The Case of the Missing Books

'Correct. Me. The carpet?'

'You?'

'Correct. Carpet! In a library! And the toilet facilities-who was that?'

'You?'

'Exactly. Me. Me. I did everything they told me to, and more. Do you know that? All their dictates. And their reports. I was in the middle of transferring the last of the card catalogues when they sacked me.'

'I'm sorry,' offered Israel.

'Don't you be sorry,' said Norman, laughing his little laugh again. 'You don't want to be sorry for me. You want to be sorry for yourself, Mr…What did you say your name was?'

'Armstrong. You can call me Israel though.'

'I don't think so.' Norman glanced at his egg-timer. 'See me?'

Israel looked shyly up at Norman standing by the sink.

'See me? I was the top of my year at school, d'you know that? Hmm?'

'No.'

'The Grammar. And this is where it gets you. This where you're heading, Israel Armstrong.' Norman emphasised the Israel with some distaste.

Israel glanced around nervously. Norman noticed his gaze.

'D'you know what I do now?' He nodded towards a box of cleaning products by the front door, and a large industrial vacuum cleaner.

'No.'

'Have they not told you what I do now?'

'No.'

'Contract cleaning. Do you know what that is?'

'Er.'

'Cleaning for businesses, and the middle classes, because they can't be bothered to pick up their own shit.' He pronounced 'shit' with the same emphasis he'd used for Israel. 'Like people who couldn't be bothered to buy their own books.'

'OK.'

'That's what you've got to look forward to.'

Israel remained silent.

'You know what they used to say, when I was at college?'

'No,' said Israel.

'Old librarians never die,' said Norman. 'They just become ex-libris.'

'Right,' said Israel, trying to raise a small laugh.

'It's not true, though, is it? Old librarians never die. They just become cleaners.' He laughed.

As jokes went Israel thought it was pretty poor: Norman probably wouldn't have got his own Friday night sitcom on the strength of that.

'Not fit for anything else, are we? Librarians!' He laughed again. 'Look at us! Look at the two of us. Useless, eh?'

'Yes,' agreed Israel nervously.

Norman looked at the egg-timer. 'Time up.' He turned off the gas.

'Actually, it's the library I needed to talk to you about, Norman.'

'Time up, I said,' repeated Norman. 'Time's up.'

'But…'

'I am not interested in your library, Mr Israel. Do you understand? I don't care about libraries any more. Do you know the last time I stepped into a library?'

'No.'

'The day they sacked me. I vowed I would never again use a library. And I haven't.'

'Right, well, that's, er, a bit sad, isn't it?'

'A bit sad? A bit sad? I dedicated my life to the library service, sir. My life. Do you understand that?'

'Yes, I, er, I think I do.'

'Ach, you're not old enough to understand what's holding up your trousers.'

It was his stomach, unfortunately, that was holding up Israel's trousers.

'No, well,' he said. 'But I do sympathise. And I take your point. But I was wondering if you might at least be able to answer a couple of questions about the library?'

'Answer your questions?'

'Yes.'

'I suggest you take your questions to the town hall. They seem to have all the answers.'

Norman had fished the egg from the pan with a spoon and had placed it carefully in an egg-cup.

'Well, it was more of a, you know, personal kind of a question, actually,' continued Israel. 'Librarian to librarian. It was about the books.'

'What about the books?'

'They've gone missing.'

'Missing?'

'Yes.'

'Ha!' Norman took a knife from a drawer. 'Books go missing all the time. How long have you been a librarian?'

'On and off. A while.'

'Well. You know what happens when you're dealing with the public. Overdue. Lost. Theft.'

Norman took the knife and sliced the top off the egg.

'Actually, we've lost the whole lot,' said Israel.

'The whole lot?'

'Yes.'

'Ha!' Norman laughed. 'Boys-a-boys. The whole lot! All of them?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Oh, that's good. That's excellent. You must be even more stupid than you look.'

'Erm…' There was no simple response to that.

'How did you manage that then?'

'They were missing before I arrived actually.'

'I see.'

Norman had picked up the saucepan of boiling water and was moving towards the sink.

'And I was,' continued Israel, 'I was wondering maybe if you knew anything…'

Norman stopped in his movements and then slowly turned around.

'Me? Knew anything? Why?'

He was holding the saucepan of boiling water in his hand.

'Well, something's happened to the books. And…'

'Are you insinuating, sir?'

'Insinuating?'

'Are you suggesting I have anything to do with these missing books? Is that your insinuation?'

'No, Norman, no. No, no. I'm not insinuating anything. It's just, you would have had access to the…'

Norman had stepped closer to Israel now and was standing right over him with the saucepan of boiling water. Israel could see his hand shaking slightly with rage. He didn't like the way this was going.

'Norman,' he said nervously. 'I don't like the way this is going…'

'The way this is going? The way this is going? That's rich! You come in here under false pretences and accuse me-'

'No. No one's accusing you, Norman.'

'Mr Canning, please!'

'Sorry. Mr Canning. No one's…I really don't like the way this is going, Norman…'

'The way this is going! I'll tell you the way this is going, sir! You're getting out of my house, now, and you're never darkening my doorstep again, that's the way this is going. D'you understand?'

Israel was edging himself off his seat.

'Do you understand?'

'OK, yes, that's fine.'

Norman stepped closer, clutching the saucepan unsteadily. Israel could see his nostrils flaring and vibrating.

'I'm going, it's OK.'

'No, it is not OK! You come round here insinuating: it is not OK!'

'No. Fine. Sorry. I was just…'

'I'll tell you what you should do, sir, about your missing library books, shall I? Eh? I'll tell you what you should do. You should ask your borrowers-huhn?-or your customers-customers is it?-that's what you call them now, isn't it?-ask them what happened to your books. Rather than coming and bothering me. It's the borrowers who are the problem around here. Not me. You want to find out what they know! Prise the books out of their greasy little paws, eh? Eh?'

'Yes. Thank you. That's…good advice,' said Israel, who had edged himself off the seat and was moving back slowly towards the front door.

'And I don't expect to see your face ever again!' called Norman, looking down on Israel, the saucepan still in his hand, as Israel scurried quickly down the concrete steps and towards the sanctuary of the mobile library.

'Well,' said Israel, to try and calm himself, once he was safely back behind the wheel of the van, 'that went well.' Except for the hubcaps: Norman had been right about the hubcaps.

9

He shook all the way back to Tumdrum, his guts and his glasses jiggling and his nerves jangling, thrashing the old van up to 50 mph, and he did his best to park up neat and straight in Tumdrum's town square-there was quite a bit of play in the steering wheel, and the brakes were a little sloppy but he managed finally to bring the van to a halt across three bays at a slight angle-and when he turned off the ignition he took a long deep breath, a swig from his bottle of water, and a couple of Nurofen.

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.