The case of the missing books (28 page)

He thought he heard something behind him: it sounded far off, at first, like a faint crunching. But the sound suddenly grew louder, and Israel turned around.

There was a vehicle approaching down the narrow grassy lane at high speed–in the dark he couldn't make out what it was. He dropped the library books and dived into the hedge, moments before the vehicle sped past him.

It was his head that hit the tree first.

His nose. He'd broken his bloody nose: in the impact of leaping out of the way of the oncoming vehicle and into the tree his nose had gone; it had popped. Israel had always been very attached to his nose.

When he finally made it back to the Devines', covered in blood, Mr Devine had fiddled around trying to straighten his nose up a bit and instead he seemed to have increased the spread, like too much jam on toast. When he looked in the mirror now Israel no longer saw a proud young north London librarian with all the future ahead of him: what he saw instead were the bruises, and the bumps and the nose of a bloated and washed-up old boxer.

The next morning Brownie had given him a lift into town and Israel gave a statement to the police, who said they'd look into the incident, although unfortunately Israel didn't have the registration number of the vehicle, nor could he identify it precisely–he said it was a long sort of car, at which the police officer, a Sergeant Friel, a man with the kind of moustache once touted by RAF pilots and a smart-arse attitude to match, had smiled and said, 'How long exactly?' and spread out his arms, 'This long?' and 'No,' Israel had said, 'Longer,' and 'Oh,' said Sergeant Friel, 'Well, well, well,' and he was sorry but in that case he was afraid there wasn't that much the police could do to help, there were an awful lot of long cars out there these days.

Israel spent the rest of his Saturday feeling profoundly sorry for himself and wishing he was back home in London, where of course all policemen are gentlemen and hit-and-run drivers leave their particulars at the scene of the crime. He was sitting in the kitchen by the Rayburn with his swelling nose, reading the paper, or trying to read the paper: the
Impartial Recorder
was not the
Guardian
, to be honest, and there were just only so many reports on the possible go-ahead of plans for new local renal units and photographs of Mayor Maureen Minty planting trees in the grounds of old people's homes that he could take. On Saturdays he and Gloria liked to get up late, read the papers, go and see an interesting independent film in an interesting independent cinema, and have something nice to eat in a young and happening person's kind of a restaurant. He rang Gloria to see what she was up to. She wasn't answering her mobile: she was too busy being young and happening, probably. Israel poured himself more tea from the never-ending teapot on the stove: he was slowly moving towards tea, actually, and away from coffee; and he couldn't help thinking that this was a very bad sign.

There were the usual comings and goings in the farmhouse: Mr Devine hauling coal and food around; Brownie up and down with books; George in and out in her dungarees. Israel remained in the kitchen, dreaming fondly of his old life.

'Aye, right, you're there,' said Mr Devine, bringing in a bundle of small sticks, which he'd spent most of the afternoon chopping out in the yard: the distant echoing sound of axe on wood had given Israel a terrible headache. 'Parcel for you.'

'For me, really? Thanks.'

Mr Devine handed over the package.

The only post Israel had received since arriving in Tumdrum had been a few circulars that his mother had forwarded to him–credit card offers and requests for charity donations.

He prodded his glasses and looked at the package. It was a Jiffy bag. He recognised Gloria's writing on the package. He ripped it open.

There was no note from Gloria. Her PA had probably sent it.

Inside the Jiffy bag was another Jiffy bag: the inner Jiffy had been posted to their London address.

Israel tore it open.

Inside the inner Jiffy was the map of Tumdrum and District that he'd been waiting for from Amazon.co.uk, which he'd ordered what now seemed like a lifetime ago in Zelda's.

Well, frankly, it wasn't the most exciting item he'd ever been sent in the post–his GCSE results, they'd been pretty good, and there was that time Gloria had ordered something on the Internet from Agent Provocateur, which was pretty good also, but still, this was something, it was a package, it was better than nothing, and he glanced absentmindedly at the seller's invoice.

And then he checked the postmark.

And then he looked again at the map.

And he couldn't believe it: the invoice was from someone calling themselves North Coast Books. And the postmark was Tumdrum. And the map had the tell-tale purple sticker on it: it was the old Tumdrum Library copy. It took him a moment, but then it all fell into place, there was a clunk and a click and the Eagle had landed, and it was all he could do to stop himself from shouting Eureka!

Receiving the map in the post was as good as receiving a written statement or a letter containing a confession; it wrapped it all up and gave it all away. The mystery was as good as solved.

All he needed to do now was to explain to someone this amazing breakthrough in his admittedly rather ad-hoc investigation. Brownie had gone out, otherwise he'd have been good to talk to, and Israel knew better by now than to try to talk about anything to George or Mr Devine and there weren't that many other people he could talk to; it was getting on for teatime, after which time traditionally in Tumdrum everyone battened down the hatches and prepared to repel boarders, but because of the import of his discovery, because he believed that finally he'd cracked it, and because he had absolutely no one else he could share the news with, he decided to take the liberty of going to see Ted, not something he would usually have considered under any circumstances. Israel had not been in the habit of making social calls since he'd arrived in Tumdrum–he had no one to make social calls upon–and Ted would not have been his choice of confidant, but he didn't have time now for mere niceties and pussyfooting around: he was hot on the trail of his man, and his ticket out of here and home. All he needed was a little support and back-up.

Israel had passed Ted's house a few times on some of the service runs. It was a neat little bungalow on the coast, at the foot of a sheer cliff, and it would have had fantastic views across to the sea if the main coast road didn't run right in front of it, inches from the door, so the magnificent view was obscured by the constant stream of traffic, carrying people and goods and food and drink up and round and back again, to and from the north coast, and so Ted's view in fact consisted mostly of the word 'Guinness' flashing by, again and again, and of the shining silver and red of thousands of nearly new cars, with the appropriate and accompanying sound of BBC Radio Ulster faintly to be heard above the hum of slightly worn tyre on tarmac.

Israel pulled the van over onto the weed and gravel forecourt cut into the cliff, and got out, and knocked and rang at the door. There was the distinct sound of growling: Ted had a dog. He might have guessed.

Israel's usual approach with dogs, as with small children, was to ignore them in the sure and certain hope that they'd soon get bored and go away. Israel hadn't grown up with dogs, had never had a dog, and he did not like them. He was more of a cat person.

'Ted! Ted!' he called, ignoring the barking dog, as Ted opened up.

'Israel,' replied Ted. He was wearing a pinny covered with flour and had a rolling pin in his hand, and there was a little Jack Russell at his heels.

'Are you cooking?' said Israel.

'No, I'm creosoting my fences.'

'Ted, I've done it.'

'Sorry to hear that.'

'What?'

'You've crashed the van again?'

'No! No. No. I've found the books.'

'The library books?'

'Yes, the library books. Of course the library books.'

'Aye, well, congratulations.'

'So.'

'So?' said Ted, who was not as excited as Israel might have hoped.

'So, let me come in and I'll tell you all about it.'

'Right.' Ted folded his arms across his chest, blocking Israel's way into the house and getting flour all over his arms in the process.

'Ted?'

Ted frowned–and when Ted frowned the deep frown lines ran all the way from behind the top of one ear, multiplying as they went, and all the way across to the other. They weren't so much frowns in fact as the folds on a complex origami forehead.

'All right. But don't be making a habit of making house calls. OK? It's not good for the dog. It makes him nervous. It's all right, Muhammad, he's a friend.'

'Muhammad? Your dog's called Muhammad?'

'That's right.'

'Oh. OK. After the Prophet Muhammad?'

'No. After the boxer.'

Ted turned to go inside, and Muhammad the Jack Russell terrier allowed Israel to enter.

The house was pretty much what you'd expect from a man of modest means in his sixties living by himself with a small Jack Russell called Muhammad on a windswept coast several miles from the nearest town: it was clean and it was practical and it made a good effort to appear cheerful, even though the overall and unintended effect was profoundly saddening, a consequence not only of the stench and scuffs of small dog but also of the clear and apparent lack of a woman's touch. There was a rich, thick, meaty smell, with just a hint of urine, coming from the kitchen, a smell that may have been mould, or it may have been food. There were old green oil cans containing peat by the front door, and a fire in the grate. The living room had its orangey 1950s sofa and a wood-effect Formica coffee table, and a plain pine dresser set with a few pieces of crockery. There was one door through to the bedroom and another straight out back into the spartan kitchen, which was empty save for an old sink, and a cupboard, and a narrow table, and a cream-coloured Rayburn. The dog basket with its vivid red blanket sat proud by the back door.

'Lovely house, Ted,' said Israel, standing awkwardly in the living room.

'All right, Israel, sit down if you're staying and get on with it. I'm cooking.'

'Thanks.' Israel noticed pastry draped over dishes in the kitchen. 'OK.'

'What's that with your nose?' said Ted.

'Ah yes, that's part of what I'm about to tell you.'

'You gone arse over heels agin?'

'No. Or yes. But anyway, I know where the books are.'

'Good. Where are they?'

'At P. J. Bullimore's.'

'Bullimore's?' Ted raised an eyebrow.

'Yes. Do you know him?'

'Course I know him. He's the big antiquey place round by the First and Last.'

'Yes! That's him!'

'And what, they're all there, are they, the books?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'You think so?'

'Yes.'

'You haven't actually seen them there then?'

'No. Not yet. But I know they're there.'

'Oh, aye. Because the wee fairies told you, or you have X-ray eyes, or you just have a feeling in your water?'

'No. Of course not. But I've got this.'

Israel took the padded envelope from his duffle coat pocket.

'Oh, that seals it then.'

'Yes! Ted, this is the smoking gun.'

Ted laughed, and started to move off towards the kitchen.

'Sorry, Israel. Time and pastry wait for no man. Lovely chatting to you. See you on Monday…'

'Hold on. Look, let me explain.'

Israel followed Ted out into the kitchen.

And this was the source of the smells.

'Mmm,' said Israel. 'What are you making?'

'Pies.'

'How do you do that?'

'What?'

'How do you make pies?'

'You don't know how to make a pie?'

'No.'

'You just get your pastry and you—'

'How do you make the pastry though?'

'Ach, for flip's sake, Israel,' said Ted, rolling out a circle of pastry. 'Do you know nothing?'

'Well…we eat out a lot in London.'

'Aye.'

'But my mum's a good cook.'

'Is she now?'

'Yes. She does a lovely vegetarian lasagne.'

'I'm sure.' Ted brushed the thin pastry.

'What are you doing there?'

'I'm brushing the pastry.'

'Ah, yes, I remember my mum doing that.'

'Good.' Ted then placed the thin pastry on top of a dish of steaming meat and took a knife, trimmed off the pastry from around the pie dish, and then took a fork and began sealing the edges. Israel was watching closely.

'There's a word for you, you know,' said Ted, washing his hands at the sink.

'Is there?'

'Yes. Bloody annoying.'

'That's two words.'

'Bloodyannoying,' said Ted.

Ted went into the living room and then returned.

'Here. Take this.'

'What is it?'

'What's it look like? It's a cookbook. That'll tell you how to make pastry.'

'Delia Smith's
How to Cook, Book One
?'

'You can borrow it.'

'Are you sure?'

'If it saves you asking me stupid questions about how to make pastry, I'm sure.'

'Well, thanks. Anyway. Ted, this is the key to the crime,' said Israel, brandishing the envelope.

'It's a key now, is it?'

'Metaphorically.'

'Aye, Ah'm sure.'

'It's the envelope in which I received the map—'

'That tells you where to find the buried treasure?'

'Yes. No! I'm serious. A map of the local area.'

'OK,' said Ted, carefully placing the pie inside the Rayburn. 'Someone sent you a map in the post? Why?'

'Because I needed to find my way around, for the service runs.'

'Right.'

'So I found one on the Internet.'

'Sure you could have got one out of the library.'

'But all the library books have been stolen!'

'Aye. True.'

'So I had to find one. So I sent off for it, and it was delivered to my home address in London. Forwarded to me here.'

'Fine.'

'And. Look…at this.'