Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (13 page)

Israel took another bite of his chocolate biscuit–his fifth–and looked blank. 'Why?'

'Because…' said the Reverend Roberts. 'Come on! Baptists? Why are they called Baptists?'

'I don't know,' said Israel.

'Baptism?' said the Reverend Roberts.

'What, the little…?' Israel had in mind the kind of stone font at the back of a church.

'No. Not a font!' The reverend laughed. 'No! The Baptists have the full immersion.'

'Do they?' Israel had never come across that before. He didn't mix much with Baptists back home in north London; certainly no Baptist had ever declared themselves to him.

'Yes!' said the reverend. 'In a pool.'

'What, a swimming pool?'

'Yes, well, more like a large bath actually. At the front of the church.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Under the stage. You have to be careful not to slip, you know. And with the microphone, it's very dangerous.'

'Dangerous?'

'Water and electricity. People have died.'

'Bloody hell. Really?'

'Yes. In church.'

'That's ironic, isn't it?'

'God moves in mysterious ways,' agreed the reverend.

'So there's a mini swimming pool at the front of the church?'

'Yes: no water in it today though. Didn't bring my trunks! Ho, ho, ho!'

'I see,' said Israel, finishing his biscuit. 'So it was all a set-up?'

'Of course!' The reverend laughed. 'What, did you think it was magic?'

'No! Of course not,' said Israel. He had wondered though; he'd read that Keith Thomas book,
Religion and the Decline of Magic
, when he was at college–good book. Couldn't remember anything about it.

'Do you always do novelty vanishing tricks in your services?'

'Not at all! Sometimes I do juggling!' The reverend laughed and laughed. 'No, no, but seriously. It's good to have some visual aids. It's a trick of the trade.'

'Isn't it a bit odd, though, having magic in a service?'

'Not at all! All things counter, original, spare and strange.'

'Sorry. What's that?'

'Gerard Manley Hopkins? I thought you'd studied English literature?'

'Yes, I did, but I did, erm…you know, a lot of twentieth-century American stuff.'

'Ah! Chandler? Spillane? Dashiell Hammett?'

'No, it was more Donald Barthelme.'

'Oh. Well. But what was Jesus, after all?'

'Sorry, is that another quote?'

'No! It's a question! What was Jesus?'

'The Son of God?' said Israel.

'No!' The reverend Roberts laughed. 'He was a wonderworking rabbi, wasn't he?'

'Was he?'

'At the very least,' said the reverend. 'At the
very
least.'

'Right.'

The Reverend Roberts was clearly getting onto a hobby horse here. He had a glint in his eye.

'Also, Israel, in your Hebrew Bible, you know, there's lots of–what shall we say?–jiggery-pokery. Burning bushes, talking donkeys. God wasn't shy of making His point, was He? Even He needs His gimmicks.
Abracadabra
, it's from the Hebrew.'

'Is it?'

'Oh, yes. It's very popular among the clergy these days, magic.'

'Really?'

'Unicycling as well, very popular. There's a bishop over in England who specialises in turning water into—'

'Wine?' said Israel. 'That's very good.'

'No, no, no!' said the Reverend Roberts. 'Even better than that! He turns wine into a sparkling non-alcoholic celebration beverage!'

'Sorry?'

'Shloer,' said the reverend. 'Isn't that
fantastic
! Unlike this coffee,' he added, leaning down towards Israel, 'which tastes like gnat's piss.'

'Yes,' spluttered Israel.

'But my friend,' said the reverend, putting his arm round Israel's shoulder, 'enough about me, how are you?'

Living in Tumdrum Israel had become accustomed to no one asking or being particularly interested in how he was; in fact, he'd almost lost interest himself, and found it increasingly difficult to gauge, though given the events of the past twenty-four hours he had no difficulty in finding the right word to describe how he was feeling at the moment.

'Terrible,' he said.

The reverend was strolling with him over to the door.

'More overdue books?'

'No, God, bloody hell, no–oops, sorry.'

'No offence taken.'

'No, I mean, it's much worse. I have a, er, a missing persons problem of my own to solve at the moment,' said Israel.

'Oh, yes?'

'You know about Mr Dixon?'

'Should I know?' said the reverend.

'He's disappeared.'

'What, Mr Dixon from Dixon and Pickering's?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.'

'And there's been a big robbery there.'

'Really, when was this?'

'Yesterday,' said Israel. 'Yesterday morning.' It seemed like a lifetime ago.

'Paramilitaries?'

'I don't know,' said Israel. 'I'm trying to find out what's happened.'

'Ah! Playing detective again?'

'Not exactly. The police think I may have had something to do with it.'

They were descending the steps at the front of the church.

'You!' The Reverend Roberts laughed.

'Yes, me,' said Israel.

'Ho, ho, ho!' laughed the reverend.

'What?'

'That's very funny.'

'Why?'

'Well, you're a librarian, Israel!'

'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'But they took me in and arrested me. I'm out on bail.'

'Goodness me! Bound with fetters of brass and taken to Gaza!' said the Reverend Roberts.

'Uh-huh.'

'Oh dear, dear, dear. This is grave news indeed.'

'Yes.'

'I know him quite well, actually,' said the reverend.

'Mr Dixon? Really? Do you?'

'Yes. Methodist. Very good-living people, the Methodists. Wouldn't give them houseroom. Ho, ho, ho!'

'How do you know him?'

'Through the North Antrim Society of Magic.'

'The what?'

'He's a brilliant magician. Takes it very seriously.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes. You should probably speak to Walter Wilson. The Wonderful Wilsoni. He and Mr Dixon are old magic friends–go back a long way. You should definitely speak to him. He might have an idea, you know, where to start on your—'

'Inquiry.'

'Precisely. See, you've picked up the lingo–you'll be fine!'

They were standing outside the church. Israel was looking at the empty space where he'd left Brownie's bike.

'My bike!'

'What?' said the reverend.

'I left my bike here.'

'It's not here now.'

'No,' said Israel. 'God! Who'd steal a bloody bike from outside a church. Jesus!'

'I doubt it,' said the reverend.

'Sorry, it's just…'

'It's fine.'

'I've got to…I've only got a week to prove my innocence,' said Israel.

'I'm sure it won't take that long,' said the reverend.

'But if I can't get around anywhere.'

'Well, I would offer to give you a lift, but'–the reverend checked his watch–'I'm afraid I have to meet some of the elders of the church, who are very keen to talk to me, as you may imagine, after my sermon.'

'Yes, of course,' said Israel, desperately trying to think what he needed to do next, and how to get there, and who was going to help him. 'What's the time?'

'It's half past twelve.'

Israel groaned.

'Is there a problem?'

'No. No problem. Just…Would you mind if I borrowed your phone? I need to ring someone.'

'The old team, then,' said Ted, when he arrived, triumphant, in his cab to pick up Israel.

'Yes.' Israel was trying to remember Mr Wilson's address.

'Half twelve, didn't I say?'

'Yes, Ted.'

'There you are then. I'll not be hanging around today, mind. I've choir this afternoon,' said Ted.

'You sing in a choir?'

'No, I play trombone in the choir: what do you think I do in a choir?'

'I—'

'In the name of God, man, are you daft in the head?'

'No. Erm. Thanks. Yes. It's just…'

'What?'

'You don't strike me as the kind of person who would sing in a choir,' said Israel.

Ted's shaven head bristled at this: veins stood out on his bull-like neck. 'Aye, right,' he said. 'And you don't strike me as the kind of person who'd be arrested on suspicion of robbery and kidnap and unable to dig hisself out of the flippin' hole he's gotten into, but.'

'OK, fair point, yes. Sorry.'

'I should think so.'

'So what is it, a church choir?' said Israel.

'Not at all,' said Ted. 'We're a male voice choir.'

'I thought they were Welsh?'

'Aye, in Wales they are. That's just what you'd know.'

'Well, they are mostly Welsh though, aren't they?'

'Aye, and to a worm in horseradish the world is horseradish.'

'What?'

'It's a saying.'

'Meaning?'

'It's a small world to him that's never travelled.'

'Right.'

'If you'd ever been anywhere you'd know.'

'I've been to lots of places,' Israel protested. He'd been to France. Once. And Israel. And that was it, actually.

'You get choirs everywhere, you witless wonder,' said Ted. 'And we're over a hundred years old here–one of the oldest in Ireland, north or south. Started out with the fishermen, like, once it was into winter, and they'd laid up their nets, and most of them didn't take a drink, but, so they formed the choir. And that's us.'

'Very good,' said Israel doubtfully.

'We're world-famous, you know.'

'Uh-huh.' Israel was looking out of the window at the desolate housing estates they were passing through: what did a paramilitary mural do to your house price exactly?

'We're away over to Slovenia in the summer for a competition,' said Ted. 'And last year it was South Africa.'

'Really? You're going to Slovenia?'

'Aye.'

'And you went to South Africa?'

'Aye.'

'You're not winding me up?'

'We came second in South Africa. Greece we were in a couple of years ago. They've some lovely singing in Greece.'

'That's amazing. From here, the Tumdrum choir?'

'Aye. That's right. Stick up your snoot at us.'

'My snoot?'

'Aye. Your nose.'

'I'm not sticking up my nose at you.'

'Aye. Well.'

'I'm very interested in your choir, Ted.'

'You are, are ye? Well, you're very welcome to come along.'

'Erm…'

'You're not a bass, by any chance? We're short of a bass.'

'No, I don't think so. I've got my hands, er…'

'Aye, well, you don't look like a bass.'

'Thanks.'

'You look more like a castrato.'

'Thanks.'

'I'm telling you, boy. You still need a haircut, tame that fuzz. Any longer you'll be lookin' like a woman.'

Israel had rather hoped he was looking more like Bob Dylan.

Ted dropped him off at Mr and Mr Wilson's house, up at Ballyrankin, which was one of the constellation of stained 1970s concrete estates that fringed Tumdrum like claggy on a sheep's arse; since living here Israel had actually seen the claggy on a sheep's arse, so he felt he could speak authoritatively on the subject. Each house up at Ballyrankin looked exactly the same: it was as though you were looking at a street wallpapered with houses. The Wilsons' house sat slap in the middle of a long repeat-pattern.

Israel rang the doorbell.

An old lady opened the door. She was wearing a cardigan with a Scotty-dog brooch, and a pinny. As far as he could remember Israel had never seen anyone wearing an actual pinny before, except in television dramas. Like many of the women Israel had come across in Tumdrum she also wore a machine-knit sparkly cardigan, and also like many of the women Israel had come across in Tumdrum she seemed both hugely distracted and desperate to talk.

'Erm. Mrs Wilson?'

'Yes.'

'I'm looking for, erm, your husband? The…erm, the Wonderful Wilsoni?'

'Right. Is it a party?'

'No.'

'You're not after booking a party?'

'No, I'm afraid not.'

'He's not been well, you see.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Six months we had to wait for that last appointment.'

'Erm…'

'We'd have gone private if we could have afforded it, but we'd sold our insurance already, when we had the problems with his pension.'

'I see.'

'And I've not paid my full stamp, you see, so I've had to take a wee job in the chemist's.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Only three afternoons a week, mind, but it makes a difference.'

'Yes,' agreed Israel.

'So. Sorry, you are?'

'I'm Israel Armstrong, the librarian.'

'Ach, aye, of course. Is it the books? I thought I'd took them back.'

'No, no, it's—'

'That Alice Sebold–I really enjoyed that. And the Dave Eggers.'

'Really?'

'Aye. Not a patch on Marilynne Robinson, like, but they're young, aren't they?'

'Yes.'

'Time to develop.'

'Erm…'

'Look at Philip Roth.'

'Indeed. It's not the books I've come about though, Mrs Wilson.'

'Is it the DVDs?'

'No, no,' said Israel.

'I told him to take that back. He must have seen that
The Wicker Man
a hundred times. Is it
The Wicker Man
? Or is it one of them ones with Jodie Foster? He's a thing for Jodie Foster.'

'No, no, it's not the DVDs. There's nothing overdue. I just need to talk to him about Mr Dixon.'

'Och, really?'

'Yes, indeed.'

Mrs Wilson stood on the doorstep thinking. 'What would you want to be talking to him about Mr Dixon for?'

'Well, it's a magician thing—'

'Och, aye, right enough. Once you've him started you'll never shut him up, mind. He's out back. He spends hours in there. You know what they're like. Keeps him out of mischief.' Mrs Wilson spoke of her husband, as all the women of Tumdrum seemed to do, as if he were a teenage delinquent.

'Could I…'

'Aye, down the passage there, you'll see the shed.'

She pointed Israel down a narrow alley which separated the Wilson household from their perfectly symmetrical neighbours, and he went down the passage and through a gate, and he found himself in a small but immensely tidy garden, filled with small but immensely tidy plants, as if tended by a team of exceptionally tidy and green-fingered gnomes; each blade of grass seemed to have been individually clipped. There were no actual gnomes, as far as Israel could see, but there were lots of small Chinese stone lanterns and concrete statuettes, and he passed a tiny pond with tiny orange fish, and walked down a concrete-flag path, flanked by pansies, to the large shed at the bottom of the garden. There was a bird table outside, and a cold frame filled with budding plants. A light shone inside. Israel tapped on the door.