The case of the missing books (18 page)

'Oh yes, very much so. A stranger in a strange land, isn't it. Ho, ho, ho! Indeed. A map though. Hmm. Now I did used to have something, years ago, but it's all in my head now–worse luck! Ho, ho, ho! Actually, I think perhaps I borrowed the map from the library.'

'Ah. Oh well.'

'But!' boomed England. 'I'm sure I can help you with some overdue books, if that's a help to you?'

'Oh really?'

'Yes, of course. I can ask in the notices for the congregation to return their overdue books to me.'

'That'd be great, if you could.'

'No problem! But first, let's start with my own little hoard, shall we?'

England Roberts then indicated the long, low bookcases that lined the room. Israel glanced at some of the titles: it seemed to be all books about the Bible and devotional works, but then the Reverend Roberts went over to a small gathering, a group of books at the bottom row and far end of one of the bookcases, and all of them had the tell-tale purple mark of the Tumdrum and District Library along the spine. Israel bent down to look at the titles: Elmore Leonard; Carl Hiaasen; American crime, mostly, and true crime, plus a few books about serial killers and the occult.

'Phew. That's pretty racy reading for a minister.'

'Ah, well. I suppose as Christians we have a very well-developed sense of sin, ho, ho, ho!' laughed England, who was now heaping the books onto the table in the middle of the room: as well as the fiction there was also the Chartered Management Institute's
Guide to Building a Brand, The Hypnotic World of Paul McKenna
, and Stephen R. Covey's
The Seven Habits of Successful People
.

'There we are now. That's a start for you, I hope.'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'So have you gathered many in yet?'

'Well, a few dozen so far.'

'That's very good.'

'Actually, it's not,' said Israel miserably. 'There are thousands missing.'

'Thousands? Oh dear.'

'I'm a bit stuck, to be honest, trying to find them all.'

'These are all overdue books that people have at home?'

'Well…' Israel glanced around, conspiratorially. 'If I tell you this in the strictest confidence?'

'Yes, of course,' said England, leaning slightly towards Israel. 'Anything you tell me is strictly between me, you and the gatepost–I mean the Lord, of course. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Right,' said Israel. 'Well, I think there's a possibility they've been stolen.'

'My goodness! Stolen? How many?'

'All of them.'

'All the library books?'

'Yes. But we've not told anyone.'

'I see. But what about the police?'

'Well, it doesn't look good for the library service.'

'Hmm.'

'So, you can't mention that to anyone…'

'No. Absolutely. You have my word, as a man of God.'

'Thank you.'

Israel looked totally defeated.

'So, Israel,' said the Reverend Roberts, his voice dropping even deeper, unfeasibly deeper and warmer. 'It's all down to you then?'

'I'm afraid so. It's my job to find out who stole them.'

'To find the perp?' said the reverend, perking up.

'Sorry?' said Israel.

'The perpetrator: that's what they're called, in the books.'

'Is it? Right? Yes, I suppose.'

'Have you got many leads?'

'Er…Well, a few.'

'Yes. You're going to need juice on the inside.'

'What?'

'Juice. On the inside.'

'Sorry, you've lost me.'

'You need a snitch, or a nark–isn't that what they're called? Someone with their ear to the ground, who'll tell you the word on the street.'

'The word on the street? Right.'

'Oh yes, that's essential. Have you tried at the market?'

'No.'

'Oh, well. That'd be the place for you to start, wouldn't it? You're bound to find people there who've heard about any missing books–you know what market traders are like.'

'Right. No, I don't actually.'

'Slags, mostly. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Sorry?'

'"Slags?" It means part of the criminal fraternity, I believe. Come, come, Israel, do you never read any crime fiction or watch television?'

'No. I don't watch a lot of TV.' Gloria didn't agree with TV. She was always busy working. 'I've read the classics, you know, Dashiell Hammett and what have you. And I read
The Name of the Rose
a few years ago…'

'
NYPD Blue
though?
Murder One
?
CSI
?
LA Law
?
The Sopranos
?
The Bill
even?'

Israel shook his head.

'I used to love them. Can only get a lot of them on satellite and cable now, alas. You don't have satellite or cable, do you?'

'No. I don't, I'm afraid.'

'It doesn't look good for a minister, you see, to have a satellite dish.'

'I see.'

'Never mind.
CSI
is on terrestrial again at the moment. That's very good. And there's a new
24
coming up, apparently. Gives one something to look forward to.'

'Yes. Good.'

'Apart from the Second Coming, of course. Ho, ho, ho! But anyway. What we need to do is get you a grass or something.'

'Some juice on the inside?'

'Exactly! See–very good!–you're picking up the lingo already. Come on, the market's today: we can take a walk down there, if you like. I can introduce you to some people.'

'See what's the word on the street.'

'Yes. Ho, ho, ho!'

'And the slags?'

'That's it!'

The reverend made for the door.

'And also, Israel, can you remind me–let's see–while we're at the market I need some potatoes, a new scrubbing brush, and some out-of-date biscuits…'

'Sure.'

The Reverend Roberts waved Israel through into the corridor.

'Now, just before we go, though,' said the reverend, lowering his voice ominously.

'Yes?' said Israel.

'How about a cup of coffee?' The reverend was virtually whispering now.

'Er.' Israel's experience of coffee in Tumdrum so far had not been good.

'Would you like an espresso?'

'Erm.' He'd been caught out with that one before also.

'I have my own machine in the kitchen,' explained the mighty reverend. 'My little luxury.' He looked around suspiciously. 'Don't tell the congregation, though: I keep it locked up. They'd think the money would be better spent on poor black children in Africa, you know. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Right,' said Israel, following the reverend's huge silent strides.

'It's my only vice,' he explained. 'I roast my own beans also: I have them sent from Scotland.'

'From Scotland? Really? Is it known for its—'

'No, no, no! My brother Scotland, in London.'

'Oh, right.'

'You can't underestimate the importance of a good cup of coffee, can you?'

'Absolutely. No. You can't.'

'And yet you can't describe it either,' said the reverend reverently, ushering Israel through a door. 'Which is a little bit like God, isn't it?' he mused. They were up behind the lectern.

'Yes. I suppose…' agreed Israel.

'Now. Here.'

Glancing around, England Roberts knelt down and extracted a large bag of coffee beans tucked behind one of the organ pipes.

'Keeps them cool,' he explained, grinning. 'Perfect temperature.' He then rustled around again. 'And…To go with that…My other vice…' He pulled out a large box wrapped in brown paper. Israel suspected for a moment that…'Chocolates!' boomed England.

'Reverend?' said the dark-suited man in the floral pinny, who popped his head round the door.

'Ah!' said England, flustered.

'Keep the noise down.'

Israel and England spoke to a lot of traders down at the market–most of them slags, touts, sleeks and millies, according to England, who was nonetheless on first-name terms with them all and who greeted all the women with hugs and all the men with high fives and a complimentary booming 'Ho, ho, ho,' not a typical Presbyterian kind of a greeting, Israel guessed, judging by the fact that a lot of the various slags, touts, sleeks and millies tried to hide behind their stalls at England's approach. And anyway the word on the street down at the market was pretty much what the word on the street always is everywhere: that the price of petrol was getting ridiculous; that the traffic-calming measures on the one-way system were a joke; and that something should be done about the state of the public toilets, which were a disgrace.

But there was more: there was also word on the street that the closure of Tumdrum and District branch library was a huge cover-up, and that if books had gone missing, then it was the council themselves who were to blame.

If what he was being told was true, and he had no reason to doubt it, given his dealings with the council, then at the very least Israel had a new suspect to add to his list, and, at the very best, he was close to solving the mystery of the missing library books and pretty soon he was going to be packing up his old brown suitcase and on his way back home: he could almost smell that Brick Lane twenty-four-hour bagel bakery.

He rushed back to the farmhouse for lunch.

'Brownie, Brownie, Brownie,' he said, bursting into the farmhouse kitchen.

'Israel, Israel, Israel.' Brownie had books piled around him on the kitchen table, working on another essay.

'The word on the street is that the council stole the books themselves so that they could close the mobile library and—'

'What's he blethering about now?' said Mr Devine, pouring himself some tea from the never-ending kettle on the Rayburn. 'I don't know, young people today…'

'The council did it. The council stole the library books.'

'The council?'

'That's what people are saying. That's the word on the street.'

'The word on the street?'

'That's what people are saying.'

'Paisley's not going to last much longer,' said Mr Devine. 'That's what people are saying.'

'No, not that,' said Israel. 'People are saying that the council themselves have stolen the books!'

'Hang on, Israel,' said Brownie. 'The council stole the books?'

'Yes, that's right. Linda Wei and everybody, in it right up to their necks.'

'Sure, I could have told you that,' said Mr Devine. 'They're quare and close up there.'

George was silently eating a sandwich up at the end of the table, resplendent as usual in dungarees and work boots.

'Armstrong,' she said, between mouthfuls, graciously acknowledging Israel's presence.

'George,' nodded Israel.

'And who exactly have you been talking to?' George asked, with a certain tone, a tone that carried a clear but unvoiced clause at the end of the sentence, a persistent, silent clause, it seemed to Israel, and which rang out clear and quiet at the end of most statements and sentences in the north of Ireland and which said, if you listened to it very carefully with English ears, 'you idiot'.

'Some people at the market,' he replied.

'Ha,' said George, with the same firm, quiet tone.

'"Ha?" What's that supposed to mean?' said Israel, who was after all a Highly Sensitive Person and who had studied English and American Studies at one of the best former polytechnics turned universities in the country, and who was not therefore unaware of certain tonal ambiguities in speech and writing.

'Ha?' said George. '"Ha" means "Ha" over here, Armstrong. Why? What does it mean where you're from?'

'Well…'

'Who exactly have you been talking to?'

'A lot of different people.'

'Who?'

'I don't know their names. There's a chap who sells dog food and stuff for pets.'

'Who's that?' asked Brownie.

'Trevor is his name?' said Israel.

'Trevor?' said George.

'The fella Cormican?' asked old Mr Devine.

'Aye,' said Brownie. 'Kool For Kats.'

'Little fella,' said old Mr Devine.

'Wears a baseball cap,' said George.

'Yes, that's him, yes,' said Israel excitedly. 'Trevor told me—'

'Aye. Trevor,' said George, with her tone.

'So, he said…' started Israel again.

George put down the remains of her sandwich and looked pityingly at Israel. 'D'you know how Trevor ended up selling dog food at the market, Armstrong?'

'No. I don't, no.'

'Have you ever thought though that someone might not set out with selling dog food at the market as their career goal?'

'Well. I don't know…'

'Well then, let me tell you how he ended up down there, shall I? Your friend Trevor was involved in an insurance scam–wasn't it, Brownie?'

'Aye.'

'Yes. Selling non-existent insurance policies to people, particularly old and vulnerable people. He was put away for that.'

'Ah. Yes. But—' began Israel.

'How long was it for, Granda?' asked George.

'Three years I think it was,' said Mr Devine.

'Extortion with menaces, wasn't it?' said Brownie.

'Something like that,' said George.

'Bad packet altogether,' said Mr Devine.

'And you're taking what he says as gospel?' said George to Israel.

'No, I'm not saying it's gospel. It's just—'

'A conspiracy theory,' said George.

'Well,' said Israel. 'What if it is?'

'A huge conspiracy involving the council, here, in Tumdrum?'

'Well, why not?'

'Because this is the real world, Armstrong, and not a John Grisham novel.'

'Yeah, right, but…'

'I prefer Tom Clancy,' said Mr Devine. 'I can't follow them others.'

'Look, look, think about it though,' said Israel. 'The council want to close all their library services, right? They get away with shutting the branch library, but by law they have to offer some library service, so they say they'll get the mobile library service back up and running. But at the moment at which the mobile library is about to be launched, they say they've lost all the books. Then they can close it simply on financial grounds, and they're not to blame.'

The collected Devines were not convinced.