The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  Maybe he wasn't cut out for life as a private investigator after all. He probably needed to drink more, or have some more interesting quirks and tics and characteristics: it was a shame he hadn't done time in prison or been a former heroin addict. He had done detention a few times at school, and he'd once been in a room where people were smoking dope, years ago–Russians, in the kibbutz–but that hardly seemed sufficient. By the time he'd mulled over his lack of extraordinary tics and quirks and composed himself and was ready to get out of the van, though, Israel was faced with a more immediate and more pressing problem: a queue had formed at the back of the mobile library, a dozen middle-aged and elderly women with carrier bags waiting to get in.

  Israel saw them in his wing mirror, so he got up and out and shut the door to the van quietly behind him and tried to creep away unnoticed round the front.

  'Hey?' called a woman, peeking round. 'Mister? Are yous not opening her up here?'

  'Who, me?'

  'Yes, course you. You opening her up?'

  'No. Erm. Sorry,' said Israel. 'I'm just parking here for a moment.'

  'This is the mobile library?'

  'Yes,' agreed Israel.

  That was true. There was no avoiding that. It was incontrovertible: the sign on the side of the van read MOBILE LIBRARY, with a witty coda painted across the back in a style and font last seen in the late 1970s, THE BOOK STOPS HERE!

  'You can't just be parking up the library and not expecting us to want in,' continued the woman, who was now joined by her cohort of carrier bag-clutchers.

  'No,' agreed Israel. 'I suppose you can't. No. It's just, the library's not quite…ready, at the moment.'

  'D'you know how long we've been without a library, but?' asked another woman, waving a blue plastic bag of fruit and veg accusingly towards him.

  'Gosh. No. Quite a while though, I believe,' said Israel.

  'Aye, right. And we pay rates just like them other yins,' chipped in another.

  'Aye. Why should we not have the services they have?'

  'Good question,' said Israel. 'Couldn't agree more, ladies. But I can guarantee that just as soon as the library's ready for action we'll be—'

  'Aye, save your breath,' said another woman. 'We've heard it all before. Sure, you're all the same.'

  'I can assure you, madam, that—'

  'Who you calling madam?'

  'Erm.'

  'Are yous the new librarian?'

  'Who?'

  'Yous?'

  'Me?' Israel looked over his shoulder: were there more of him?

  'Yous!'

  'Well,' said Israel, 'yes. Mes. Me, I mean, yes it is. I am. Although actually I'm what's called an Outreach Support Officer these days.'

  'Aye. Right. A librarian?'

  'Er. Yes,' agreed Israel.

  The women stood and scrutinised him for a moment and came to their own conclusions.

  'You don't look like a librarian.'

  'Sure, it's him. Iqbal or Ishmael he's called, isn't he, or something?'

  'Jamal?'

  'No.'

  'What are you called, love?'

  'I thought he was Egyptian, isn't he?'

  'It's Israel, actually,' said Israel, prodding his glasses in as authoratively librarian a manner as he could. 'My name. And I'm English.'

  'Aye, well.'

  'That figures.'

  'Yes. Quite. Well. Good to have cleared that up. Anyway, I would love to chat more, and it's a pleasure to meet you all, but I am in a bit of a rush at the moment. Lots of books to collect.'

  And here Israel had his brainwave–his means of escape.

  'In fact, ladies,' he said, pressing his stomach threateningly out before him, 'if you do have any outstanding books that are overdue, and for which fines are owing, I would be glad to collect both the books and the monies from you now…'

  And at the mention of library fines a hush fell over the little crowd of jostlers, and they began suddenly to drift away and before he knew it, Israel was alone again.

  He'd have to remember that for when he was back home in London, although maybe it might not work with muggers.

  He was in search of a mid-morning snack now, something to steady his nerves after his encounter with Norman, and pretty soon he found what he was looking for: a café, on the corner of Tumdrum's central square. In bold gold lettering on red the sign above the entrance said ZELDA'S. He stepped inside.

  The café was packed but it was eerily quiet except for the dense, wet sound of munching and the accompanying clacking of dentures, and the thin, slippery, slapping sound of the turning of the pages of books–almost everyone seemed to be reading. You might almost have been in a café in turn-of-the-century Vienna, or in 1960s Paris, except you very clearly were not, because people were reading large-print Catherine Cookson, for example, rather than Karl Kraus or Jean-Paul Sartre, and the air was thick with that distinctive, ever so slightly incontinent smell of provincial tea-rooms and community halls and garden centre cafés, rather than the smell of fresh coffee, Gitanes and freshly made pastries.

  Israel squeezed himself onto a thick-varnished bench next to an elderly man who was wearing a combination of casual sports wear and a flat tweed cap, a curious but common combination locally, Israel had noticed, and not one that he had ever come across before, except in half-remembered Sunday Times black and white photo-spreads of Romany musicians and the aspiring middle classes of some of the former Soviet republics.

  'Do you mind if I…' Israel said, indicating the seat.

  The man regarded Israel suspiciously. 'S'free country,' he said. He may well have been a touring Romany musician; he was certainly enjoying his vast, Grauballe pavlova.

  'Thanks,' said Israel. 'It's busy, isn't it?'

  'Aye,' said the man factually, and then proceeded to pretend that Israel was somewhere else entirely and not in fact squeezed up close by him, thigh to thigh and cheek by jowl. He was reading Bravo Two Zero by Andy McNab.

  A woman, who was presumably Zelda herself, came hurrying out from behind a high counter at the rear of the café to serve Israel. She was in her seventies–at least–but she strode purposefully and not a little menacingly across the marble-look lino floor towards him. She was wearing a white polo-neck jumper under a nylon, unnecessarily tailored black trouser suit, was in full make-up, and her nail varnish was a vivid–one might almost say a ghastly–green. Her long hair was dyed black, but still somehow streaked with grey, and piled high on her head, like an old, erect beaver's tail, possibly stuffed, or fixed with some kind of glue-mount.

  'Sir?' she said. 'What can we do you for? Cup of coffee?'

  Israel had not had a proper cup of coffee since leaving London, and he was getting withdrawal symptoms. He wasn't sure whether he could face another cup of instant.

  'Well…' he began.

  'Sure, it wouldn't choke you,' said the woman. 'And what would you be having to eat with that?'

  'Erm…'

  'Big lad like you, you must be absolutely famished,' she said, patting Israel on the shoulder with affectionate distaste, much as if she were plumping a favourite dog-haired cushion. 'Tray bake? Pavlova? Black Forest gateau?'

  'It's a little early in the day, actually, for me for, er, Black Forest gateau.'

  'Each to their own. So, you're wanting something savoury? Today's specials are ham and eggs, ham and cheese omelette, baps, a fry we could do you…'

  Israel glanced around and picked what seemed most popular. 'A scone?'

  'Is that it?'

  'Yes, thanks.'

  'For your lunch?'

  'Well, it's more just a—'

  'Och, come on now. Big fella like yerself, you can't have just a scone. You have to have some soup or something with it.'

  'Do I?'

  'Of course you do.'

  'Right. Well. Er. What's the soup?'

  'Today? It's lentil.'

  'Hard to whack,' murmured the man squeezed up cheek by jowl next to Israel, glancing up from his tea a
nd his book.

  'Is it?' Hard to whack? 'OK. I'll have a lentil soup, thanks.'

  'And a cup of coffee.'

  'Yes, thanks.'

  'No problem. Espresso, macchiato, cappuccino, latte, or mochaccino?'

  'Really? Gosh. Erm. Espresso?'

  'We've not got espresso at the moment.'

  'Right. Just a regular cup of coffee would be fine, then, thanks.'

  'Filter coffee?'

  'Yes.'

  'Actually, the machine's not working.'

  'OK.'

  'Tea?'

  'That'd be lovely.'

  'Coming right up. You just relax there and soak up the atmosphere.'

  Israel sat in silence and tried to soak up the atmosphere. Unfortunately, someone else seemed to have soaked it all up before him. Everyone in Zelda's looked as though they were between a trip to the Post Office and their lunch-time nap, having blown all their pension money on scones, and the only decoration in the place were giant plastic yuccas in giant plastic terracotta-style pots, and plastic vines trailing from the ceiling, and in a corner a large computer was perched on a table, with a printer, and a laminated sign haphazardly Blu-Tacked to the wall above it announcing INTERNET: £2 HALF HOUR. EUROS ACCEPTED.

  Another waitress approached Israel. She was about the same age as the first woman, but shorter and fatter, and she resembled more what Israel believed an elderly lady should look like: she wore a tartan skirt and a brown cardigan. Her hair was permed and short, and uniformly grey. Her fingernails were not green.

  'You getting, love?'

  'Sorry?'

  'You getting?'

  'Er…'

  'You're not from round here, pet, are ye?'

  'No. I'm not.'

  'Och,' she said, as if this were a terrible misfortune. 'I'm Minnie.'

  'Pleased to meet you, Minnie,' said Israel. 'I'm Israel Armstrong.'

  This announcement caused a considerable and audible indrawing of breath from Minnie, who now looked at Israel with great attention.

  'Och! Really?' she said, peering at him intently. 'I thought it might be you. It is you then, is it?'

  'Yes. It is. At least I think so.'

  'Zelda!' called Minnie. 'Zelda! Come on here!' The lady in the suit with the green fingernails and the high hair came over to the table. 'Zelda. This is him.'

  'Who?'

  'The librarian.'

  'Is it?' said the fingernail lady, disappointed. 'We've been expecting you.'

  'You have?'

  'Of course we have,' said Minnie. 'We all have. You've been all over the paper.'

  'Have I?'

  'Och, aye. You're over from London, aren't you?'

  'Yes,' said Israel.

  'Twelve GCSEs!' said Minnie, marvelling.

  'I thought it was thirteen?' said Zelda.

  'Well, it depends if you count General Studies,' said Minnie.

  'No, you don't count that,' said Zelda.

  'Hang on,' said Israel. 'How did you know that?'

  'It was in the paper,' said Minnie. 'Now tell me this: d'you really no' have hobbies and interests apart from the reading? You must have some, eh, young fella like yourself?'

  'What?'

  'It was all in the paper.'

  'What, my whole CV?'

  'Yes. Of course,' said Minnie. 'People have the right to know about their new librarian. It's like public office. You were definitely the best candidate, wasn't he, Zelda?'

  Zelda was looking Israel up and down in a manner that clearly indicated that she did not believe him to be the best at anything.

  'Head an' shoulders,' continued Minnie.

  'They published my CV in the local paper?' said Israel.

  'Not just yours.'

  'Don't flatter yourself, my dear,' said Zelda.

  'Oh yes. They had all the seaviews in the paper. Sure they were gaunches, weren't they, Z, half of them?'

  'Hmm,' said Zelda, in a tone that suggested that Israel, too, might have been a gaunch, which he might well have been: he had no idea what a gaunch was.

  'Sure, it's been desperate here without you,' said Minnie. 'Since they shut the library.'

  'Hmm,' added Zelda.

  'Anyway, look, what happened to your eye, pet?'

  'That? Oh. It was an—'

  'And is that a wee bump on your head?'

  'Fightin', eh,' said the old man next to Israel, not raising his head from his book.

  'Sshh, Thompson,' said Minnie. 'We're talking here.'

  'It's very busy today,' said Israel, changing the subject.

  'Bunged, isn't it!' said Minnie. 'We're an Internet café as well you see, these days.' She nodded towards the computer in the corner, which no one was using. 'They love it. So, what can I get you?'

  'Well. I've already—'

  'I've got it,' said Zelda, hurrying away.

  'Good,' said Minnie. Well, very nice to meet you.'

  'Erm. Minnie?' said Israel, as she was about to go.

  'Yes?'

  'Minnie. I wonder if you could help me? I really need to get hold of a map.'

  'A map?'

  'Yes. Of the town.'

  'Of here?'

  'Yes. You've not got one, have you?'

  'A map? Of here? What for?'

  'For getting around.'

  'Why? D'you not know where you are?'

  'No. I'm not from round here, so it's difficult, you know, to find places. I keep getting lost.' It was the thought of Ballygullable.

  'Oh, right.'

  'And I need to start planning my route, for the mobile library.'

  'Oh good. You all set to get her going then?'

  'No. Not exactly. Not quite.'

  'No? Och well, never mind.'

  'So, a map? You don't have one, or know where I could get one?'

  'Well, I don't think so. I can see if Zelda has one out back here.'

  'Well, if you did have one I'd be eternally grateful.'

  Minnie bustled away and Israel went over his gathering evidence in his mind and on a napkin, where he jotted down his ideas about his leads in the case of the missing books. He wrote Norman's name down first, and then Ted, and he decided to try giving them points out of ten, with a maximum ten points for motive, and another maximum ten points for opportunity, and another ten for general bonkersness, and so on: unfortunately they both got maximum points. He was maybe going to have to work a bit on his system. He'd have to check to see what Hercule Poirot did in order to eliminate his suspects; something to do with exercising ze little grey cells as far as he could remember from Peter Ustinov in the film version of Death on the Nile.

  Minnie brought the lentil soup, and the scone: that might help his little grey cells.

  'There we are now. That'll put some colour in your cheeks,' she said.

  'Right,' agreed Israel. 'That's great. And any luck with the map?'

  'The what?'

  'The map? So I can plan my routes?'

  'Och, yes. Silly me. No, there doesn't seem to be anything there.'

  'Oh well.'

  Israel took up a spoon.

  'Och, well. You'll just have to use your initiative,' said Minnie.

  'Initiative?'

  'To find places. My late husband, he could tell whatever time of day it was just by looking at the sun.'

  'Could he?' said Israel. 'Right. Was he a…a sailor or something?'

  'Ach. No. He was a window-cleaner, but. He used to love getting out with the dog though.'

  'Good. Well. You don't know anyone who might have a map of the area, do you?'

  'Och, no, son. It's not really the sort of thing people have around the home, is it?'

  'No, I suppose.'

  'You'd have to be an outsider to have one really.'

  'Quite.'

  'So–och, I know! Silly me! You should try the Reverend Roberts.'

  'Reverend Roberts?'

  'He's the minister at the First Presbyterian? He's not from round here. He maybe has one.'


  'OK. Thanks, Minnie.'

  'Now, but never mind your auld map, what about this soup?'

  Israel tried the soup. 'Mmm,' he said. 'Beautiful.' It was: thick, velvety and full of flavour.

  'Och,' said Minnie, blushing. 'I bet you say that to all the girls. Speaking of which, how are you finding that niece of mine?'

  'Niece of yours?'

  'George.'

  'George, as in George at the farm George?' said Israel.

  'That's her,' said Minnie.

  'I didn't realise she was your niece.'

  'Of course she's my niece. You know, in fact, thinking about it, you're similar ages. You'd make a lovely couple…'

  Israel sprayed hot lentil soup from his mouth.

  The man next to him in the Soviet republic flat cap and sports casual wear and reading Andy McNab was not amused.

  'Hey!'

  'Sorry!'

  The man started fussing, wiping the spray of soup from his clothes.

  'Och, Thompson, don't be so soft. It's just a wee drop of soup.'

  'Aye, it's maybe a wee drop of soup to you, Minnie and to the young fella here, but this is my best suit,' said Thompson, indicating his polyester tracksuit.

  'Sshh now. It'll wash. Drop of Daz.'

  'I am so sorry,' said Israel, wiping soup from his glasses.

  Thompson grumbled under his breath.

  'Thompson, sshh. Now, Israel…'

  Thompson continued to grumble.

  'Thompson!'

  'I'd take another wee drop of your soup, Minnie, in lieu of the laundry bill, like.'

  'All right, all right.'

  'And maybe another cheese scone?'

  'Och, don't be pushing your luck now.'

  'I'll be having to have this dry-cleaned, sure.'

  'Catch yerself on, Thompson. No more now. I'll attend to you in a moment. Israel. So what do you think, of George?'

  'Erm…She's very…unusual.'

  'Ah. I knew you'd get on. That fella she's with is no good for her at all. She's turning into an auld string of misery. I think he's a wee bit half-and-between…'