The case of the missing books (10 page)

'It is, actually.'

'I'm a librarian!'

'Yes. And you need to find your books.'

'No. I'm not Father bloody Brown.'

'There's no need for that sort of sectarian language, thank you.'

'Oh, Jesus Christ!'

'Mr Armstrong!'

'Right. OK. Sorry.'

'Good. So I'll take it that I can leave it with you then.'

'Oh yeah, sure, yeah,' said Israel, exasperated. 'Fine. Yeah. OK. I come all the way over here to this godforsaken hell-hole to play Inspector bloody Morse.'

'Please, Mr Armstrong. That's the second time I've had to warn you about your offensive language. I'm issuing you now with a verbal warning. One more time, and I shall have to fill in a report about your behaviour.'

Israel walked away across the empty library.

'Right. OK. Sorry. Excuse me. Fine. I'll tell you what, I'll solve it for you. I'll solve it for you right now; I'll solve your little mystery. Easy. Who has a key to the library?'

'I do, obviously.'

'Right. So did you steal the books?'

'No! Of course not. Don't be silly.'

'Fine. You're eliminated from my enquiries. Anyone else have a key?'

'Ted.'

'And that's it?'

'That's it. There's only two sets.'

'Right,' said Israel. 'So if you didn't steal them, there's no sign of a forced entry, it must, by a process of logical deduction, be Ted who's stolen them. Case solved, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight, I'm going home.'

Israel started to walk off.

'Hold on,' said Linda, picking at something stuck in her teeth. 'Hold on, hold on. Are you accusing Ted of stealing the library books?'

'Well, he stole the mobile library van, didn't he?'

'Ah, yes.' Linda now seemed to have got a hold of whatever it was that was stuck in her teeth, and was examining it on the end of her finger. 'He told you about our arrangement then?'

'Yes, right, that was your totally bonkers arrangement where he steals the mobile library and you buy it back from him? I mean—'

'Well. That was a…difficult situation,' said Linda, sniffing the end of her finger. 'You have to understand that the people who stole the van saw it as a civil rights issue.'

'A civil rights issue?'

'This is Northern Ireland, Mr Armstrong.'

'Right. Fine. Well, maybe they saw it as a civil rights issue to nick the library books as well.'

'Really! And what do you think they'd have done with fifteen thousand library books?'

'Read them?'

'Don't be silly,' said Linda.

'Sold them, then.'

'It's possible, I suppose,' said Linda, who now delicately chewed whatever it was that was on the end of her finger and started ferreting around in her bag again. 'But why would they want to do that?'

'To buy drugs and guns?'

'Please,' said Linda. 'This is Tumdrum. Not north Belfast. Any other bright ideas?'

'Well,' said Israel thoughtfully, 'no, not really. Are they chocolate brazils?'

'Yes. Would you like one?'

'All right, yes, please. Thanks.' It might help him think.

'Yes. Well, I see. If you've got suspicions about Ted, shouldn't you have a word with him?'

'Who, me?' said Israel, cracking the chocolate brazil between his teeth: the last thing he wanted to do was have a word with Ted. 'Can't you have a word with him?'

'I hardly think that would be appropriate, Mr Armstrong, do you?'

'Why not?'

'Because you're his line manager.'

'What do you mean I'm his line manager?'

'Ted is the driver of the mobile library. You are the librarian with responsibility for the mobile library. Any issues arising concerning his performance of his duties, it's your responsibility in the first instance to deal with it before referring it up to senior management.'

'And who's senior management?' asked Israel.

'Me,' said Linda.

'Right. Well, I'm referring it up to you.'

'And as your line manager I'm advising you to deal with it.'

Ted was still sitting outside smoking. He stood up as Israel approached. 'Well?' he asked.

'It looks like they've been stolen.'

'The whole heap?' said Ted.

'Yep.'

Ted blew out a long stream of smoke. 'Och. Any idea about who stole them?'

'Well, according to Linda, there's only two sets of keys.'

'I see.'

'She has one. And…'

Israel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He felt rather bad about saying this. Ted hadn't been entirely unhelpful since Israel had arrived, not
absolutely
entirely–he
was
rude and aggressive and physically threatening, but he had a certain charm about him, a certain undeniable winningness, a kind of huge, twinkly-eyed hoggishness–and it gave Israel no pleasure to be in the position of accusing Ted of theft. He could feel his head throbbing, and his sore ankle, just at the thought of it–but…

'What?' said Ted.

'What?'

'You were saying, about the keys.'

'Yes. Linda has one set. And you have the other one. So.'

Ted was silent.

'And we were just wondering…'

'We?'

'Me and Linda.'

'Aye.'

'We were wondering…You don't know anything about it at all?'

'About what?' Ted huffed.

'About where the books are? I mean, I was just thinking, because you…'

'What?'

'Well, because you, you know, you stole the mobile library…'

'Aye, right. I see, Columbo. Now get this right: I did not
steal
the mobile library. I
hid
her. Along with a number of other concerned citizens who were standing up for the rights of this community.'

'Yes, well.'

'And now the council have her back.'

'Yes.'

'And so now they've got her back they're trying to frame me for stealing the books, is that right?'

'No.'

'That'd be about right.'

'No, no. No one's trying to frame you for anything, Ted. I'm just asking if you have any idea what might have happened to the books?'

Ted threw away his cigarette butt.

'So you don't have any idea?' repeated Israel, rather weakly.

Ted kept his silence for a moment and then he looked Israel in the eye, and reached a vast, hard hand towards him.

'Here,' he said, giving Israel his keys to the library.

'What?'

'Keys.'

'What do I want them for?'

'Well, if you and auld two-face in there think you can go around accusing me of this, that and the other, and expect me to sit here and take it, you've another think coming. You might be from London and what have you, but you've got a lot to learn, let me tell you.'

'Ted—'

'You want to mind yourself.'

'Hang on, Ted!'

'You put a tramp on a horse and he'll ride to the devil,' were Ted's parting words, as he turned his back on Israel, and walked away.

'What?'

'You heard me. You're on your own now, son. Good luck. You're going to need it.'

It's definitely easier said than done, finding fifteen thousand missing library books, by yourself, in a place you don't know, among people you don't trust and who don't trust you, and in clothes that are not your own, but the finding of the many missing books was a task and a challenge that the now permanently rough and rumpled Israel Armstrong was setting about with his characteristic good humour and fortitude.

'Oh, God. You bastard. You bloody, bloody, bastard. You fff…'

It was his first day out on the job, book-hunting, Ted-less, out on his own in the mobile library; Linda Wei had given him a few names and a few places to start rounding up overdue books and books out on special loan, a few people he might want to talk to, and he'd been edging the mobile library slowly–very,
very
slowly–towards the school gates, two traditional fat brick pillars separating the traditional rusty cast-iron railings that surrounded the traditionally low, squat grey buildings of Tumdrum Primary School, his first port of call, and he was feeling pretty confident, pretty sure that he was getting the hang of the thing now, pretty sure that he'd got the distance about right, enough room to squeeze through, at least a couple of inches to spare either side, maybe more.

Unfortunately, though, Israel was still judging distances in the mobile in terms of the dimensions of his mum's old Honda Civic.

He'd turned neatly off the main road into the approach, eased the wheel round gently in his hands, crunching his way carefully through the old gears, and then he'd glanced up and seen a man striding towards the van across the school playground, waving at him. He was shouting something to him, Israel couldn't hear what–and he kept on waving.

And so of course Israel automatically lifted a hand from the wheel to wave back.

At which point the steering slipped slightly–just
ever
so slightly.

And there was this almighty
bam!
and an unholy
crunch!
and a horrendous
eeecchh!
–horrible, huge sounds straight out of a Marvel comic, which is where they really belonged, not here and now in the real world, and the man who'd been striding across the playground was now running towards Israel, at cartoon speed, and Israel jerked on the handbrake.

Oh, God.

He'd managed to wedge the van tight into the entrance to the school, like a cork hammered into a bottle. He nervously wound down the window of the mobile library as the man approached.

It took him maybe a moment or two, but then Israel recognised that it was his old friend Tony Thompson–the man he'd met only the other night in the back of Ted Carson's cab, the man who had punched him so hard in the face that he'd given him a black eye that was still throbbing.

Tony Thompson did not look pleased to see him.

'Small world!' said Israel.

'You!'

'Yes. Sorry, about the…' said Israel, gesturing towards the collapsing gateposts, prodding his glasses.

'You!'

'Sorry.'

'You!'

'Sorry?' Israel smiled, wondering if Tony had perhaps developed some kind of Tourette's syndrome since the last time he'd met him.

'You!'

'Sorry? Sorry. Sorry?'

The two brick pillars were leaning pathetically, like two miniature council Towers of Pisa, buckling the rusty cast iron on either side. It didn't look good.

'Look, I'm really really sor—'

'I know you're sorry!'

'Sorry.'

'Well, apology not accepted!'

'Right. Sorry.'

'Stop saying sorry!'

'Sorry. No! I didn't mean sorry–sorry. I meant OK.'

'Did you not see me waving you down?'

'Yes.'

'So?'

'Sorry. I thought you were just waving at me.'

'Why? Do you think I'd be pleased to see you?'

'Erm.'

'Of course I'm not pleased to see you. What the hell are you doing here?'

'I was just…it's about books for the library. Linda Wei, up at the council, she said the school might have some. I'm trying to put the library back together, you see, and—'

'And destroying my school in the process?'

'Erm.
Your
school?' said Israel. 'Do you work here then?'

'I,' said Tony Thompson, flushing and stiffening, and staring Israel in the eye, 'am the headmaster of this school.'

Oh, Jesus.

It took most of the day to ease the mobile library from between the school gates. The children in the playground at their break-time and lunch-time had to be held back from all the pushing and squeezing and hammering and excitement by a cordon of mug-hugging and distinctly unimpressed-looking teachers. The children were playing a new game, which they'd just invented, which involved running into each other at high speed and falling down: they called the game 'Car Crash'. Some of the more imaginative children, pretending to be Israel, got up from the floor when they'd fallen, puffing their cheeks out and waddling, in imitation of a fat, injured person. It was a miracle that Israel hadn't been hurt, actually, and that the van wasn't worse damaged–bodywork only.

'Just a flesh wound,' joked Israel to the miserable school caretaker who'd been drafted in to oversee the rescue operation, as the two of them set about knocking down the school gates using a sledgehammer, a pickaxe and a large lump of sharpened steel that the caretaker referred to affectionately as his 'wrecking bar'.

'I feel like Samson Agonistes,' said Israel, as he set about the pillars with the pickaxe.

'Aye,' said the caretaker, digging in with the wrecking bar. 'And I feel like a cup of tea.'

After the van was eventually released Tony Thompson's secretary grudgingly arranged for Israel to visit the school library–which also served as the school's computer suite, its special needs resources room, and apparently as some kind of holding area for hundreds of small grey misshapen pottery vases–for him to pick up any of the old Tumdrum and District Library books that had been on loan to the school during the period of the library's closure.

Israel fingered his way confidently along the little shelves marked 'Poetry' and 'Easy Reads' and 'Information', plucking off books with the tell-tale Tumdrum and District Library purple sticker on the spine and their identifying Dewey decimal number.

'It's a bit like blackberrying, isn't it?' Israel said merrily to the woman watching him, who was either the librarian or the computer suite supervisor or the special needs tutor, or the keeper of the pots, or possibly all four at once: she had man's hands and wore a machine-knit jumper, slacks and sensible shoes; she looked like she was more than capable of multi-tasking. Israel, on the other hand, had borrowed another of Brownie's T-shirts–which read 'Smack My Bitch Up', and which was now covered in brick dust–and looked fit for nothing. The school librarian did not deign to reply.

'I said—' began Israel.

'Sshh!' said the machine-knit jumper woman.

'Sorry,' said Israel.

Once he'd gathered in the books from the library he went back to thank the secretary, but there was no sign of her in Tony Thompson's office, or of Tony himself, and as he stood hesitating for a minute, staring up at Tony's many certificates and awards for personal and professional excellence–including an award for competing in an Iron-Man triathlon and raising £5,000 for school funds–Israel noticed a shelf of books behind the big brown desk, with the tell-tale purple markings on their spines and he went over and sat down in Tony's purple plush swivel chair, and took down one of the books.