The case of the missing books (15 page)

Minnie bustled away and Israel went over his gathering evidence in his mind and on a napkin, where he jotted down his ideas about his leads in the case of the missing books. He wrote Norman's name down first, and then Ted, and he decided to try giving them points out of ten, with a maximum ten points for motive, and another maximum ten points for opportunity, and another ten for general bonkersness, and so on: unfortunately they both got maximum points. He was maybe going to have to work a bit on his system. He'd have to check to see what Hercule Poirot did in order to eliminate his suspects; something to do with exercising ze little grey cells as far as he could remember from Peter Ustinov in the film version of
Death on the Nile
.

Minnie brought the lentil soup, and the scone: that might help his little grey cells.

'There we are now. That'll put some colour in your cheeks,' she said.

'Right,' agreed Israel. 'That's great. And any luck with the map?'

'The what?'

'The map? So I can plan my routes?'

'Och, yes. Silly me. No, there doesn't seem to be anything there.'

'Oh well.'

Israel took up a spoon.

'Och, well. You'll just have to use your initiative,' said Minnie.

'Initiative?'

'To find places. My late husband, he could tell whatever time of day it was just by looking at the sun.'

'Could he?' said Israel. 'Right. Was he a…a sailor or something?'

'Ach. No. He was a window-cleaner, but. He used to love getting out with the dog though.'

'Good. Well. You don't know anyone who might have a map of the area, do you?'

'Och, no, son. It's not really the sort of thing people have around the home, is it?'

'No, I suppose.'

'You'd have to be an outsider to have one really.'

'Quite.'

'So–och, I know! Silly me! You should try the Reverend Roberts.'

'Reverend Roberts?'

'He's the minister at the First Presbyterian? He's not from round here. He maybe has one.'

'OK. Thanks, Minnie.'

'Now, but never mind your auld map, what about this soup?'

Israel tried the soup. 'Mmm,' he said. 'Beautiful.' It was: thick, velvety and full of flavour.

'Och,' said Minnie, blushing. 'I bet you say that to all the girls. Speaking of which, how are you finding that niece of mine?'

'Niece of yours?'

'George.'

'George, as in George at the farm George?' said Israel.

'That's her,' said Minnie.

'I didn't realise she was your niece.'

'Of course she's my niece. You know, in fact, thinking about it, you're similar ages. You'd make a lovely couple…'

Israel sprayed hot lentil soup from his mouth.

The man next to him in the Soviet republic flat cap and sports casual wear and reading Andy McNab was not amused.

'Hey!'

'Sorry!'

The man started fussing, wiping the spray of soup from his clothes.

'Och, Thompson, don't be so soft. It's just a wee drop of soup.'

'Aye, it's maybe a wee drop of soup to you, Minnie and to the young fella here, but this is my best suit,' said Thompson, indicating his polyester tracksuit.

'Sshh now. It'll wash. Drop of Daz.'

'I am so sorry,' said Israel, wiping soup from his glasses.

Thompson grumbled under his breath.

'Thompson, sshh. Now, Israel…'

Thompson continued to grumble.

'Thompson!'

'I'd take another wee drop of your soup, Minnie, in lieu of the laundry bill, like.'

'All right, all right.'

'And maybe another cheese scone?'

'Och, don't be pushing your luck now.'

'I'll be having to have this dry-cleaned, sure.'

'Catch yerself on, Thompson. No more now. I'll attend to you in a moment. Israel. So what do you think, of George?'

'Erm…She's very…unusual.'

'Ah. I knew you'd get on. That fella she's with is no good for her at all. She's turning into an auld string of misery. I think he's a wee bit half-and-between…'

'He's what?'

'You know. Funny.'

'What do you mean, funny?'

'Och, funny, you know.'

'No.'

'Man his age, never married.'

'Oh, right. I see. But that doesn't necessarily make him—'

'Aye, but the frost'll try the rhubarb.'

'What?'

'You're not funny, are you?' asked Minnie.

'No! Of course I'm not funny! Although, I mean, it's fine if people are funny…'

Thompson edged away slightly from Israel on the bench.

'Good. I'll have a wee word with her, then, see if I can't fix you up with a date,' said Minnie.

'No!' spluttered Israel, being careful to cover his mouth this time. 'Minnie! No!'

'Bit of initiative!' said Minnie, winking.

'What? No, Minnie, no!'

But it was too late: Minnie had glided swiftly away, bearing scraps of scone.

Once he'd finished his lunch Israel went to pay, which proved to be a problem, because he had no money.

'Ah. Erm. Minnie,' he said. 'I'm so sorry. I forgot, I've got a problem with my cash card and I've not—'

'Och, never worry,' said Minnie. 'It's not as if you're going to just disappear is it? We all know where you live, eh?'

'Yes,' said Israel. Unfortunately.

'We'll put it on the slate.'

'Right, thanks. And about you having a word with George—'

'Consider it done!' said Minnie.

'No!' said Israel.

But Minnie had moved away to serve another table.

It was as he made for the door then that Israel noticed that the computer in the corner was on, and seemed to be working–and there was an elderly grey-haired woman in a wheelchair with a rug over her knees squirling around with the mouse.

Israel went and stood beside her.

'Just surfing,' she said.

'Right,' said Israel. 'Could I…Would you mind, when you're done?' he asked. 'I've just…'

'Of course,' she said, wheeling herself away, backwards, and at some speed. 'Work away there, sure. I was just checking out the chat-rooms.'

'Right.'

'Some of them, honestly…'

'Yes.'

And he sat himself down and paused for a moment, staring at the screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard, suddenly excited–checking his e-mails! He could hardly believe it. His first contact with the real world since he'd arrived here. He fired up Hotmail, typed in his user name and his password, hit return, and took a long, deep, anticipatorily satisfied breath.

No one had e-mailed him. Or at least no one he knew. His in-box was of course stuffed full with messages from people offering to extend his credit-card limits, and the size of his…But no one else. Not even Gloria. Since coming here not only had he become lost: he seemed completely to have disappeared. He sent Gloria a rather self-pitying message with the subject line, 'Remember me?'

It had been Gloria's idea that he took the job in the first place. He was always complaining about his sad, wasted life at the discount bookshop, and the lack of opportunities with which he was faced, as a potential genius, and so when he was offered the job in Tumdrum it was Gloria who had convinced him that this was his opportunity, and that although they'd have to live apart for a while she would of course be over at weekends to visit him, and that it would only bring them closer in the long term, and that once he'd done his time in Tumdrum offers of other library jobs would be raining down upon him: he'd be fielding calls from the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, and the Vatican, and Harvard's Widener Library; and librarian head-hunters from all over would be tracking him down, waving big fat vellum hand-inked librarian contracts, written in Latin, stipulating twenty weeks' paid reading time per year; and before he knew it he'd be padding along foot-worn marble corridors into the unimaginable glories of the world's great stacks and depositories. So far things weren't turning out quite like he'd expected.

As he was about to sign out of the site it suddenly occurred to Israel where he might be able to buy a map of Tumdrum.

For years, Israel had been unable to afford to buy new books–which is why he worked in a bookshop, and one of the reasons he'd trained as a librarian in the first place: the prospect of free, or at least free access to books.

First of all he tried www.abebooks.com.

Nothing, and anyway he'd have to wait too long for the shipping from America.

Then he thought he'd try amazon.co.uk, the marketplace: lots more individuals selling books. He found what he was looking for straight away.

Ordnance

Good,

National

Covers

It was a little more expensive than he'd been planning to pay, but it all went on the credit card anyway and he needed the map, so he hit 'Buy with 1-Click' and the map was his.

Now, if he said it himself,
that
was showing initiative.

The chicken coop was beginning to feel suspiciously like home. There were books everywhere; and unwashed dirty mugs from the farmhouse littered every surface; and clothes piled on the bed; and a slightly chickeny, not entirely unpleasant smell of sweat and damp, as if a little pot of stock were simmering on some not too far distant stove.

Israel splashed some cold water on his face from the wash-jug and bowl and poured himself a large glass of whiskey and lay down to contemplate another day's successful amateur sleuthing. He had a growing list of suspects. He had a map on the way. And he was starting to find the whiskey almost as effective as a couple of Nurofen.

And then there was a knock on the door.

He got up, took a fortifying sip of his drink, and went and opened the door, expecting Brownie.

It was not Brownie.

It was a woman, around about his age, and, Israel had to admit, she looked more like his kind of person than a lot of the people he'd been meeting recently: she was wearing clothes that had definitely crossed the border from practical to stylish, and she looked intelligent, and thrusting, as though she was maybe on the way to drinks
after
work, rather than, say, as though drinking
was
her work. Her hair was dark; her lipstick was red; her overcoat was unbuttoned; and she looked like she meant business. She could easily have passed in north London.

'Mmm,' she said, taking a last quick draw on a cigarette and stubbing it out underfoot; and Israel reckoned he was probably the most politically correct person in about a hundred-mile radius at this very moment but even he couldn't help noticing her legs.

'Hello?' he said shyly.

'Mr Armstrong?'

'Yes.'

'Hi. I'm Veronica Byrd,' said Veronica Byrd, straightening up underneath her tailored overcoat and putting on a wide smile and forming the words carefully in her mouth.

'Hello, Veronica Byrd,' said Israel, his brow furrowing.

'I'm from the
Impartial Recorder
.'

'I see,' said Israel, in a way that suggested that he didn't see at all.

'We're the local newspaper.'

'Oh, right. I, er, I'm more of a
Guardian
sort of person myself.'

'Uh-huh. Good. Well, I was hoping'–she paused momentarily–'I could ask you a few questions?'

She was straining slightly forwards now, standing up on tiptoe, looking over Israel's shoulder into the room.

'Look,' said Israel, manoeuvring himself to block her view, 'if it's about the school gateposts, it was an accident, and no one was hurt.'

'The school gateposts?' said Veronica, still trying to look round him.

'It's not about the school gateposts?'

'No. I don't think so,' said Veronica Byrd disinterestedly. 'Although it sounds fascinating. Maybe you want to tell me all about it?'

'No. Thanks.'

Veronica looked at him and raised an eyebrow. 'Sure?'

'Yes. Thanks. Right. Well.'

Veronica continued staring at him. 'Have you been in a fight?'

'No. Why?'

'It's just, your eye.'

'Accident.'

'Oh. So.'

Veronica's gaze did not waver.

'Do you want to come in?' asked Israel, finally giving way, although really there was no need; Veronica was already across the threshold.

'Well well,' said Veronica, staring round, clearly unimpressed, 'this is home?'

Despite his attempts at home improvements–the scattering of clothes and books, the strategic placement of empty mugs–the place still looked exactly like what in fact it was: a home for chickens, with perhaps an untidy weekend guest who'd overstayed his welcome. A chicken coop, after all, is a chicken coop, no matter how many books and old clothes you leave scattered around. And Israel himself of course by this stage in his stay looked like a hobo who'd been riding trains: his corduroy jacket suit the only thing of his own remaining in an outfit in which he increasingly resembled the Unabomber. He needed some new trousers. And shirts. And shoes.

'It's temporary. Sorry,' he said, embarrassed, 'I can't offer you a seat or anything.'

'It's OK.' Veronica perched herself on the edge of the bed, pushing aside Israel's pile of books to make more room for herself. 'You like reading, huh? Isn't that a bit clichéd for a librarian?'

'Well,' said Israel, flushing. 'You could say that. Isn't it a bit clichéd for a journalist to barge in and be asking so many questions?'

'Touché!' said Veronica.

No one had said anything like 'Touché!' to Israel for quite a while. He liked it.

Veronica was sitting just inches away from Israel's bedside bottle of Bushmills and was now looking at him expectantly.

'Sorry. Can I get you a…?' Israel said, indicating the bottle.

'Sure.'

'Erm…' Israel searched around for another glass but there was no other glass, so he poured his own whiskey into a mug, and wiped out the glass with one of Brownie's spare T-shirts–The Thrills. Then he topped up the clean glass with whiskey and gave that to Veronica.