The case of the missing books

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The case of the missing books Page 16

by Ian Sansom

'Oh, it's coming along.'

  'Aye.'

  'I've got a couple of very good leads. Actually, Ted, you wouldn't think about coming back and—'

  'Who, me? The criminal mastermind?'

  'I don't think you're the criminal mastermind, Ted.'

  'Oh, not smart enough, eh.'

  'No. Ted. It's not that. I've crossed you off my list of suspects.'

  'Aye, right. That's nice of you, Kojak.'

  Israel leant in close. 'I'm working on a major conspiracy theory at the moment,' he said.

  Ted finished chewing his vol-au-vent. 'I'm sure: still not a titter of wit about ye then. What happened to the hubcaps?'

  'What?' said Israel.

  'Aye, you heard me. What happened to the hubcaps? Don't think I haven't noticed. I've seen yous driving about: there's no hubcaps on the van anymores.'

  'Ah, yes, that was a little mishap.'

  'And I see you've her bent up and twisted round the bonnet?'

  'Ah, yes, that was another little mishap.'

  'Aye, right. Well, I entrusted her to you,' said Ted. 'And I'll tell you what,' he continued, leaning over close to Israel as he spoke, with vol-au-venty intensity, 'you'd better start looking after her better than you're doing at the minute, boyo. Or I'll beat the blinkin' lard out of ye. D'you understand?'

  'Yes,' squeaked Israel.

  With which friendly threat Ted turned his back on Israel and walked away, just as Linda Wei approached him from the other direction, took him firmly by the arm and led him off to introduce him to the redoubtable Maureen Minty.

  'Hmm. Excuse me. Hello!' said Israel. 'Lovely speech.'

  'Thank you,' said the mayoress, staring at Israel with her one good eye from under her firm-set hair and through a thick pair of glasses, looking for all the world like a cross between Moshe Dayan and Golda Meier.

  'And that's a lovely…chain,' said Israel, trying to think of something to say to an elderly one-eyed lady mayoress he'd never met before, and pointing to her chain of office. 'Can I…touch it?' And before he knew what he was doing he was reaching out towards the lady mayoress's ample bosom.

  Maureen Minty slapped his hand.

  'If I was forty years younger I'd be flattered, young man. As it is, I'm appalled by your bad manners.'

  'Ouch,' said Israel. 'Sorry.'

  Linda led the lady mayoress away, frowning at Israel, who raised his hands in his mother's traditional Jewish 'what-have-I-done' gesture.

  'He's a bold 'un, isn't he,' murmured Maureen Minty.

  'Aye,' said Linda, flashing a warning stare at Israel.

  'You haven't lost the old charm then, I see.'

  It was Veronica, the reporter from the Impartial Recorder, and the funny thing was Israel had known she was there, in the room, from the moment he'd first arrived, even though he hadn't been able to pick her out. She seemed to have a peculiarly vivid presence, seeming to announce herself from a distance, as if subtly lit, like in a film, or like she was emitting a high-frequency sound, like a minky whale perhaps, or something similar, and it was as if he had a sixth sense, attuned to her. He'd had this feeling before. He tried to remember when: it was when he'd first met Gloria.

  'You're looking very…natty,' said Veronica, with that characteristic hint of mischief and mockery in her voice.

  'Natty?' said Israel. 'Natty? Gosh. No one's used the word natty since about 1950, have they?'

  'Well, no one I know has worn a three-piece herringbone suit since about 1950.'

  'Ah. True,' said Israel. He was wearing one of Mr Devine's old suits. It was a little tight, but it certainly made a change from Brownie's combat trousers and T-shirts, and he thought it gave him a certain Cary Grant kind of a look, actually, or maybe a Sidney Greenstreet kind of a look, if he was being absolutely honest, but drink had been taken, so there was no need to be absolutely honest. He was looking pretty good.

  'Will you have your photo taken with me?' asked Veronica.

  'Me?'

  'Come on.'

  She pulled Israel over towards a man with a huge camera and a flashgun.

  'Here we are now.'

  'Israel, Michael–photographer at the paper. Michael, this is Israel, our esteemed librarian.'

  'Outreach Support Officer,' said Israel jokingly, although neither Veronica nor Michael seemed to see the joke. 'My little joke,' he explained.

  'He's a comedian as well, then,' said Michael.

  'Oh yes,' said Veronica, winking at Israel, 'he's a terrible tease. He's English.'

  'Aye.'

  'OK then, by himself first I think.'

  And before Israel knew it, it was flash and the picture had been taken.

  'Great,' said Veronica. 'Now together,' and she squeezed up close to Israel, cheek to cheek. 'Do your worst.'

  Another flash.

  'One for the family album. Thanks, Michael.'

  'OK, Veronica,' said Michael. 'That it?'

  'I think that'll do us for tonight.'

  'See you tomorrow.'

  'Night. What's happened to your hair,' asked Veronica, turning to Israel, fishing around in her handbag. 'Do you mind?' she asked, going to light a cigarette.

  'It's your funeral. I combed it.'

  'Well, I think it suits you,' she said. 'You scrub up nicely.'

  Israel blushed. 'Thank you…'

  'At which point'–Veronica leant closer towards him, touching his arm, blowing smoke in his direction–'you're supposed to say, "And you're looking rather lovely too."'

  'Ah, right, sorry. You're looking lovely too,' said Israel, which was true, actually; Veronica was wearing a long black clinging skirt and black leather boots and a tight, buttoned-up blouson, which made her look rather as if she'd just flown in specially for the evening, like flying-ace Amelia Eckhart.

  'There's no smoking in here, love,' said a woman, tapping Veronica on the shoulder.

  'Oh, really?' said Veronica, smiling. 'I had no idea. I'm so sorry. Shall we?' And she indicated the door to Israel, who followed her obediently outside.

  'Ah,' said Veronica. 'That's better. God, I hate those things.'

  'Me too,' said Israel.

  They stood leaning up against the side of the graffitied wall of the community hall, staring up at the stars.

  'No luck then yet in your great book hunt?'

  'What great book hunt?'

  'Now, now. You know I know.'

  'That you know what?'

  'About the missing library books?'

  'Ah. Well, you'll have to talk to Linda about library provision. I'm just—'

  'Doing your job?'

  'That's it.'

  'Well, I'm sure you're very good at it.'

  'I hope so.'

  'Well, let me ask you another question then, librarian.'

  'Outreach Support Officer.'

  'Whatever. Do you have a girlfriend?'

  'Erm…'

  'I'll take that as a no then, shall I?'

  He did not correct her.

  Veronica had finished her cigarette.

  'Shall we go somewhere we can get warmed up?'

  The pub they went to was in a village several miles up the coast from Tumdrum, and it was just like an archetypal English pub, with beams and an open fire, and knickknacks, which was all very nice but which did nothing to calm or reassure Israel, who was now devoutly wishing he hadn't come away with Veronica and had stayed instead with the middle-aged men in suits and women in heels at the gala reception for the new mobile library service. That would have been much safer. But it was too late now: a few glasses of cheap wine and a bellyful of vol-au-vents and here he was with an attractive lady reporter in a pub in the middle of nowhere and no good could come of it, he knew that from the moment he'd got into Veronica's Renault Clio and she'd put on her Dido CD, and they were speeding along the coast road, laughing about leaving everyone behind at the community halls and enjoying a shared sense of adventure. Desire, boredom, guilt and being a long way from home can make a man do strange th
ings. Israel had seen Lost In Translation. Several times. And he suddenly felt as though he was in some kind of parallel Bill Murray universe, where he made witty remarks to good-looking women who laughed at his jokes.

  'OK, what can I get you?' he asked, as calmly and filmically as possible, when they entered the pub.

  'A gin and tonic, please,' said Veronica, and they went together to the bar, but unfortunately, because Israel kept turning round to smile at Veronica nervously, he had some difficulty in attracting the attention of the bar staff, and eventually Veronica said, 'Shall I?' and Israel admitted defeat.

  'Um, yeah, if you like.'

  They sat down eventually, Veronica with her gin and tonic, Israel with his pint of Guinness and a packet of crisps.

  'Cheers,' said Israel.

  'Sláinte,' said Veronica.

  And then there was a silence between them, and Israel looked at Veronica and Veronica looked at Israel, and Israel looked back at Veronica looking at Israel.

  'Read anything good lately?' asked Israel, breaking his gaze.

  And Veronica laughed and laughed.

  'Oh, that's original, for a librarian.'

  There was another long pause and Israel became suddenly aware that he was desperately in need of some small talk in order to see his way out of things here; that was definitely what he needed at this point, just to calm things down and make things clear. He was currently down to about five conversations a week, maximum, and most of them were with George about animal husbandry and with Mr Devine about young people today, and so he was more than a little bit out of practice when it came to the old low-level chat, and when he did finally think of what to talk about all he could come up with was mostly asking Veronica about her job, and how had she ended up working for the Impartial Recorder, and what was it like, and unfortunately she told him all about it, all about her unhappy childhood and her time on local papers and her ambitions to make it big, and it turned into quite a heavy conversation really. Israel nonetheless thought it had steadied things between them, except that when Veronica got up from the table to go to the ladies, he suddenly realised how closely they had been leaning in towards each other as they spoke, and as Veronica brushed against him in order to get past he felt as though he'd been set on fire.

  To calm himself Israel tucked into the crisps–cheese and onion, or, strictly speaking, Tayto Cheese and Onion, crisps unlike he had ever eaten in England, and much better than the average cheese and onion in fact, much stronger somehow, but not in an unpleasant cheesy or oniony kind of a way; they seemed somehow to embody the very essence of cheese and onion crisp, their cheesy yin in perfect harmony with the oniony yang. Israel knew he should probably save some of these absolutely perfect crisps for Veronica but because he was nervous and because generally he ate when he was nervous he finished the crisps in just a few swift mouthfuls, shaking out the final crumbs into the palm of his hand, throwing his head back, and swallowing, and then he cupped his hand and smelt his breath. His breath smelt very bad indeed.

  'You're back, then,' said Israel, like an idiot. She had reapplied her make-up.

  'Yes, of course I'm back,' said Veronica. 'What did you think I was going to do, climb out the window?'

  'No, no,' said Israel.

  'It's fine. Why don't you just relax.'

  'Sorry I'm a bit tense, it's, you know, the new job and what have you.'

  And Veronica reassured him that that was fine and she started asking him questions about his work, and as she lit another cigarette he noticed that she squinted her eyes, like people do, and the conversation took off again.

  When they finished their drinks Israel got up to go to the gents and it was then that it happened, that finally he lost all perspective on where he was and what he was doing, in a single moment of madness, in a moment of musth, like a bull elephant during rutting season, when he stopped in front of the condom machine and had a look at the selection available, something he had never done before in his life and was unlikely to do ever again–Gloria had always taken care of that end of things–but the extreme and unusual circumstances in which he found himself seemed to have given him permission to do so. He just couldn't quite believe that he was here, in a pub, with a beautiful woman; it seemed so fantastic that almost anything could happen.

  He prodded his glasses and stared at the machine, as if mesmerised, and then he made his decision.

  Fortunately, though–for everyone concerned–he didn't have any change. He didn't have any money at all in fact, so that would have been that, except for the middle-aged man with slicked-back hair standing beside him by the machine.

  'D'you know what, son?' said the slicked-back-hair man. 'In all my years of patronising these facilities, I have never once seen a soul use that machine.'

  Israel didn't know what to say.

  'Not once,' mused the man sadly, and Israel felt suddenly emboldened then, by the Guinness, and by the wine, and the vol-au-vents and the best cheese and onion crisps he'd ever tasted, and by this sad admission of a life half lived–never to have bought condoms from a machine in a pub because there was a fighting chance you might end up having to use them–and he asked the man if perhaps he had any change so that he could use the condom machine, in a tone that suggested that unlike this sad middle-aged man, he, Israel, purchased pub condoms all the time, because that was the kind of footloose, fancy-free James Bond existence he lived in his borrowed three-piece herringbone suit, but alas, no, the man did not have any change, and nor did the next man they asked either, who also claimed never to have seen anyone use the condom machine before, and Israel was beginning to wonder what sort of contraception people used around here. But eventually someone came through from the pub into the toilets who did have change and who was happy to see it put to good use, and a small crowd had formed now, waiting for Israel to insert the money in the slot and make his decision: whisky-flavoured, mint-chocolate, multicoloured, or ribbed? The choice was overwhelming. The crowd of onlookers by this time was spilling out of the door.

  'Green for starboard, red for port,' shouted someone at the back of the crowd, and everybody laughed.

  And at that moment, at the very moment that he was pulling out the little metal tray which dispensed his choice, to the sound of cheers and a small round of applause, Israel looked up.

  And he saw Veronica. Who was sitting at their table directly opposite the door of the gents toilet, looking straight in.

  Oh no.

  He grinned at her like a moron, waved, pocketed the condoms, the crowd parted, and out he walked, absolutely mortified.

  Veronica was gathering up her handbag as he made it to the table and he opened his mouth to start to apologise.

  'I, I…'

  'Most convivial,' said Veronica.

  The next day what Israel remembered most clearly about the rest of the evening was Veronica saying to him, after they'd kissed, 'Ugh! Never eat Tayto Cheese and Onion on a first date.'

  And he also remembered her saying, 'Now, tell me all about the missing library books.'

  And he also remembered her saying, 'My boyfriend'll be back soon. You need to leave.'

  14

  The Impartial Recorder carried the story two days later under the banner headline THE GREAT BOOK ROBBERY, easily trumping the competing front-page stories about a local sausage-maker, the improbably named Tommy Snorker, who'd won a prize for his speciality pork and cranberries (SNORKER'S PORKERS A CORKER), and a man who'd been fined £75 for disorderly behaviour, plus £150 for assault, for spitting at a bouncer after having been denied entrance to Rathkeltair's premier nite-spot, Meltdown, his defence solicitor having unsuccessfully pleaded with the judge that his client had simply had too much to drink and was only dribbling (HERE'S ONE IN YOUR EYE).

  When Israel arrived at the farmhouse for dinner, Mr Devine handed him a note.

  'This woman called.'

  'Oh.'

  'She says to phone her immediately.'

  'OK.'

  'Y
ou seen the paper?'

  'No.'

  'Here.'

  Mr Devine handed him the newspaper. Under the headline there was a photograph of Israel, looking like a tried and guilty Fatty Arbuckle, glass of wine in hand, with the subtitle, 'Israel Armstrong, Tumdrum's new mobile librarian, carousing this week at the launch of the new mobile library service'.

  'Carousing?'

  'What?' said Mr Devine. 'Caruso?'

  'No. No.'

  'I like Pavarotti. He's good.'

  Israel read the full story.

  'Oh, God.'

  'He's got awful fat though, hasn't he, the big grumphie.'

  'What?'

  'Are you all right there, Mr Armstrong?'

  'Yes. Fine. I'm fine.'

  'Aye, you seem a wee bit distracted, but.'

  'Yes.'

  'Trouble?'

  'You could say that.'

  'Cast your troubles upon the Lord.'

  'Right. Thanks. I'll maybe give that a go.'

  Israel arrived, as requested, at Linda Wei's office an hour later.

  For the first time that Israel could remember Linda Wei wasn't actually eating when he saw her: instead, just for a change, she bit his head off.

  'What,' she bellowed, 'is this?'

  She waved the Impartial Recorder at him. She was wearing a banana-yellow trouser suit with padded shoulders. She looked like an exploding canary. She jabbed her finger on the front page.

  'That? Is the front page of the—' began Israel.

  'Don't you get smart with me! I have had just about enough of you and your London attitude, Mr Armstrong.'

  'No, Linda, hold on, my what?'

  'We've been bent over backwards trying to accommodate you ever since you've arrived.'

  'No, now, I think you'll find that—'

  Linda ignored him and began reading the first paragraph.

  '"Local library services are in crisis. Speaking to a source close to the library service, the Impartial Recorder has learnt that all of Tumdrum and District Library's stock of books has gone missing, possibly stolen." So, what happened?'

  'What happened with what?'

  'Who did you tell about the missing books and the mobile library?'

  'Mobile learning centre,' corrected Israel.

  'Don't get funny with me, Mister!'

 

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