Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (4 page)

'Mr Dixon doesnae go to the toilet at this time,' said the caretaker.

'Right.'

'He doesnae go till eight o'clock.'

'Erm. OK. Gone for a stroll then maybe?'

'He doesnae go for a stroll.'

'Well, maybe he's just popped out. You know, to get a paper or—'

'He wouldnae.'

'Well. OK. So…'

'I think something's happened.'

'Well, yes, I'd say that's certainly a—'

'Kidnap, d'ye think?' said the caretaker.

'Well, I wouldn't…I'm sure there's a perfectly logical…There's not a note or anything, is there?'

'I couldnae see one.'

'Could someone have smuggled him out, past all the security?'

'I don't rightly know.'

'D'you mind if I…' Israel indicated the office.

'Go on ahead there.'

'You should ring the police.'

'I've rung 'em already. They'll be here any minute.'

Israel took the opportunity to take a quick look around Mr Dixon's messed-up office, which looked out over the front of the department store.

The office was beige. But it went beyond the average beige: it was a profound beige; its beigeness was total and complete. The furniture in the room–pale cream store cupboards and filing cabinets–was all fitted flush to the walls, and the walls were cream, the carpet was beige, and the table and chairs were a pale, pale pine; if you squinted, it would almost have been as though everything had been erased from the room, as if everything had disappeared. It wasn't just neat and functional–it went beyond that: it was a room that seemed to have vanished.

While the caretaker hovered nervously by the door, shifting from foot to foot in a state of profound agitation, Israel absentmindedly picked up some of the files and paperwork from the floor and put a couple of the chairs back upright; he did like things tidy.

The only real distinguishing feature in the room were the few framed photographs on one wall, showing the various Messrs Dixon and Pickering through the ages, standing outside the store, their arms folded, at first unsmiling, black and white men in bowler hats, and then, later, more recently, grinning, bare-headed men in full colour, as though the whole world and the weather had been warming up and cheering up over the past hundred years. The photograph of the current Mr Dixon showed a man of almost negligible features–a face that would not stand out in a crowd. From all his research into the history of Dixon and Pickering's, Israel knew only this about Mr Dixon: he'd inherited the business from his father, who'd taken it on from his own father, the founder; he wore dark suits and white shirts; and he took his responsibilities seriously. Widely respected in the community, upright and upstanding, Mr Dixon was someone to whom nothing interesting had ever happened. His office was beige: his life was bland.

The phone rang. Instinctively, Israel reached across the desk and picked it up.

'Hello?'

'Michael? Is that you?'

'No. I'm afraid, I'm…'

The phone went dead.

'Who was that?' asked the caretaker. 'The police?'

'I don't know. It was a woman. What's Mr Dixon's first name?'

'Mr Dixon he is to us here just.'

'Right.'

Israel and the caretaker stood silently for a moment and there was the distinct sound of Prince's '1999' being played slowly and purposefully on classical guitar: the muzak that played throughout the store was piped in here too.

He was trying to think straight.

'Right. Right. Erm…God. First. Right. Would you mind turning the music off?'

'What?'

'Can you turn the music off?'

'What's the point of that?'

'Because! I can't think. I need to…'

'But Mr Dixon likes it on in the morning.'

'But Mr Dixon isn't here and I've got his blood all over my hands!'

The caretaker went to turn off the music.

Israel had never been at the scene of an actual crime before, unless you counted the time he'd sneaked with some friends into a screening of a
Star Wars
film in Whiteley's while another friend distracted the attention of the usherette, or the time he'd taken an extra exercise book from the school supplies cupboard. But that was different. This was your actual true crime.

And he suddenly realised that he was in very big trouble.

'Right, don't move,' said a voice behind Israel. 'Stand where you are. Hands raised above your head.'

It was Sergeant Friel.

'Ah, thank God, Sergeant,' said Israel, turning around, not raising his hands.

'Raise your hands,' repeated Sergeant Friel. He was flanked by two police officers holding guns. And the guns were pointed at Israel. 'Hands!'

Israel raised his hands.

'So, Mr Armstrong,' said Sergeant Friel, half in question, half in statement, and entirely in disbelief. He then slowly stroked his moustache and added, clearly disappointed, 'All right, boys, lower your weapons. It's only the librarian.'

Israel and Sergeant Friel had met on several occasions before, none of them exactly propitious: once when Israel had been mysteriously nearly run over by a speeding car when he'd first arrived in Tumdrum; again a few months later when Israel had caused an obstruction on a public highway by parking the mobile library too close to a corner; and again on a regular monthly basis, on Monday nights, when Sergeant Friel came with Mrs Friel to the mobile library to change their books. (Sergeant Friel had a taste for true crime, Israel recalled–Mrs Friel was more romantic fiction–and you might have thought he'd have liked a bit of a change, Sergeant Friel, given his line of work, though admittedly it was mostly serial killer stuff he was borrowing and in all likelihood there wasn't too much of that in the daily life of a policeman in Tumdrum and District.) They had exchanged cross words across the issue desk on a number of occasions, Israel and the sergeant, which was shocking, really: even the PSNI were no better than anyone else at returning their books on time. Rosie was relaxed about fines, but Israel always made them pay. He was a stickler for the fines, Israel.

And now this was role reversal.

The beige office, which was empty just moments ago, was suddenly filled with men everywhere: police officers in police uniforms, police officers in plain clothes, police officers in white paper-suit uniforms.

Israel didn't know where to look, or what to say. He looked at Sergeant Friel.

'I'm sorry. I can't get my head round this.'

'OK, Mr Armstrong,' said Sergeant Friel. 'What did you say? You can't get your head round it?'

'That's right. I can't get my head round it.'

Sergeant Friel wrote something in a small black notebook.

'OK,' he said. 'What time did you arrive here exactly, Mr Armstrong?'

'Erm…'

Sergeant Friel again wrote in his little black book.

'I…'

Sergeant Friel wrote something else.

'Are you writing all this down?' said Israel.

'Of course.'

'Why?'

'Because because,' said Sergeant Friel.

'Because of the wonderful things he does?' said Israel.

Sergeant Friel took a note of this remark too.

'You don't have to write that down! That was a joke. That was—'

Sergeant Friel cleared his throat and appeared to be about to deliver a speech.

'I am keeping a contemporaneous record of our conversation, Mr Armstrong. Because we're going to have to take you in for questioning.'

'What?'

'You may have some vital information.'

'But I was just here setting up my exhibition.'

'Your what?'

'My five-panel touring exhibition on the history of Dixon and Pickering's. Downstairs…'

'Ah, well.' Sergeant Friel noted this down carefully. 'This is a major crime scene now.'

'But—' began Israel.

Sergeant Friel cleared his throat again and began another speech. 'You do not have to say anything, Mr Armstrong. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. And anything you do say may be given in evidence.'

Israel stared at him, wide-eyed. 'What?'

'Do you understand that, Mr Armstrong?'

'Yes. Of course I do. No. I mean, no. I mean…What? What are you talking about? You can't take me in for questioning. What about my exhibition? I've worked for months getting all that stuff together.'

'That's hardly important now, is it, Mr Armstrong?'

'It may not be important to you, Sergeant, but I spent months getting those photographs laminated!'

'Aye, well, that's howsoever.' Sergeant Friel was still scribbling in his notebook. 'And if you could speak more slowly and clearly?' He raised a finger. 'And just put these on.'

Another policeman stepped forward and dangled handcuffs in front of Israel.

'What?'

'Handcuffs, please,' said Sergeant Friel.

'Look, if this is because of the fines,' said Israel.

'The what?'

'The library fines. You know. Because you never return your true crime books on time, and now you're persecuting me because—'

'Ach!' said Sergeant Friel, his face reddening around his moustache. 'This is nothing to do with library fines! This is an extremely serious matter, Mr Armstrong, and I suggest you start taking it seriously. There has been a major robbery here, and a suspected kidnapping, and you are on the scene, so we're taking you in. It's really quite simple. Now put these on.'

'No! No.' Israel went to turn away. 'I am not putting on any handcuffs. I haven't done anything wrong.'

'Very well.'

Sergeant Friel nodded at the armed police officers flanking him, who promptly stepped forward and took Israel firmly by the elbows, while Sergeant Friel took the handcuffs and slipped them on Israel, palms inward.

'Hang on!' said Israel. 'Hang on!'

'Billy!' called Sergeant Friel, and one of the white-suited policemen who were filling the room approached Israel.

'Pockets,' said Sergeant Friel, and the white paper-suited policeman started searching Israel's duffle coat pockets.

'What!' shouted Israel. 'What the hell are you…! Hey! Hey!'

He stepped back, and the two armed officers once again moved forward and took him firmly by the elbows. As the white-suited man removed the items from his pockets he gave them to another man in a white paper suit.

'What the hell's he doing?' Israel asked of Sergeant Friel.

'He's Exhibits Officer,' said Sergeant Friel.

'He's what?'

As the Exhibits Officer was handed each item from Israel's pockets he placed them with his surgically gloved fingers in little see-through plastic bags, labelling each with a pen. (The contents of Israel's pockets, as revealed by this process were: two Pentel rollerball pens; some tissues (used); a dog-eared copy of the
London Review of Books
, folded in half and then into quarters, which Israel had been carrying around with him for over six months, and which he fully intended to get round to reading, eventually, if only for the Personal ads at the back; a copy of
Carry On, Jeeves
, which was his current between-service-points reading; a page torn out from last week's
Guardian
, containing an advertisement for the position of senior information assistant at the British Library, a job Israel knew he'd never get but which he might apply for anyway; a Snickers bar, which he'd clearly forgotten about, because if he'd known he'd have eaten it already; and a cassette, sides three and four, from an eight-cassette set of Stephen Fry reading
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
, which had somehow become separated from the box in the library and which he'd forgotten to reshelve; his mobile phone; and lint, a lot of lint.)

Then they swabbed his hands.

Pockets emptied, hands wiped, Israel was escorted through the offices and down the first set of stairs into the department store, which was filled with policemen, swarming like locusts, and then down the mahogany staircase and out of the front of the building, where none other than Ted Carson happened at that moment to be arriving in his cab, his old Austin Allegro with its illuminated orange bear on the roof ('Ted's Cabs: If You Want To Get There, Call the Bear'). Ted was supposed to have been there over an hour ago, helping Israel set up the exhibition. He was too late now.

Ted wound down his window.

'What's he done now then?' said Ted, as if all he could expect from Israel was trouble, and as though the sight of him being escorted handcuffed by armed police officers was pretty much a normal turn of events.

'Ted!' said Israel.

'Ted,' said Sergeant Friel.

'Brendan. What's the trouble?'

'There's been a theft, Ted. This is a crime scene now.'

'Aye, well,' said Ted, who made the fact of Dixon and Pickering's having turned into a crime scene sound no more interesting than a change in the weather. 'But what's he to do with it?'

'We're to bring him in for questioning.'

'Ach, him?' Ted laughed. 'Are you away in the head, Brendan? He's the librarian, for goodness sake.'

'Aye.'

'And he's English,' added Ted, as if that were some further excuse or a disability.

'Right enough, Ted, but I'm closing this area down.'

Ted got out of the car. His bald head glistened, in the dawn. He drew himself up to his full bearish height, and towered over Sergeant Friel.

'Now, what would you want to be taking him away for, Brendan? We've the exhibition to be sorting here.'

'Sorry, Ted. This is a serious crime.'

'Aye, but he's not going to have anything to do with anything, is he?'

'That's what we're trying to establish, Ted.'

'Come on, Brendan. You wouldnae send him to fetch a loaf, would you? Look at him.'

'Sorry, Ted, we've to get on here.'

'Well, let me come with him then,' said Ted, putting out an arm to block Sergeant Friel's way. 'I'll follow yous in the car.'

'I don't think that'd be a good idea, Ted, would it? You're hardly going to want to be seeing the inside of the station now, are you?'

'Ach, Brendan.'

'This isn't your business now, Ted. You'll be obstructing us if I've to speak to you again.'