by Ian Sansom
“Ah.”
Friel reached into his jacket pocket and produced a photograph and handed it to Israel. It was a schoolgirl. She was maybe twelve or thirteen. Blonde hair. Smiling. School uniform. Could have been any schoolgirl.
“Do you recognize her?”
“No. I don’t think so,” said Israel, and went to hand the photo back.
“Could I just ask you to look again more carefully at the photo, sir.”
“Yes. Of course.” Israel scanned the photo with more care. She had a few freckles. Smile slightly lopsided. Hint of eye-shadow, perhaps. He took a few moments to consider.
“Take your time now,” said Friel.
Israel half huffed and looked again.
“No,” he said finally and definitively. “That’s definitely not someone I know.”
“Definitely not?” said Friel.
“Well, maybe not definitely, but I certainly don’t recognize her.”
“What about if I told you she was in the library last week?”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we get a lot of people on the library during the week, what with being open to the public and everything. So it’s difficult to remember everyone who’s—”
“I’m sure. Perhaps this photo might help.”
Friel then produced a piece of paper printed from an Internet site: the image showed what appeared to be a girl in her late teens, wearing black, in makeup. She was grinning at the camera, making a face.
“God. This is the same girl?”
“It is.”
“She looks different.”
“Indeed. Recognize her now, do we?”
“Well, she does look…familiar.”
“I see.”
“Is that…Maurice Morris’s daughter?”
“Lyndsay Morris.”
“Yes. She was in at the end of last week.”
“Ah,” said Friel. “So your memory’s miraculously come back to you, has it?”
“Well. I mean…I’ve just remembered now.”
“I see. And I don’t suppose you’re suddenly going to remember seeing her since last week, are you?”
“No. No. Definitely not. She was just on the library, borrowing some books. I haven’t seen her since.”
“Hmm. You’re absolutely sure.”
“Definitely.”
“Well. You can perhaps see it might be difficult for me to take your word at face value now, Mr. Armstrong, seeing as a few moments ago you lied about never having seen her before.”
“I didn’t lie,” said Israel. “I just forgot to…remember and then I just…remembered.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Really. And I definitely haven’t seen her since.”
“So you said.”
Friel walked up and down the narrow space, hands behind his back, for all the world as though he were pacing in front of the fireplace in his own personal library.
“I don’t really understand what this is all about, Sergeant—”
“Well, let me explain then, for your benefit. I think you’ll agree it might seem just a wee bit odd that shortly after a young girl goes missing on our patch, you turn up, sleeping out in your van, tucked away, clearly emotional and upset.”
“I don’t think it’s odd,” replied Israel. “And I’m not emotional and upset.”
“With a beard.”
“It’s…just a coincidence.”
“The beard?”
“No, the whole thing.”
“A coincidence?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me by what strange coincidence you’re here then?”
“Just. I had a bit of a shock yesterday—”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you tell all about it, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Because it’s…Well, it’s private.”
“Well, you’re among friends, Mr. Armstrong.”
“I don’t know if I’d—”
“And I’m sure you’d rather have it this way, Mr. Armstrong, rather than accompanying me to the station, wouldn’t you?”
Israel had absolutely no desire to revisit Rathkeltair police station.
Friel pulled up one of the metal tub steps and sat down.
“A nice cozy little chat. Just the two of us.”
“Cozy little chat?”
“That’s right.”
“So I don’t need a lawyer?”
“Only the guilty need a lawyer, Mr. Armstrong,” said Friel, smiling, and showing his teeth.
“Erm. Actually, the last time we had a cozy little chat I was falsely accused and had to—”
“Ach,” said Friel, shaking his head disappointedly. “Let’s not talk about the past, Mr. Armstrong. That’s all water under the bridge. Let’s concentrate on the present, shall we?”
“Well…”
Friel produced his notebook.
“You’re taking notes?” said Israel.
“That’s right.”
“Of a cozy little chat?”
“Just so that we get an accurate record of our conversation.” He smiled again.
“Right.”
“So, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“What happened when?”
“From the beginning.”
“From the beginning of what?”
“I don’t know. You’re what? Early thirties, Mr. Armstrong—”
“I’m still in my twenties, actually. It’s my birthday next—”
“And you’re not married?”
“No.”
“And have you got a girlfriend?”
“I don’t see why that’s relevant.”
“Just asking.”
“Well,” said Israel. “Yes, I do have a girlfriend, actually. Or, no. I mean, I did have a girlfriend, until recently, we…split up.”
“On the rebound, then, are we?”
“Sorry?”
“Looking for someone to share our little secrets with?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying—”
“I’m not implying anything, Mr. Armstrong. I’m just thinking aloud here. Trying to piece things together.”
Israel had the feeling that the conversation was being pieced together in a way that was not advantageous to him. And that it was about to be made into a very unpleasant jigsaw.
“Where were you last night, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Erm. I was here. In the van.”
“And you make a habit of sleeping in the mobile library, do ye?”
“No. It was just—”
“A sort of secret meeting place for you, is it?”
“No.”
“Somewhere to entertain?”
“No! Nothing like that.”
“So did you see anyone last night?”
“Yes,” said Israel. “I did. Yes. I saw the Reverend Roberts, actually.”
“And what time would that have been?”
“At about eleven o’clock.”
“That’s the Reverend Roberts of First Presbyterian Church in Tumdrum?”
“That’s right.”
“And you were entertaining him on the van?”
“No, I wasn’t entertaining him anywhere. I visited him at the manse, up in town.”
“I see. And you make a habit of dropping in around eleven to see him every night, do you?”
“No. It’s just—”
“You have a close relationship, you and the Reverend Roberts?”
“No! I’m not…What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Armstrong. It’s obviously your business who you visit late at night—”
“Look. I’m not—”
“What, Mr. Armstrong?”
“I’m a perfectly…normal…red-blooded heterosexual, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I see,” said Friel.
“I was…just upset…”
“I see. And you’d often go to your friend the Reverend Roberts if you’re ‘upset,’ would you?”
“No, not really. I just…He’s a friend. You can ask him.”
“Oh, we will be asking him, Mr. Armstrong, don’t you worry about that.”
Israel could feel all the early warning signs of a migraine coming on.
“And before you visited the Reverend Roberts, Mr. Armstrong. Can I ask where you were before that?”
“Before that? Erm. I was at the Devines’. You can ask them as well.”
“Good. Thank you. We will.”
“And before that I was—”
“OK, thank you. That’s enough for the moment. You certainly seem to have your alibi all worked out.”
“Alibi! What do you mean, alibi? It’s not an alibi! It’s the truth. An alibi is when you…try and prove that you didn’t do something—”
“That’s right,” said Friel.
“So it’s not an alibi,” said Israel.
“We’ll be the judge of that, shall we, Mr. Armstrong?”
At which, he got up and started to walk toward the door.
“Hang on,” said Israel. “Where are you going?”
“I have no further questions for you at the moment, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Well, you can’t just leave, having suggested I’ve concocted some sort of alibi for something I don’t know I’m supposed to have done.”
“I just want to make sure we all lay our cards on the table, Mr. Armstrong. If you cooperate with us I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of things very quickly and easily.”
“Yes. Right,” said Israel, unconvinced. “You don’t seriously think I’ve got anything to do with this girl’s disappearance, do you?”
“Actually, to be honest, Mr. Armstrong, on this occasion…” And Friel paused for what seemed like an eternity. “No, I don’t think you have anything to do with the disappearance.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” said Israel.
“But we do have to ask, you understand.”
“Yes, of course.”
“No stone unturned.”
“Absolutely.”
“But,” said Friel, at the door.
“There’s a but?”
“There’s always a but, Mr. Armstrong. I don’t think you had anything personally to do with her disappearance—not really your style, is it?”
“My style?”
“Violence. Kidnapping.”
“What? She’s been kidnapped?”
“We’re keeping our lines of inquiry open at this time,” said Friel, looking Israel up and down. “But not your style.”
“Of course it’s not my style! I’m a librarian! I’m a paci-fist! I—”
“I’m sure, Mr. Armstrong. It’s just I have a wee hunch that tells me that you might be able to tell us something about the disappearance.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Israel.
“Nothing at all?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Fine. If you want to stick with that story.” He turned his back again, as if to leave.
“It’s not a story! It’s the truth!” said Israel.
“The whole truth and nothing but the truth?” said Friel.
“Yes. And I’d swear it on the Bible, if we had a…Bible in here.”
“Have you got a Bible in here?” said Friel.
“Well, we’ve got a reference copy.” Israel made to get up and retrieve the Bible from its shelf. “That’d do, wouldn’t it—”
“I’m joking, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Oh.”
“There’s no need for swearing on Bibles at the moment, thank you. Plenty of time for that later.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” said Israel.
“Hmm,” said Friel.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“The ‘hmm.’”
“It’s just putting all the pieces together, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Like a puzzle,” said Israel.
“If you like. And there’s just one other piece of the puzzle you might be able to help us with.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Why don’t you tell us about the Unshelved, Mr. Armstrong.”
“The Unshelved?”
“Yes.”
“What do the Unshelved have to do with anything?”
“Why don’t you leave the questions to me, Mr. Armstrong. That’s my job.”
“Right. Fine.”
“So? The Unshelved.”
“Yeah. Do you want me to show you?”
“That might be good, yes.”
Israel went over to the issue counter behind the driver’s seat. He reached down underneath and started pulling out the current Unshelved, laying them on the counter. A Clockwork Orange. The Anarchist Cookbook. As I Lay Dying. Asking About Sex and Growing Up. Brave New World. Bridge to Terabithia. Carrie. Catch-22. The Chocolate War. The Handmaid’s Tale. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Slaughterhouse-Five. And a book called What’s Happening to My Body?
“The Unshelved,” he said, when he’d piled them all up.
“That’s it?”
“That’s what’s currently not on loan.”
“And what are they exactly?”
“Well, the Unshelved are books that the Mobile Library Steering Committee believes—in its wisdom—to be unsuitable for young people to read.”
“I see. So they’re kept under the counter?”
“That’s right.”
“Actually under the counter,” said Friel, peering under.
“Yes. So that no one can see them. In case they might corrupt innocent minds.”
“But nonetheless you allow young people to read them.”
“Yes, well, if they ask.”
“And is that library policy, or is that just your own personal decision?”
“Well, there’s no real policy as such. It’s a slightly gray area. It’s sort of left to our discretion.”
“I see. And your discretion, Mr. Armstrong?”
“What?”
“Allows you to lend the books to anyone?”
“Well. Yes. I suppose.”
“Not very discreet, then, your discretion?”
“Well. I just…I think everyone should be allowed to read these books. Look.” He picked up Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock. “What’s wrong with that?”
“You’d have no problem issuing that book to a child?”
“Children don’t tend to want to borrow Graham Greene, on the whole. But young teenagers, I suppose. I’d have no problem with that really.”
“I see. And these books contain descriptions of violence and sex?”
“Some of them. But they’re mostly about what all books are about.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. What all books are about: the glory and…misery of being human.”
Friel wrote down what Israel had said, looking rather doubtful.
“So you have no problem with lending young people that sort of material?”
“What sort of material?”
“This sort of material: the Unshelved.”
“Well, some of it, maybe, but not really. It’s all different.”
“But you just said all books were about the same thing.”
“Well, yes, they are and they aren’t.”
“Some of them more disturbing than others perhaps?”
“Of course.”
“And the more disturbing material, you’re happy to lend out?”
“Well, look, they’re all on MySpace and file-sharing and YouTube, and goodness knows what. So what’s the problem with them borrowing a Nabokov?”
“Is that a book?”
“That’s an author.”
“I see.”
“Hmm,” said Friel. “And how are you spelling that?”
Israel spelled it. Friel wrote it down and ominously closed his notebook.
�
�Is that it, then?” said Israel. “You’ve finished with our cozy little chat?”
“Yes. I think so,” said Friel.
“Good,” said Israel, relieved.
“I just need you now to accompany me to the station, Mr. Armstrong.”
“What? You said—”
“I’d just like you to clarify a few points for us. On the record.”
“Oh no. No. I’m not—”
“It’s not really a request, Mr. Armstrong.”
“No. Please. I thought you said that I didn’t have to come to the station. Don’t make me—”
“I’m not going to make you do anything, Mr. Armstrong. I believe in the force of argument. But, alas, my colleagues”— and here Friel nodded toward the other policemen gathered outside the van—“tend to believe in the argument of force.”
“Oh god.”
“Good. You can drive the van to the station. I hardly think you’re going to make a dash for freedom, are you?”
“What?”
“Good. If you follow my vehicle, and we’ll have another car behind, just to make sure.”
So, just as he’d driven into Ballintoy Harbor last night under a cloud of despair, Israel now drove back up the winding hill, under a cloud of suspicion.
13
“I’ll tell ye what, ye don’t want to be making a habit of this,” said Ted as Israel emerged from Rathkeltair police station into the rain some hours later.
“I have no intention of making a habit of this, Ted, believe me.”
“Getting caught up with police investigitations. It looks bad.”
“I know it looks bad.”
“Bad,” repeated Ted.
“Yes, I know. I haven’t got anything to do with it, though, you know.”
“Aye, well. I know that, ye eejit.”
“Thank you.”
“Not even ye’d be stupit enough to—”
“Yes, all right, thank you, Ted. I appreciate your support.”
“Trouble is, try telling them that.”
“Who?
“Come under the umbrella here,” said Ted. “Quick.”
Israel obediently leaned down under the umbrella—a vast golfing-type umbrella advertising Maurice Morris’s financial consultancy.
“We need to get you away, son.”
“Why?” said Israel as he huddled under the umbrella with Ted, striding away from the station.
“The media,” said Ted.
“Why are they here?” said Israel.
“What? Young girl goes missing? Librarian being questioned? Wise up, Israel! Why do you think? You need to lie low.”
