The Case of the Missing Books

'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…'

'He's what?'

'You know. Funny.'

'What do you mean, funny?'

'Och, funny, you know.'

'No.'

'Man his age, never married.'

'Oh, right. I see. But that doesn't necessarily make him-'

'Aye, but the frost'll try the rhubarb.'

'What?'

'You're not funny, are you?' asked Minnie.

'No! Of course I'm not funny! Although, I mean, it's fine if people are funny…'

Thompson edged away slightly from Israel on the bench.

'Good. I'll have a wee word with her, then, see if I can't fix you up with a date,' said Minnie.

'No!' spluttered Israel, being careful to cover his mouth this time. 'Minnie! No!'

'Bit of initiative!' said Minnie, winking.

'What? No, Minnie, no!'

But it was too late: Minnie had glided swiftly away, bearing scraps of scone.

Once he'd finished his lunch Israel went to pay, which proved to be a problem, because he had no money.

'Ah. Erm. Minnie,' he said. 'I'm so sorry. I forgot, I've got a problem with my cash card and I've not-'

'Och, never worry,' said Minnie. 'It's not as if you're going to just disappear is it? We all know where you live, eh?'

'Yes,' said Israel. Unfortunately.

'We'll put it on the slate.'

'Right, thanks. And about you having a word with George-'

'Consider it done!' said Minnie.

'No!' said Israel.

But Minnie had moved away to serve another table.

It was as he made for the door then that Israel noticed that the computer in the corner was on, and seemed to be working-and there was an elderly grey-haired woman in a wheelchair with a rug over her knees squirling around with the mouse.

Israel went and stood beside her.

'Just surfing,' she said.

'Right,' said Israel. 'Could I…Would you mind, when you're done?' he asked. 'I've just…'

'Of course,' she said, wheeling herself away, backwards, and at some speed. 'Work away there, sure. I was just checking out the chat-rooms.'

'Right.'

'Some of them, honestly…'

'Yes.'

And he sat himself down and paused for a moment, staring at the screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard, suddenly excited-checking his e-mails! He could hardly believe it. His first contact with the real world since he'd arrived here. He fired up Hotmail, typed in his user name and his password, hit return, and took a long, deep, anticipatorily satisfied breath.

No one had e-mailed him. Or at least no one he knew. His in-box was of course stuffed full with messages from people offering to extend his credit-card limits, and the size of his…But no one else. Not even Gloria. Since coming here not only had he become lost: he seemed completely to have disappeared. He sent Gloria a rather self-pitying message with the subject line, 'Remember me?'

It had been Gloria's idea that he took the job in the first place. He was always complaining about his sad, wasted life at the discount bookshop, and the lack of opportunities with which he was faced, as a potential genius, and so when he was offered the job in Tumdrum it was Gloria who had convinced him that this was his opportunity, and that although they'd have to live apart for a while she would of course be over at weekends to visit him, and that it would only bring them closer in the long term, and that once he'd done his time in Tumdrum offers of other library jobs would be raining down upon him: he'd be fielding calls from the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, and the Vatican, and Harvard's Widener Library; and librarian head-hunters from all over would be tracking him down, waving big fat vellum hand-inked librarian contracts, written in Latin, stipulating twenty weeks' paid reading time per year; and before he knew it he'd be padding along foot-worn marble corridors into the unimaginable glories of the world's great stacks and depositories. So far things weren't turning out quite like he'd expected.

As he was about to sign out of the site it suddenly occurred to Israel where he might be able to buy a map of Tumdrum.

For years, Israel had been unable to afford to buy new books-which is why he worked in a bookshop, and one of the reasons he'd trained as a librarian in the first place: the prospect of free, or at least free access to books.

First of all he tried www.abebooks.com.

Nothing, and anyway he'd have to wait too long for the shipping from America.

Then he thought he'd try amazon.co.uk, the marketplace: lots more individuals selling books. He found what he was looking for straight away.

Ordnance

Survey. One-Inch Tourist Map

.

Good,

some edge repair. Soft cover

.

National

grid seventh series, 1959. Printed on paper

.

Covers

good. Ex-library

.

It was a little more expensive than he'd been planning to pay, but it all went on the credit card anyway and he needed the map, so he hit 'Buy with 1-Click' and the map was his.

Now, if he said it himself, that was showing initiative.

10

The chicken coop was beginning to feel suspiciously like home. There were books everywhere; and unwashed dirty mugs from the farmhouse littered every surface; and clothes piled on the bed; and a slightly chickeny, not entirely unpleasant smell of sweat and damp, as if a little pot of stock were simmering on some not too far distant stove.

Israel splashed some cold water on his face from the wash-jug and bowl and poured himself a large glass of whiskey and lay down to contemplate another day's successful amateur sleuthing. He had a growing list of suspects. He had a map on the way. And he was starting to find the whiskey almost as effective as a couple of Nurofen.

And then there was a knock on the door.

He got up, took a fortifying sip of his drink, and went and opened the door, expecting Brownie.

It was not Brownie.

It was a woman, around about his age, and, Israel had to admit, she looked more like his kind of person than a lot of the people he'd been meeting recently: she was wearing clothes that had definitely crossed the border from practical to stylish, and she looked intelligent, and thrusting, as though she was maybe on the way to drinks after work, rather than, say, as though drinking was her work. Her hair was dark; her lipstick was red; her overcoat was unbuttoned; and she looked like she meant business. She could easily have passed in north London.

'Mmm,' she said, taking a last quick draw on a cigarette and stubbing it out underfoot; and Israel reckoned he was probably the most politically correct person in about a hundred-mile radius at this very moment but even he couldn't help noticing her legs.

'Hello?' he said shyly.

'Mr Armstrong?'

'Yes.'

'Hi. I'm Veronica Byrd,' said Veronica Byrd, straightening up underneath her tailored overcoat and putting on a wide smile and forming the words carefully in her mouth.

'Hello, Veronica Byrd,' said Israel, his brow furrowing.

'I'm from the Impartial Recorder.'

'I see,' said Israel, in a way that suggested that he didn't see at all.

'We're the local newspaper.'

'Oh, right. I, er, I'm more of a Guardian sort of person myself.'