The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  'If I intended to kill you,' said George, smiling menacingly, illustrating her brother's point from the top of the table, 'I would have had a weapon. I did have a weapon. Therefore…'

  'That's it,' said Brownie.

  'Oh right, I see,' said Israel.

  'Ach, Ted's yer man,' said Mr Devine. 'No doubt. He's the face for it.'

  'Granda!' said Brownie.

  'Well, young people today,' said Mr Devine, returning to one of his favourite themes, 'sure they're all the same.'

  'What?' said Israel.

  'Come on now, Granda,' said Brownie. 'Ted's in his sixties.'

  'Well, he's that young I can still remember him in short trousers,' said Mr Devine, conclusively. 'Mr Armstrong, chicken?'

  'Thanks,' said Israel, absentmindedly. 'I…'

  Israel looked at the glistening crispy bird that the old man was in the process of dismembering–the deep brown crackling skin wisping off, with the revelation of pure white flesh underneath, and the rich, full smell of fat and onions.

  'Erm.'

  He hesitated and fiddled with his glasses.

  Chicken was the thing he missed most as a vegetarian, although admittedly he did also miss salami quite a lot, and pastrami, and salt beef, and sausages, and Cornish pasties, and meatballs, charcuterie, that sort of thing. A Friday night chicken, though, you really couldn't beat that: his mother used to do this thing with tomatoes and paprika, and admittedly she tended to use paprika as a condiment rather than as a spice, a culinary shorthand, a way of getting from A to Z, from meat to meatball and chicken to pot by the quickest possible route, but it was so good…Her boiled chicken also, that was good, with matzo balls and a nice side-order of gherkins. And chicken liver pâté. But that was all a long time ago, in his far-off, golden, meat-eating childhood and Israel had been vegetarian now for almost his whole adult life, and when he'd moved in with Gloria a few years ago they'd tended to eat a lot of chick peas–she was vegetarian too. There'd always been a hell of a lot of falafel and omelettes in his relationship with Gloria.

  'Breast? Leg? Thigh?' asked Mr Devine.

  Israel's eyes were glazed and he was busy remembering a lovely, thick, greasy turkey schnitzel he'd eaten once as a child on holiday in Israel with his parents, visiting his mother's uncle; that was the best thing about Israel, actually, the schnitzel, as far as Israel was concerned. He'd spent six months on a kibbutz when he'd first left college, and it had not been a great success–a lot of heavy metal and Russians were what he remembered, and the endless washing of dishes.

  'Is it free-range?' he asked Mr Devine.

  He thought perhaps he might be able to get away with free-range. He reckoned eating free-range was probably about the closest you could get to being a vegetarian; although obviously that might take a bit of explaining to the animals.

  'Free-range?' asked Mr Devine.

  'You know. Like, running around free in the countryside?'

  Mr Devine simply raised an eyebrow.

  Brownie and George were looking quietly amused.

  'What?' asked Israel, noticing the silence and their smiles. 'What's the matter?'

  'Nothing,' said George.

  'What's so funny about free-range?'

  Brownie just shook his head, stifling a laugh.

  'All I'm asking is has it had a good life?'

  'A good life?' asked Mr Devine, clearly bemused.

  'It's a chicken, Armstrong,' said George.

  'Yes, but…'

  'Chickens don't have feelings. I hate to be the first to break it to you.'

  'Ah, yes, but the question is, can they suffer?' said Brownie.

  'Exactly,' said Israel.

  'Well, he didn't seem to be suffering this morning when I took him from the yard,' said Mr Devine.

  'What? Hold on. He's…one of yours?'

  'Of course he's one of ours,' said George. 'This is a farm, Armstrong.'

  'Yes. I know it's a bloody—'

  'Mr Armstrong!'

  'Sorry. Blinking. Whatever. I know it's a farm.'

  'Well, you'll remember the chicken who was sharing your bed last night?' said George.

  'What?'

  'And you said you wanted rid of it?'

  'Yes. But.' Israel stared at the pile of freshly cooked and quartered flesh. 'You don't mean…I didn't mean…'

  'Lovely big bird,' said Mr Devine.

  'I'll take a thigh, Granda,' said Brownie.

  'And breast for me,' said George.

  'I…' began Israel, who suddenly had an image of the poor, sick, injured chicken tucked up tight in bed with him, wearing stripey pyjamas, sipping chicken soup. 'Er. Actually. No. I'm not that hungry, thanks.'

  Mr Devine said grace and then they started in on the champ and chicken.

  'Mmm,' said Israel, politely tucking in to the champ.

  'Hmm,' he then said, as the scalding hot white mush hit the roof of his mouth.

  Then, 'Ah!' he said, and 'Ergh!' and 'Ah, yes, I almost forgot,' and he got up, fanning his mouth, and hurried over to his duffle coat, which was hanging by the door.

  'Are you all right, Armstrong? Not leaving us already?'

  'No. Yes. I'm fine. I…Ah. I bought us some…ho, ho, ho, some…wine. To…thank you for your…hospitality.'

  George and Brownie and Mr Devine looked at Israel in deep congregational silence.

  'So,' he said, smiling, returning to the table, turning the bottle reverently in his hand. 'Merlot just, I'm afraid. Not a lot of choice in town.' He'd found a £10 note tucked in the corner of the pocket of his old brown corduroy jacket and had decided to invest it all in wine and Nurofen.

  George and Brownie and Mr Devine continued to gaze in hush.

  'Ah, yes, right. I know what you're thinking.'

  He quickly darted back over to his duffle coat and with a flourish reached into his other pocket and produced a bottle of white.

  'Ta-daa! A white for those who prefer.'

  The gathered Devines remained silent. Israel looked at the label.

  'Mmm. Chardonnay was all they had, I'm afraid.' He now had exactly seven pence to his name. 'Still. I think we have a sufficiency. Do you have a corkscrew?

  'Corkscrew?'

  'Erm. No. 'Fraid not,' said Brownie, breaking the solemn silence.

  'You don't have a corkscrew? Well, OK. That's, erm…What about a Swiss army knife or something?'

  'No.'

  'We don't drink, Armstrong.'

  'You don't drink?'

  'No.'

  'Not at all? But what about…'

  Israel was about to point out that the other evening George seemed to have been more than happy to drink, if her exploits with Tony Thompson on the back seat of Ted Carson's cab were anything to go by, unless it was perhaps just the spare ribs at the Pork Producers' Annual Dinner that had done it, in which case Israel wished he'd known about that growing up in north London. But George was looking at Israel at that moment much in the same way she might look at a chicken she was about to pick up by the legs and swing at with an axe.

  'I see. So.'

  The Devines remained silent.

  'Not even half a glass?'

  'We've all signed the pledge,' said Mr Devine proudly.

  George and Brownie were staring down at their plates.

  The irony was, of course, that he didn't really drink as such himself. He and Gloria would sometimes share a bottle of wine in the evenings, if they were together, and Gloria was partial to the various liqueurs that she brought back with her from business trips, and Israel, who liked to keep a few boiled sweets about his person and whose already sweet tooth had been getting a whole lot sweeter over the years, was not averse to trying the odd liqueur with her: a nice flaming sambucca, perhaps, now and again, or an insanely sweet amaretto. And he'd occasionally go drinking with old college friends in London–a few beers–but he was a lightweight by any normal standards. Compared to the Devines, though, Israel was virtually an alcoholic.

  Certainly, a
t this moment he needed a drink.

  'Well,' he said, gingerly setting the bottles of wine down on the floor at his feet. 'I'll save them for my own…er…personal use, then.'

  The wine went unmentioned for the rest of the rather strained meal and when everyone had eaten their fill of chicken and champ, Israel helped Mr Devine with the dishes while George and Brownie did various farm-type things, and then he made his excuses and went across the farmyard to his room.

  Reconciled to the fact that he was going to be spending at least a few days in his whitewashed chicken shed in this mad teetotal wasteland, Israel decided to try and make the place feel a little more like home. He began properly unpacking the rest of his belongings from his old brown suitcase, or at least those that hadn't already been ruined by the wayward shitting chickens: it was books mostly, some clean underwear, and then more books, and books and books and books, the ratio of books to underwear being about 20:1, books being really the great constant and companion in Israel's life; they were always there for you, books, like a small pet dog that doesn't die; they weren't like people; they weren't treacherous or unreliable and they didn't work late at the office on important projects or go skiing with their friends at Christmas. Since childhood Israel had been tormented by a terrible fear of being caught somewhere and having no books with him to read, a terrible prospect which had been realised on only two occasions: once, when he was about nine years old and he'd had to go into hospital to have his tonsils removed, and he'd woken up in an adult ward with dried blood on his face and not even a Beano or a Dandy annual to hand; and again, years later, when his father had had the heart attack and had been rushed to hospital, and Israel had rushed there with his mother, and there was that long period of waiting while the doctors did everything they could for him…and always since then Israel had associated the bookless state with trolley-beds and tears, that demi-world of looming horror and despair, familiar to anyone who's ever sat for long in a hospital corridor with only their thoughts for company.

  Israel piled the books onto the bed, erecting a kind of wall or a tower that might protect him from marauders, or the evil eye, or any remaining sneaky chickens, and then he changed into his holey pyjamas, and his jumper, and an extra pair of socks, and he prodded his glasses and snuggled down under the duvet–this was more like home now–and reached for the first book on the top of his pile…

  A loud tap rattled the door.

  'Hello?' he said, a little scared.

  'Only me,' said Brownie from outside.

  'Oh, right. Come in,' said Israel. 'God, you gave me a fright. I'm not used to receiving visitors.'

  'Sorry,' said Brownie, entering. When he saw Israel in bed in his pyjamas he started walking straight back out again.

  'No, it's fine,' said Israel. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine o'clock. It felt like midnight. 'Come in. Have a…' He jumped down out of bed. There were no seats to offer. 'Ah.'

  'No. It's OK,' said Brownie. 'I won't stay. I just brought you…' and he reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small, half-full bottle of Bushmills whiskey.

  'For me? Really?' said Israel.

  Brownie handed over the bottle. 'I felt a wee bit sorry for you back there, you know, with the wine and all, and I thought you might like a…you know, a nightcap.'

  'Well, thank you, that's very kind. Do you want to—'

  'No, you're all right. I've got all this reading to do for an essay on epistemology for when I get back to college.'

  'Right. Sounds like fun.'

  'It is, actually.'

  'Good. Well, good luck with it.' Israel raised the bottle of Bushmills aloft, admiring the golden liquid. 'Is this yours, then?'

  'Aye,' said Brownie, ashamed. 'Just occasionally me and George have a wee swally, you know.'

  'A whatty?'

  'A wee dram just.'

  'Right.'

  'You won't mention it to Granda will you?'

  'No. Of course not, no.'

  'Because he's dead against the drink.'

  'Yes. I noticed. Well. It can be our secret, eh?'

  'Aye. Well,' said Brownie. 'Any inspiration yet about finding the books?'

  'God. No. Not so far,' said Israel.

  'Two-pipe problem?'

  'At the very least.'

  'Actually, I've been thinking about what I said at the dinner table,' said Brownie.

  'Have you?'

  'About affirming the consequent.'

  'Ah, right, yes. That was very interesting.'

  'I forgot about Occam's razor.'

  'You did?' said Israel, sounding surprised. 'I mean, you did,' he then said, not wishing to appear as if he didn't know what Brownie was talking about. 'Yes, of course. And, er, what is it, Occam's razor–just to remind me?'

  '"Entities should not be multiplied beyond what is necessary."'

  'Ah, yes. That's it–took the words right out of my mouth. Which means what in my case, do you think?'

  'Kiss.'

  'Sorry?'

  'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'

  'Right.'

  'You should really be starting your investigation not with Ted but with Norman Canning.'

  'My "investigation", yes. Norman Who?'

  'The ex-librarian,' offered Brownie.

  'Yes. Of course.'

  'They sacked him,' said Brownie. 'When they closed the library.'

  'Oh.'

  'So he'd be your prime suspect, I would have thought.'

  'Prime suspect? Yes. Would he?'

  'Well, he'd have motive and opportunity.'

  'Right. Always useful. And…what's he like, this…?'

  'Norman? He's…Well, we used to call him Canning the c—'

  'All right. Yes, I can imagine.'

  'I don't know if he'd be that pleased to see you.'

  'Oh, I'm sure I can use the old Armstrong charm.'

  'Right,' said Brownie. 'Your first case.'

  For a moment, the way Brownie was talking made everything seem much more exciting than it actually was: looked at from Brownie's perspective Israel's life was almost like the kind of life you read about in novels. He could quite see himself as a Sam Spade-type character, actually: chisel-jawed, wry, laconic, solving crimes. Maybe he'd found his métier after all. Maybe that's where his true genius lay. He'd have to tell his mum.

  'Occam's razor,' he said dreamily. 'Sword of Truth. Many Hands Make Light Work. Miss Marple. Lord Peter Wimsey.'

  'Sorry?' said Brownie.

  'Nothing,' said Israel, snapping back from his reverie, and searching around for a glass for the whiskey. 'Just thinking. Anyway. Ah. Here we are.'

  'Well, goodnight then,' said Brownie.

  'Yes. What did you say his name was? The librarian?'

  'Norman. Norman Canning. He lives up round Ballymuckery.'

  'Righto. And where's that exactly?'

  'D'you know the old Stonebridge Road?'

  'No.'

  'Ah. Have you got a map at all?'

  'No. 'Fraid not.'

  'Ah. It's a bit tricky to explain.'

  'Well, I'm sure I'll find it. Thanks for the—'

  'Lead?'

  'The whiskey. Do you want to—'

  'No, you can keep it.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Aye, you work away there.'

  'Thanks. That's great. Well, I'll maybe speak to the, er…'

  'Suspect?'

  '"Suspect." Yes. The suspect. Indeedy. Tomorrow. Thanks again, Brownie. Goodnight.'

  Israel poured himself a glass of whiskey and reached again for the first book on the top of his pile and he took a pencil and wrote on the inside cover of the book the word 'Suspects' and wrote down Ted's name and then the name Norman Canning. He was definitely getting the hang of this business.

  8

  It was no good. He was driving round and round in circles. All the roads from Tumdrum seemed to lead back to Tumdrum.

  'I wonder,' he asked, pleasantly and smartly, having pulled the mobile hap
hazardly over to the side of the road back in the town and wound down the window and stuck out his head. 'Can you help me, sir? I'm looking for Ballymuckery?'

  This was the fourth time now that he'd had to ask for directions, which was not a very detectivey kind of thing to have to do, and no one seemed to be able to help him, or indeed to be able to understand his accent, or to have any ability whatsoever in the simple explaining of how to get from A to B, or from Tumdrum to anywhere else. The first person he'd asked had told him he'd need to drive to Ballygullable first and then to go on from there, so he was now asking everyone for Ballygullable.

  'Ballygullable?' Israel asked, hopefully.

  'Come agin?' asked his latest possible help-meet, a man with a lively little dog and an accent so thick it sounded as though it had been freshly cut from a wheaten loaf and slathered on both sides with home-churned butter.

  'Can you—' began Israel, his own voice suddenly sounding rather thin and undernourished in comparison

  'Packy! Down!' commanded the man, which silenced Israel, but seemed to have no effect on the dog. 'Down! Or I'll give you a guid dressin'. That's a fierce cold, isnae it?' he continued, addressing Israel now, presumably, rather than the dog.

  'Yes. It is. A fierce cold. Absolutely. Quite,' agreed Israel, prodding his glasses; the masking tape was unravelling.

  'Now, son, whereareyoufor?' continued the man, leaning right in through the window: up close Israel could see that the gentleman had yellowy teeth with gold fillings, and skin as pale as a new potato–apart from the burst red veins and the flush on the cheeks–and that there were hairs growing from his nose, and not from inside his nose, but actually on his nose, and there was the distinctive smell of many years of cigarettes and pints, even at this early hour of the morning.

  'Erm. Ballymuckery? It's just past Ballygullable, apparently.'

  'Right you are,' said the old man, laughing a hollow, dry laugh–a real Old Holborn and blended whiskey kind of a laugh. 'And whereareyoufrom?'

  'I'm not from round here,' said Israel rather weakly.

  'Aye,' laughed the man. 'Well I knew that. Ballygullable! You nim-no.'

  'Sorry?' Honestly, he couldn't understand half of what people said round here.

  'Down, Packy!' the man told the dog. 'Will you stop yer yappin'? Stop! Down!' And with that he ferociously cuffed the dog, which cowered and whimpered and finally settled down. 'D'you know Abbey Street?' the man asked, smiling, turning back to Israel.