The Case of the Missing Books

'If you're wanting Ballymuckery you'd be turning left.'

'Right.'

'No, left.'

'Yes. Sorry, I meant left.'

'Aye, right. Just follow the road, son.'

The man now seemed to have finished giving his directions.

'OK. Great. Thanks,' said Israel, who went to wind up the window.

But the man hadn't finished. He pushed the window down, rather menacingly, thought Israel.

'So, you follow the road, right? Past the Spar. But that's not there any more. That's gone. It's one of them hair places now.'

'OK.'

'Then there's a roundabout.'

And here he paused again, for what seemed like a long time.

Israel assumed that this concluded proceedings.

'OK. Great, thanks,' he said, going to wind up the window again.

But no, there was more-the man was just thinking.

'Steady,' he said. 'I'm just thinking.'

There was a pathetic bark from the dog.

'And it's definitely Ballymuckery you're for?'

'I think so.'

'Aye, well. That's all right. Then there's another roundabout.'

'Right.'

'Straight on,' corrected the man.

'OK,' said Israel, through gritted teeth.

'And then there's the mini-roundabout.'

'OK. And then?'

'No, that's it. And Ballymuckery's up there on the left, by the old railway bridge.'

'Right. Good. How long do you think that should take?'

'Well, it's a brave wee walk, if you're walking.'

'Right. Er. I'm in the van, though.'

'Aye.'

'OK. Well, thanks for that. So: left, roundabout, roundabout, roundabout, left.'

'Right,' said the man.

'Right?'

'Left.'

'Left?'

'That'd be it.'

'Thanks. Good. Thank you very much.'

'I'll maybe take a wee ride with you,' said the man.

'No!' said Israel hurriedly. 'No. Really. Thanks. I'm not…erm. Insured. To carry the public.'

'No?'

'No, sorry. But thanks. Goodbye!'

'Good luck!'

'Thanks. Bye. Bye!'

Israel finally wound up the window, and set off.

They were the wrong directions.

He did find it eventually though, Ballymuckery, and the home of Norman Canning, Tumdrum's former librarian.

Norman, it turned out, lived in a maisonette, a part of a group of twenty or thirty two-storey pebble-dashed buildings clustered around a patch of grass which forbade ball games and which had long ago turned to mud. It was a place too small to count as an actual estate but too big to be simply a cul-de-sac: it was as if the houses had been cut adrift from the rest of civilisation and left floating in a dark sea of ploughed fields. All the kerbstones had been painted red, white and blue-some time ago, by the look of it, and by people using very broad brushstrokes-and there was matching, tattered, red, white and blue bunting hung from lampposts, giving the place the feeling of a sinister floating pleasure-boat. There was no one around. The whole place had the air of a loyalist Marie Celeste.

Israel walked up the concrete steps to the front door of Norman's maisonette, which looked down over a small garden where there were rose bushes dug into a deep triangle of dirt, hacked and grown into standards, like blackened skeletal fingers, like the buried body of the countryside had been crushed by the buildings and was grasping up towards the winter sky. There was no other greenery or attempts at pleasantness: just pebble-dash and concrete and red, white and blue bleeding into the dark black earth.

A net curtain hung at Norman's window. There was no bell.

Israel took a deep breath and tried to think like Miss Marple.

He tapped on the white UPVC and presently a man in late middle age answered the door; he had pinched, bitter features, as if someone had gripped a hold of his face with their hand and had not let go for many years, until the lines had deepened, and he wore small round glasses not dissimilar to Israel's own, and his grey, thinning hair hung down over the collar of his worn but neat and ironed white shirt: he looked every inch the ex-librarian.

'Hello,' said Israel. 'Norman Canning?'

'Hmm,' said the man non-committally.

'Erm. My name's Israel Armstrong. I'm…the new librarian, in Tumdrum. Well, the new librarian with the mobile library. If you see what I mean.'

He pointed back towards the road, at the mobile library.

'I see,' said the man, his eyes narrowing.

'And it is Norman, is it? Pleased to meet you.' Israel went to shake hands.

The man ignored Israel's hand and looked over his shoulder, towards the street.

Israel had parked the mobile library outside the maisonette, managing to get it surprisingly close to the kerb.

A group of young children had appeared out of nowhere and had gathered around the van, and were banging on the sides.

'Hey! Get away from there!' shouted the man, shaking his fist at the children, who ran off, shouting abuse. 'Go on! Go!'

'Thanks,' said Israel.

'They'll be back,' said the man. 'Your hubcaps'll be away.'

'I'm sure it'll be fine,' said Israel blithely.

'Aye. You'd know?'

'Well…'

'You'd better be quick.'

'Right. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few quick questions,' said Israel. 'About the library.'

'It's shut.'

'Yes. I know. I'm…' Israel began, but the man had already turned his back on him and walked away. 'Norman?' called Israel. 'Norman?'

'Come, if you're coming,' called the man who was presumably Norman, retreating down a narrow hallway piled up with dozens of empty bottles. 'In here.'

He led the way into a small, spotless kitchen-'Kitchenette,' he said, as if cataloguing his own home, as they entered-the laminated surfaces pristine, the walls free of even a single spot or stain, empty bottles lined up neatly in rows: green glass; clear glass; brown glass.

'I'm preparing my breakfast. You'll forgive me if I continue?'

'Of course. Go ahead.' Israel sniffed. 'Something smells good,' he said encouragingly.

'I'm boiling an egg,' said Norman.

'Ah.'

'Take a seat.'

'Thanks.' Israel sat down on the kitchen's one and only chair, which was next to a small fridge, whose hum was much grumpier than its size. Norman went and stood by the stove.

'I-' began Israel.

'Sshh!' said Norman, raising a finger. 'About to boil.'

He nodded down towards the saucepan and stood with an egg-timer in his hand. Israel remained silent; the sound of the boiling water; the ticking of a wall clock; the humming of the fridge; the steam in the room beginning to mist the windows.

'Right!' said Norman, turning the egg-timer upside down. 'Three minutes.'

Israel wasn't entirely sure whether Norman meant him or the egg.

'Well. I suppose I should say straight away that I hope there's no bad feeling between us.'

'Bad feeling?' laughed Norman, in a not entirely friendly and more than slightly bonkers kind of a way. 'Why should there be bad feeling?'

'Well, you know. You used to be the librarian. And now…well, I'm the librarian.'

Norman snorted.

'Believe me, sir, I bear you no ill feeling. On the contrary. I pity you, actually.'

Norman swept his arm, indicating the room around him and a door leading off to another room-Israel glanced through and saw further dark, depressing depths: an imitation-flame-effect gas fire; piles of books and empty bottles everywhere.

'This,' said Norman, 'is what you've got to look forward to.'

Israel had to admit, it was hardly an encouragement to go into public service.

The egg-timer was running down.

'I worked for the Library Board for over thirty years,' said Norman. 'Did you know that?'

'No. I didn't.'

'I introduced computers. That was me.'

'Very good,' said Israel.

'And who do you think introduced the children's reading hour on Saturday afternoons?'

'Erm…'

'Me.'

'Right.'

'And the refurbishments? Who oversaw the refurbishments?'

'You?'