' said Mr Dixon. 'We're just—'

'Unhappy,' she said.

'Actually' said Israel, 'I need to consult with my colleague.'

He went to ring Ted from the hotel lobby: there was no way the Dixons could get out of the dining room without passing him. There was only the one exit.

Ted was cock-a-hoop–'Nailed 'em!' he yelled down the phone–and told Israel to keep them there, and, whatever he did, not to let them out of his sight, and he'd get there with the police as quickly as possible.

Israel walked back into the dining room.

'Sir?' said the waiter, as he emerged through the double doors.

'Yes?'

'Your bill, sir?'

'Sorry?'

'Your parents have already checked out, sir.'

'What? But—'

'They left through the patio doors, sir, out through the garden. They said you would take care of the bill.'

'But I don't have any…' Israel patted his pockets.

'If there's a problem with the bill, sir, we simply call the police.'

'Oh, no. No.'

'And they left this for you, sir.'

It was a cheque. For £100,000.

He could see her now, Gloria. On the Heathrow Express–well worth the few pounds more. He could see her looking out of the window, at the city petering away, staring up at the sky, at the planes arriving and escaping. Cup of coffee from the concourse. Business lounge? He'd never been in the business lounge. He couldn't even begin to imagine the business lounge.

Ted was dropping him off at Belfast City Airport.

They'd spent the past couple of days in Tumdrum, being interviewed by the police. Israel had had his clothes returned, and his phone, the
LRB
. Mr and Mrs Dixon seemed to have disappeared. All ports and airports had been alerted. Back at the farm, Brownie's fish were dead; George was raging. Linda had arranged for a disciplinary meeting of the Mobile Library Steering Committee. Rosie wasn't returning his calls. Veronica had the full inside story for next week's
Impartial Recorder
.

'Were you ever married, Ted?' said Israel, as they came through Belfast.

'I was.'

'But you're not any more?'

'No.'

'Were you divorced, or…'

'I'm not in the habit of discussing my private life with colleagues.'

'OK. Fine.'

'I don't wish you to raise the matter again.'

'Sure. Sorry.'

'Why? Were you ever married?'

'No! Of course not. I'm not even thirty.'

'Some men are married and remarried by the time they're thirty.'

'I suppose, yes.'

'Well, you've some catching up to do then, haven't ye? You'd best get yer skates on, or you'll end up with the bachelor's wife.'

'The what?'

'The bachelor's wife.'

'Which is?'

'The wife you imagine.'

Israel had asked Gloria to marry him, actually. A couple of years ago. She'd just laughed. And then he'd asked her again. And again. And again. She said she wasn't ready for marriage. She said she was just getting going at work. He wasn't quite sure how, but somehow they'd managed to stay together, more like brother and sister than…Well. He couldn't imagine not being with her. He was going to see how the weekend went, and then maybe…

'She's not over for long then, your young lady?' said Ted, as they drove past the Harland and Wolff shipyard.

'No. No. She's got to get back to work for Monday.'

'Aye, right. Hard enough life.'

'Yeah, I suppose.'

'Wouldn't fancy it meself.'

'No.'

'You know when I was young—'

'No. In the 1920s?'

'No. You could breed a few dogs, or pigeons, get a bit of a living: fishing in the spring, bit of building work, apple picking later in the year, and that was you. Your own man. Difficult now just to cover your costs.'

'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'What are you going to do with the puppies, Ted?'

'I'm keeping them for spare parts.'

'You're joking?'

'Of course I'm joking, you eejit. I'm selling them, what did you think? Why? D'you want a puppy?'

'God! No…I don't think so.'

'Sure? I'll do you two for one.'

'No, it's all right. Gloria doesn't like dogs.'

The signs welcomed them to Belfast City Airport.

'Well, here we are. Give you a wee break just.'

'Yeah. I need some time to…'

'And you're spending the night in Belfast and then bringing her up tomorrow?'

'Yeah. That's the plan.'

'So you're taking her up to the Causeway?'

'Well, I wasn't sure, I don't know if it'd really be her sort of thing.'

'What's her sort of thing?'

'I don't know. She's more…'

'What about the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge?'

'No. I don't think that's quite…'

'Everybody loves that. Bushmills? The distillery?'

'Er…'

'Ballycastle. Has the market.'

'I'm still thinking, actually, Ted. I haven't quite firmed up the old itinerary yet. We're going to have a lot to…you know.'

'Aye, well, if you're looking for ideas.'

'Thanks, Ted. That's—'

'There's always Portrush, if she fancies the bright lights. She'd maybe enjoy that, you know, being from London.'

'Yeah…'

'I tell you what I'd do. I'd go for the full works: Ulster fry; up to the Causeway; Carrick-a-Rede; sticky bun in Portstewart; fish supper in Portrush. Get her warmed up. Pop the question.'

'Right. Thanks for that, Ted.'

Ted pulled over into the drop-off area. Israel went to get out of the van.

'Straighten yerself up then.'

'What?'

'Don't be slouching. Look at ye. You're all hunched over. You should be wearing a suit and a tie to meet your girlfriend.'

Israel had borrowed more of Brownie's clothes: a hoodie, low-slung jeans, the Converse trainers.

'I'd hardly be putting on a suit and a tie to meet my girlfriend, Ted.'

'Aye, well you're not going to get far in life looking like that, all dishelvelled.'

'Dishevelled?'

'Aye. Lean over.'

Israel leant towards Ted.

'And breathe.'

Israel breathed out.

'Aye. Thought so. You've breath like a slurry tank. You know, the tragedy of it is, Israel, for someone as highly educated as yourself, you've not a clue.'

'OK, Ted. Thanks.'

'And cheer up! You've a face'd turn milk sour.'

'All right, thanks, got to dash. Bye!'

The plane was delayed.

At first it was on time, 9.05. Then expected 10.00. Then expected 10.15. 10.45.

'Passengers on BMI flight BD96 to Heathrow, please be advised that the new time of departure for this flight is 11.15. This is due to the late arrival of the incoming plane. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.'

Israel barely heard the announcements. He was gazing out at the runway; his reflection in the darkness of the window, the weather outside whipping up to a storm, and the rain lashing down, peeling and splitting his face, his too solid and semi-permeable flesh fast disappearing in the blur.

He got up and bought a tray bake and a cup of coffee; food is always a great consolation in such circumstances. He might of course have been better off eating a freshly prepared salad, some steamed fish, and drinking some extract of wheat-grass, but unfortunately life is reality rather than fantasy, and the reality is that at half past nine on a Friday evening in the environs of Belfast City Airport, a tray bake and a cup of coffee are about the best that's on offer, just as self-pity–cheap, fattening and bad for the heart as undoubtedly it is–tends to be readily available around the clock and preferable to most alternatives. He took two sugars in the coffee–that faint tickling pain upon his receding gums–and he tried to remember what it was about Gloria.