The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  'Don't be silly,' said Linda.

  'Sold them, then.'

  'It's possible, I suppose,' said Linda, who now delicately chewed whatever it was that was on the end of her finger and started ferreting around in her bag again. 'But why would they want to do that?'

  'To buy drugs and guns?'

  'Please,' said Linda. 'This is Tumdrum. Not north Belfast. Any other bright ideas?'

  'Well,' said Israel thoughtfully, 'no, not really. Are they chocolate brazils?'

  'Yes. Would you like one?'

  'All right, yes, please. Thanks.' It might help him think.

  'Yes. Well, I see. If you've got suspicions about Ted, shouldn't you have a word with him?'

  'Who, me?' said Israel, cracking the chocolate brazil between his teeth: the last thing he wanted to do was have a word with Ted. 'Can't you have a word with him?'

  'I hardly think that would be appropriate, Mr Armstrong, do you?'

  'Why not?'

  'Because you're his line manager.'

  'What do you mean I'm his line manager?'

  'Ted is the driver of the mobile library. You are the librarian with responsibility for the mobile library. Any issues arising concerning his performance of his duties, it's your responsibility in the first instance to deal with it before referring it up to senior management.'

  'And who's senior management?' asked Israel.

  'Me,' said Linda.

  'Right. Well, I'm referring it up to you.'

  'And as your line manager I'm advising you to deal with it.'

  Ted was still sitting outside smoking. He stood up as Israel approached. 'Well?' he asked.

  'It looks like they've been stolen.'

  'The whole heap?' said Ted.

  'Yep.'

  Ted blew out a long stream of smoke. 'Och. Any idea about who stole them?'

  'Well, according to Linda, there's only two sets of keys.'

  'I see.'

  'She has one. And…'

  Israel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He felt rather bad about saying this. Ted hadn't been entirely unhelpful since Israel had arrived, not absolutely entirely–he was rude and aggressive and physically threatening, but he had a certain charm about him, a certain undeniable winningness, a kind of huge, twinkly-eyed hoggishness–and it gave Israel no pleasure to be in the position of accusing Ted of theft. He could feel his head throbbing, and his sore ankle, just at the thought of it–but…

  'What?' said Ted.

  'What?'

  'You were saying, about the keys.'

  'Yes. Linda has one set. And you have the other one. So.'

  Ted was silent.

  'And we were just wondering…'

  'We?'

  'Me and Linda.'

  'Aye.'

  'We were wondering…You don't know anything about it at all?'

  'About what?' Ted huffed.

  'About where the books are? I mean, I was just thinking, because you…'

  'What?'

  'Well, because you, you know, you stole the mobile library…'

  'Aye, right. I see, Columbo. Now get this right: I did not steal the mobile library. I hid her. Along with a number of other concerned citizens who were standing up for the rights of this community.'

  'Yes, well.'

  'And now the council have her back.'

  'Yes.'

  'And so now they've got her back they're trying to frame me for stealing the books, is that right?'

  'No.'

  'That'd be about right.'

  'No, no. No one's trying to frame you for anything, Ted. I'm just asking if you have any idea what might have happened to the books?'

  Ted threw away his cigarette butt.

  'So you don't have any idea?' repeated Israel, rather weakly.

  Ted kept his silence for a moment and then he looked Israel in the eye, and reached a vast, hard hand towards him.

  'Here,' he said, giving Israel his keys to the library.

  'What?'

  'Keys.'

  'What do I want them for?'

  'Well, if you and auld two-face in there think you can go around accusing me of this, that and the other, and expect me to sit here and take it, you've another think coming. You might be from London and what have you, but you've got a lot to learn, let me tell you.'

  'Ted—'

  'You want to mind yourself.'

  'Hang on, Ted!'

  'You put a tramp on a horse and he'll ride to the devil,' were Ted's parting words, as he turned his back on Israel, and walked away.

  'What?'

  'You heard me. You're on your own now, son. Good luck. You're going to need it.'

  7

  It's definitely easier said than done, finding fifteen thousand missing library books, by yourself, in a place you don't know, among people you don't trust and who don't trust you, and in clothes that are not your own, but the finding of the many missing books was a task and a challenge that the now permanently rough and rumpled Israel Armstrong was setting about with his characteristic good humour and fortitude.

  'Oh, God. You bastard. You bloody, bloody, bastard. You fff…'

  It was his first day out on the job, book-hunting, Ted-less, out on his own in the mobile library; Linda Wei had given him a few names and a few places to start rounding up overdue books and books out on special loan, a few people he might want to talk to, and he'd been edging the mobile library slowly–very, very slowly–towards the school gates, two traditional fat brick pillars separating the traditional rusty cast-iron railings that surrounded the traditionally low, squat grey buildings of Tumdrum Primary School, his first port of call, and he was feeling pretty confident, pretty sure that he was getting the hang of the thing now, pretty sure that he'd got the distance about right, enough room to squeeze through, at least a couple of inches to spare either side, maybe more.

  Unfortunately, though, Israel was still judging distances in the mobile in terms of the dimensions of his mum's old Honda Civic.

  He'd turned neatly off the main road into the approach, eased the wheel round gently in his hands, crunching his way carefully through the old gears, and then he'd glanced up and seen a man striding towards the van across the school playground, waving at him. He was shouting something to him, Israel couldn't hear what–and he kept on waving.

  And so of course Israel automatically lifted a hand from the wheel to wave back.

  At which point the steering slipped slightly–just ever so slightly.

  And there was this almighty bam! and an unholy crunch! and a horrendous eeecchh!–horrible, huge sounds straight out of a Marvel comic, which is where they really belonged, not here and now in the real world, and the man who'd been striding across the playground was now running towards Israel, at cartoon speed, and Israel jerked on the handbrake.

  Oh, God.

  He'd managed to wedge the van tight into the entrance to the school, like a cork hammered into a bottle. He nervously wound down the window of the mobile library as the man approached.

  It took him maybe a moment or two, but then Israel recognised that it was his old friend Tony Thompson–the man he'd met only the other night in the back of Ted Carson's cab, the man who had punched him so hard in the face that he'd given him a black eye that was still throbbing.

  Tony Thompson did not look pleased to see him.

  'Small world!' said Israel.

  'You!'

  'Yes. Sorry, about the…' said Israel, gesturing towards the collapsing gateposts, prodding his glasses.

  'You!'

  'Sorry.'

  'You!'

  'Sorry?' Israel smiled, wondering if Tony had perhaps developed some kind of Tourette's syndrome since the last time he'd met him.

  'You!'

  'Sorry? Sorry. Sorry?'

  The two brick pillars were leaning pathetically, like two miniature council Towers of Pisa, buckling the rusty cast iron on either side. It didn't look good.

  'Look, I'm really really sor—'

&n
bsp; 'I know you're sorry!'

  'Sorry.'

  'Well, apology not accepted!'

  'Right. Sorry.'

  'Stop saying sorry!'

  'Sorry. No! I didn't mean sorry–sorry. I meant OK.'

  'Did you not see me waving you down?'

  'Yes.'

  'So?'

  'Sorry. I thought you were just waving at me.'

  'Why? Do you think I'd be pleased to see you?'

  'Erm.'

  'Of course I'm not pleased to see you. What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I was just…it's about books for the library. Linda Wei, up at the council, she said the school might have some. I'm trying to put the library back together, you see, and—'

  'And destroying my school in the process?'

  'Erm. Your school?' said Israel. 'Do you work here then?'

  'I,' said Tony Thompson, flushing and stiffening, and staring Israel in the eye, 'am the headmaster of this school.'

  Oh, Jesus.

  It took most of the day to ease the mobile library from between the school gates. The children in the playground at their break-time and lunch-time had to be held back from all the pushing and squeezing and hammering and excitement by a cordon of mug-hugging and distinctly unimpressed-looking teachers. The children were playing a new game, which they'd just invented, which involved running into each other at high speed and falling down: they called the game 'Car Crash'. Some of the more imaginative children, pretending to be Israel, got up from the floor when they'd fallen, puffing their cheeks out and waddling, in imitation of a fat, injured person. It was a miracle that Israel hadn't been hurt, actually, and that the van wasn't worse damaged–bodywork only.

  'Just a flesh wound,' joked Israel to the miserable school caretaker who'd been drafted in to oversee the rescue operation, as the two of them set about knocking down the school gates using a sledgehammer, a pickaxe and a large lump of sharpened steel that the caretaker referred to affectionately as his 'wrecking bar'.

  'I feel like Samson Agonistes,' said Israel, as he set about the pillars with the pickaxe.

  'Aye,' said the caretaker, digging in with the wrecking bar. 'And I feel like a cup of tea.'

  After the van was eventually released Tony Thompson's secretary grudgingly arranged for Israel to visit the school library–which also served as the school's computer suite, its special needs resources room, and apparently as some kind of holding area for hundreds of small grey misshapen pottery vases–for him to pick up any of the old Tumdrum and District Library books that had been on loan to the school during the period of the library's closure.

  Israel fingered his way confidently along the little shelves marked 'Poetry' and 'Easy Reads' and 'Information', plucking off books with the tell-tale Tumdrum and District Library purple sticker on the spine and their identifying Dewey decimal number.

  'It's a bit like blackberrying, isn't it?' Israel said merrily to the woman watching him, who was either the librarian or the computer suite supervisor or the special needs tutor, or the keeper of the pots, or possibly all four at once: she had man's hands and wore a machine-knit jumper, slacks and sensible shoes; she looked like she was more than capable of multi-tasking. Israel, on the other hand, had borrowed another of Brownie's T-shirts–which read 'Smack My Bitch Up', and which was now covered in brick dust–and looked fit for nothing. The school librarian did not deign to reply.

  'I said—' began Israel.

  'Sshh!' said the machine-knit jumper woman.

  'Sorry,' said Israel.

  Once he'd gathered in the books from the library he went back to thank the secretary, but there was no sign of her in Tony Thompson's office, or of Tony himself, and as he stood hesitating for a minute, staring up at Tony's many certificates and awards for personal and professional excellence–including an award for competing in an Iron-Man triathlon and raising £5,000 for school funds–Israel noticed a shelf of books behind the big brown desk, with the tell-tale purple markings on their spines and he went over and sat down in Tony's purple plush swivel chair, and took down one of the books.

  At exactly which point Tony Thompson entered the room.

  'What?' spluttered Tony. Israel swivelled round, plushly. 'Are. You doing here?'

  'Ah. Yes. Hello,' said Israel. 'I've finished getting the books from the library.' He held up the book in his hand. 'And then I noticed you had a few…'

  'They're mine.'

  'Ah. Well. I think you'll find actually they belong to Tumdrum and District Council. It's the—'

  'They're my books.'

  'No. Sorry. Look. They've got a little call number here, the Dewey, and—'

  'Give me the book,' said Tony Thompson, approaching Israel.

  'No. Now, don't be silly.'

  'Give me the bloody book!' said Tony, as he moved round the desk and stood towering over Israel.

  'Now, now,' said Israel. 'Let's not get carried away.'

  Tony Thompson thrust out a fist then, and, given his previous form, Israel thought he was perhaps going to hit him again and give him a black eye to match the other, so he threw up his left arm in order to block the blow, an instinctive martial arts kind of a move that would have done Bruce Lee proud, if Bruce Lee had been a tousled, overweight librarian in borrowed, ill-fitting clothes and old brown brogues out collecting books in Tumdrum Primary School on a damp December afternoon.

  Tony Thompson, though, was not about to punch Israel; he was in fact simply reaching forwards to grab the book from Israel's hand, and he grabbed, and Israel held on, and before either of them knew it there was a loud rip, rip, ripping, and suddenly Israel was standing there with the cover in his hands, and Tony Thompson with the pages.

  'Oh,' said Israel.

  'Ah!' said Tony.

  'Sorry. 101 Poems To Get You Through the Night (And Day). Never read it myself. Is it any good?'

  'Look!' said Tony Thompson, holding the coverless book on its side towards Israel.

  'What?' said Israel.

  'Look! Idiot!'

  Stamped along the top edge of the book were the immortal words: WITHDRAWN FROM STOCK.

  'Ah,' said Israel. 'Sorry.'

  'Go!' said Tony Thompson.

  'I really…'

  'Go!'

  Israel went.

  So, as he was saying, it was easier said than done: on his first day as book-bailiff, amateur sleuth and driver of his very own mobile library, Israel Armstrong had managed to crash the library van, cause thousands of pounds of damage to school property, offend and upset just about everyone he'd met, get into a fist fight with a headteacher, and he had rounded up a grand total of just 27 books, leaving approximately 14,973 to go. If he kept it up at this rate he'd be lucky to make it back home safely in one piece to north London in time for his own retirement.

  He was trying to explain his predicament to Brownie and George and old Mr Devine as they sat down to eat dinner together that night.

  'Oh, God. I don't know. What the hell am I going to do?' he asked, pushing his patched-up glasses up high onto his furrowed forehead and plonking his elbows firmly on the kitchen table.

  'Elbows!' said Mr Devine, who was bustling with dishes and plates.

  Israel politely withdrew his weary elbows and ran his fingers through his hair.

  'Sorry.'

  He'd just been telling them about the disaster with the school gates.

  'Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction,' said Mr Devine.

  'It's tricky,' agreed Brownie.

  'Champ?' said Mr Devine, pushing towards Israel a bowl of what looked like steaming hot Play-Doh with little bits of green stuck in it, like grass clippings.

  'Ah yes, champ,' said Israel hungrily in recognition. 'Mmm. Now. Champ. Yes. Thank you, Mr Devine. Spring onions, isn't it?' he said, pointing at the green bits, like little sketches, in the mashed potato.

  'Scallions,' said Mr Devine.

  'It's the same difference, Granda,' said Brownie.

 
'Aye,' said Mr Devine.

  'My father used to make champ when I was growing up,' said Israel, rather mournfully.

  'Aye,' said the old man. 'George?'

  'Thank you, yes.'

  George was sitting at the head of the table, regally uninterested in Israel's tales of woe, resplendent in a man's plaid shirt (L), washed-out dungarees (XL), and a dark blue mud-stained fleece (XXL), and knee-high wellies.

  'You don't think it could have been Ted then,' asked Israel of everyone and no one, 'who stole the books?'

  He had been sworn to secrecy, of course, by Linda Wei not to mention the theft of the books to anyone, but Israel reckoned it would be safe to tell the Devines; frankly, he couldn't imagine them having anyone else to tell, and also, to be honest, he didn't have anyone else to tell himself. Gloria hadn't been answering her mobile for days: she was involved in a very important case at work, apparently. Mind you, Gloria was always involved in very important cases at work; he'd hardly got speaking to her since he'd arrived.

  'Ted who stole them? I doubt it,' said Brownie, mounding piles of champ on his plate, in answer to Israel's question.

  'He goes to First Presbyterian,' said Mr Devine, although Israel wasn't clear whether this implicated or exonerated him.

  'Oh, God…' said Israel, even more deeply mournfully.

  'Mr Armstrong!'

  'Sorry. I don't know,' said Israel, shifting his plate slightly, so that he could speak round the steaming mound of potato and onions. 'If Ted's not guilty—'

  'We are all guilty in the eyes of the Lord,' said Mr Devine.

  'I need proof, though,' said Israel.

  'For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain…'

  'Apriorism,' said Brownie.

  'Sorry?' said Israel, sniffing hungrily at the food in front of him.

  'That's apriorism: you've decided he's guilty, and now you're looking for evidence to support it.'

  'No,' said Israel. 'I haven't decided he's guilty. But he had the key to the library, so—'

  'Now you're just affirming the consequent.'

  'What? Really? Am I?'

  'Events can be produced by different causes,' explained Brownie. 'It's a classic fallacy in law and logic: in the absence of any evidence, you just affirm the consequent.'

  'Sorry, you've lost me.'

  'Aye,' said Mr Devine. 'He does that all the time.'