Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (17 page)

'Tea?' she said.

'I thought you'd never ask.'

Rosie filled the kettle. Israel could breathe easy again.

'So why didn't you tell me?' he asked.

'Tell you what?'

'That you were one of Mr Dixon's assistants.'

'Why would I tell you?'

'I don't know.'

'Well then.'

'Why did you do it?'

'Why do you think? It was easy money. All you had to do was dress up and look glamorous.'

'Did you not mind?'

'Why would I mind?'

'Dressing up in, you know…'

'Why? Your girlfriend not dress up for you?'

'Erm…' Israel blushed. 'So what's he like?'

'Mr Dixon? He's OK. Quiet sort of fella. Polite, you know. This was a couple of years ago though I was helping him out.'

She put some teabags into mugs.

'I know her better actually.'

'Mrs Dixon?'

'Aye. She runs these little investment clubs.'

'What sort of investment clubs?'

'It's a women-only thing, you know.'

'Right.'

'You pay her money, and she invests it for you, and you get a return from people who—'

'Oh, God, no,' said Israel.

'What?'

'That's a money-tree scheme.'

'A what?'

'My dad used to–he was an accountant–there were always people who would try and set up these schemes, where you pay some money, and then people pay money to you, and so you quadruple or whatever your original investment.'

'That's right. That's what it is.'

'But the schemes always collapse. Because eventually people run out of people to give them the money. It's like pyramid selling.'

'No, Is, it's not. No, it's a proper—'

'You've not paid money into it, have you?'

'Er…Well…'

'Oh, no.'

'It's all above board. There's loads of people, church people and everything, who—'

'Have you had your payout yet?'

'No, not yet. It's the end of the month I should get it.'

'How much?'

'Well, I invested…well, pretty much all my life savings.'

'Oh, God, Rosie. How much?'

'Nearly £2,000.'

'Oh, shit.'

'But I'm getting at least £5,000 back. I'm going to get a wee deposit for a flat.'

'Oh, no, Rosie. It's a scam.'

Rosie tutted. 'Is! Don't be ridiculous! Mrs Dixon running a scam? She's a Methodist.'

Rosie's phone rang. She picked it up. It was Jimmy, up at the reception. The police had arrived at the Myowne mobile home park and were on their way to Rosie's.

'Is!' said Rosie.

'Police?' he said.

'What? You mean you were expecting them?'

'Look, Rosie, I've got to get away.'

'You could have mentioned!'

'Yes, but—'

'But what about your tea? Where are you going to go?'

'I'm going to find Mr Dixon.'

When Sergeant Friel knocked at Rosie's door moments later he was met by a group of little boys and girls wearing plastic police helmets, and Rosie offering him a cup of tea. Israel was already halfway down the beach.

The police press conference had been scheduled to take place in Tumdrum primary school, but the headmaster, Tony Thompson, had refused permission; it was not appropriate, he felt, for the school to be used for such purposes. He didn't mind the occasional community group using the premises for charity events, or amateur dramatics, or martial arts, or the school's use as a polling station at local and general elections, but he drew the line at Tumble-Tots and dog-training, which were too messy and attracted undesirable elements, and a full-scale police investigation into a robbery, kidnap and a potential murder was clearly absolutely out of the question, not something he wanted to expose the children to, though admittedly most of them watched much worse on television every afternoon and evening, when they weren't playing Grand Theft Auto. The PSNI had then put in a request to set up in the First Presbyterian church, but the Reverend Roberts had refused permission also.

As Sergeant Friel then explained to Linda Wei, Deputy Head of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services at Tumdrum and District Council, what the police were looking for was a space–not a particularly big space–where they could hold press briefings and set up their operational headquarters. The station in Tumdrum had been shut down after the Good Friday Agreement, the nearest station was now in Rathkeltair, and what they were really looking for was somewhere centrally located in Tumdrum, a neutral territory, where people would be happy to come and speak in confidence. It needn't be a room. It could even be a large vehicle…

So, with Linda's blessing, the mobile library had been requisitioned and was now parked in Tumdrum's main square.

The police had erected an awning on the side of the vehicle, so going in to the press conference felt like entering a Bedouin tent, although instead of rugs and cushions and Colonel Gaddafi offering platters of dates and pitta bread and the olive branch of peace, there was a rusty urn with hot water for tea and coffee, paper plates of biscuits, and rows of orange plastic stackable chairs.

A long trestle table had been set at the back of the tent, up by the side of the van, and underneath the words 'Mobile Library' a big poster had been stuck up saying 'Crimestoppers'.

The tent was packed to its considerable capacity, crawling with reporters and cameramen. Veronica Byrd was sitting at the back towards the entrance, and the damp man next to her wore an old tweed cap, thick black glasses, and sported sideburns and a 1970s-style moustache; he was not national press, obviously, and so hardly someone that Veronica needed to talk to, so she stuck to punching things into her BlackBerry and texting on her mobile phone. The man leant across.

'Erm…'

'Israel?' said Veronica.

'Sshh,' said Israel. 'You're not supposed to be able to recognise me!'

'Why are you wearing those funny clothes and the stick-on moustache?'

He'd grabbed what he could from the children's dressing-up box on the way out of Rosie's caravan.

The last time Israel and Veronica had met had been some months ago, when Veronica's boyfriend was about to come home, and they had shared a brief, unsuccessful romantic entanglement.

'It's a kind of a joke,' said Israel. 'It's a…
Day of the Jackal
theme…party thing…I'll explain to you later. You wouldn't have a pencil or something I could borrow?'

Veronica looked at him.

'Pen, even?' said Israel. 'Just to make notes.'

'I don't carry spares,' said Veronica.

'Anything?' said Israel.

She dug into her handbag and gave him an eyebrow pencil. It was quite thick.

'Any paper?'

Veronica ostentatiously ripped a sheet of paper from her spiral-bound reporter's notebook.

'Now that's it. Don't ask me for anything else. I'm working here!'

So, the ingeniously disguised Israel was ready for his first police press conference, with eyebrow pencil and a single sheet of paper.

Several policemen emerged from inside the mobile library into the tent–Israel slunk down low in his seat at this point–and sat down at the table. A police officer introduced himself as a detective sergeant and began the briefing.

'Thank you for coming this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. As you are aware there's a lot of police activity in and around Tumdrum currently in relation to incidents at the weekend at Dixon and Pickering's department store. This is a fast-moving inquiry, and we are grateful both to the press and to the public for their cooperation with us so far in our investigation. We are making an appeal for new information this afternoon, and we're grateful to you for your assistance in this matter. As you know, most major crimes are solved with the help of ordinary members of the public'–unlike in Brownie's detective novels, thought Israel. 'So we want to get as much information out there to the public as we can.'

'Yeah, sure,' murmured a reporter.

'Can I say first of all that this is a major operational challenge for the officers of the PSNI locally, and Tumdrum and District police are doing a magnificent job.'

'Who's helping?' shouted out a reporter.

The detective sergeant ignored the interruption and continued. 'We understand that rumours are sweeping the local area, but the facts of last Easter Saturday morning, so far as we have been able to establish them, are these: Mr Dixon, dressed, we believe, as normal in a dark grey suit and white shirt and tie, left his home at approximately six fifteen. He then got into his silver Mercedes SL600, registration DIX 01, and drove to Dixon and Pickering's department store, where he entered the building using his swipe card. What we are trying to find out is what happened next.'

'That's what we're all trying to find out,' muttered another reporter.

'Mr Dixon has not used his mobile phone, credit cards or cash-machine cards since Saturday, and his passport and his clothes are still at home. I can also confirm that a large sum of money, in cash, is missing from the department store.'

The detective sergeant then paused and glanced behind him. A police officer appeared at the entrance of the mobile library and nodded. You could feel the crowd bristling with excitement: this was the bit everyone seemed to have been waiting for.

'Now at this stage in the inquiry, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Dixon's family wish to make a statement. There
will not
be questions at this stage for the Dixon family. Thank you.'

Mrs Dixon and the Dixons' three daughters emerged from the steps of the mobile library and took up seats with the policemen behind the table.

'Cordelia, Regan and Goneril,' Israel whispered to Veronica.

'Sshh,' said Veronica.

All the Dixon daughters, who appeared to be in their early twenties, looked exactly like their mother: so much so that they might have been a set of Catherine Deneuve Russian dolls. They were all blonde, and they all looked as though they had recently been weeping.

Mrs Dixon was resplendent in a black trouser suit with a dash of colour in the vermilion scarf around her neck. She blew her nose and tearfully read out a statement, which consisted of an appeal for her husband's safe return. The Dixons were then escorted back into the mobile library, and the detective sergeant invited questions.

Veronica had her hand up already.

'Veronica Byrd, the
Impartial Recorder
. Do you suspect paramilitary involvement in the disappearance of Mr Dixon?'

'We're not ruling anything out at this stage of the inquiry.'

'And you're not ruling anything in?'

'That's right. We are working with our partners in Serious Crime, and Interpol, and the National Missing Persons Helpline.'

'Is it kidnap?'

'As I said, we have been very busy analysing CCTV tapes and taking numerous statements and conducting house-to-house inquiries and at this stage we are keeping an open mind.'

'So you've got no idea?'

'At this stage it's too early to provide a definitive—'

'So you're not yet treating this as kidnap?'

'We can't say at this time.'

'Is this another example of Northern Ireland's mafia-style crime spree?' called out another reporter.

'I can't comment on that at this time.'

'And what about reports that Mr Dixon may have committed suicide?'

'We shall be providing regular updates on the inquiry as it develops, and we would be grateful if you would allow us to conduct our investigations with care and sensitivity during what is obviously an extremely difficult time for the Dixon family.'

The questions dragged on. Israel tried and failed to squeeze some profound sort of insights from the detective's vague assurances. After the press conference there was a gathering of journalists outside, gaggles of men in puffa jackets and cameramen packing up their gear. Veronica was talking to a well-fed-looking man in a trench coat.

A helicopter went overhead. Israel ducked.

'
Apocalypse Now
,' he said, sidling up to Veronica.

'Sorry?' said Veronica, who'd been doing a good job of ignoring him.

'I said,
Apocalypse Now
, you know, the, erm…'

'Look, I'll get back to you on that,' said the other reporter, pointing a finger at Veronica as though he were cocking a gun.

'Blast!' said Veronica.

'What?' said Israel.

'I've lost him now! He's from London!
The Times
! What do you want?' said Veronica.

'You're looking well,' said Israel.

'You're looking…weird.'

'Thanks. Veronica. Look. I wonder, could I…'

'Yes? What?' She had her mobile phone to her ear.

'Ask you a few questions?' said Israel.

'It's me who asks the questions,' said Veronica, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end.

'Yes,' said Israel. 'Sure. But—'

'What is it?'

'Who do you think did it, then?' said Israel.

'Did it? I don't know. I think they've had several people in for questioning already.'

'Yes,' said Israel. 'I was one of them.'

'You!' Veronica laughed.

'Yes, me,' said Israel.

'You are joking, are you?'

'No, I'm not.'

'But you're just a—'

'Librarian,' said Israel wearily. 'Yes, that's right.'

'So why did they take you in for questioning?'

'I—'

'Hello?' Someone had answered Veronica's call.

'Was there,' said Israel.

'What?' said Veronica, holding the phone away from her ear.

'At Dixon and Pickering's. On Saturday morning. When it all happened I was there.'

'You are joking?'

'No.'

'Shit,' said Veronica, then, speaking into the phone, 'Listen, sorry, I'll have to call you back.'

She looked at Israel intently: it was rather unnerving, but, he had to admit, flattering at the same time.

'Can you tell me all about it?'

'If you help me out.'

'You'll show me yours, if I show you mine?'

'Something like that.'

'Well?' said Veronica, hand on hip. 'You're going to show me yours?'