The case of the missing books (12 page)

'Well,' he said, gingerly setting the bottles of wine down on the floor at his feet. 'I'll save them for my own…er…personal use, then.'

The wine went unmentioned for the rest of the rather strained meal and when everyone had eaten their fill of chicken and champ, Israel helped Mr Devine with the dishes while George and Brownie did various farm-type things, and then he made his excuses and went across the farmyard to his room.

Reconciled to the fact that he was going to be spending at least a few days in his whitewashed chicken shed in this mad teetotal wasteland, Israel decided to try and make the place feel a little more like home. He began properly unpacking the rest of his belongings from his old brown suitcase, or at least those that hadn't already been ruined by the wayward shitting chickens: it was books mostly, some clean underwear, and then more books, and books and books and books, the ratio of books to underwear being about 20:1, books being really the great constant and companion in Israel's life; they were always there for you, books, like a small pet dog that doesn't die; they weren't like people; they weren't treacherous or unreliable and they didn't work late at the office on important projects or go skiing with their friends at Christmas. Since childhood Israel had been tormented by a terrible fear of being caught somewhere and having no books with him to read, a terrible prospect which had been realised on only two occasions: once, when he was about nine years old and he'd had to go into hospital to have his tonsils removed, and he'd woken up in an adult ward with dried blood on his face and not even a
Beano
or a
Dandy
annual to hand; and again, years later, when his father had had the heart attack and had been rushed to hospital, and Israel had rushed there with his mother, and there was that long period of waiting while the doctors did everything they could for him…and always since then Israel had associated the bookless state with trolley-beds and tears, that demi-world of looming horror and despair, familiar to anyone who's ever sat for long in a hospital corridor with only their thoughts for company.

Israel piled the books onto the bed, erecting a kind of wall or a tower that might protect him from marauders, or the evil eye, or any remaining sneaky chickens, and then he changed into his holey pyjamas, and his jumper, and an extra pair of socks, and he prodded his glasses and snuggled down under the duvet–this was more like home now–and reached for the first book on the top of his pile…

A loud tap rattled the door.

'Hello?' he said, a little scared.

'Only me,' said Brownie from outside.

'Oh, right. Come in,' said Israel. 'God, you gave me a fright. I'm not used to receiving visitors.'

'Sorry,' said Brownie, entering. When he saw Israel in bed in his pyjamas he started walking straight back out again.

'No, it's fine,' said Israel. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine o'clock. It felt like midnight. 'Come in. Have a…' He jumped down out of bed. There were no seats to offer. 'Ah.'

'No. It's OK,' said Brownie. 'I won't stay. I just brought you…' and he reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small, half-full bottle of Bushmills whiskey.

'For me? Really?' said Israel.

Brownie handed over the bottle. 'I felt a wee bit sorry for you back there, you know, with the wine and all, and I thought you might like a…you know, a nightcap.'

'Well, thank you, that's very kind. Do you want to—'

'No, you're all right. I've got all this reading to do for an essay on epistemology for when I get back to college.'

'Right. Sounds like fun.'

'It is, actually.'

'Good. Well, good luck with it.' Israel raised the bottle of Bushmills aloft, admiring the golden liquid. 'Is this yours, then?'

'Aye,' said Brownie, ashamed. 'Just occasionally me and George have a wee swally, you know.'

'A whatty?'

'A wee dram just.'

'Right.'

'You won't mention it to Granda will you?'

'No. Of course not, no.'

'Because he's dead against the drink.'

'Yes. I noticed. Well. It can be our secret, eh?'

'Aye. Well,' said Brownie. 'Any inspiration yet about finding the books?'

'God. No. Not so far,' said Israel.

'Two-pipe problem?'

'At the very least.'

'Actually, I've been thinking about what I said at the dinner table,' said Brownie.

'Have you?'

'About affirming the consequent.'

'Ah, right, yes. That was very interesting.'

'I forgot about Occam's razor.'

'You did?' said Israel, sounding surprised. 'I mean, you did,' he then said, not wishing to appear as if he didn't know what Brownie was talking about. 'Yes, of course. And, er, what is it, Occam's razor–just to remind me?'

'"Entities should not be multiplied beyond what is necessary."'

'Ah, yes. That's it–took the words right out of my mouth. Which means what in my case, do you think?'

'Kiss.'

'Sorry?'

'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'

'Right.'

'You should really be starting your investigation not with Ted but with Norman Canning.'

'My "investigation", yes. Norman Who?'

'The ex-librarian,' offered Brownie.

'Yes. Of course.'

'They sacked him,' said Brownie. 'When they closed the library.'

'Oh.'

'So he'd be your prime suspect, I would have thought.'

'Prime suspect? Yes. Would he?'

'Well, he'd have motive and opportunity.'

'Right. Always useful. And…what's he like, this…?'

'Norman? He's…Well, we used to call him Canning the c—'

'All right. Yes, I can imagine.'

'I don't know if he'd be that pleased to see you.'

'Oh, I'm sure I can use the old Armstrong charm.'

'Right,' said Brownie. 'Your first case.'

For a moment, the way Brownie was talking made everything seem much more exciting than it actually was: looked at from Brownie's perspective Israel's life was almost like the kind of life you read about in novels. He could quite see himself as a Sam Spade-type character, actually: chisel-jawed, wry, laconic, solving crimes. Maybe he'd found his métier after all. Maybe that's where his true genius lay. He'd have to tell his mum.

'Occam's razor,' he said dreamily. 'Sword of Truth. Many Hands Make Light Work. Miss Marple. Lord Peter Wimsey.'

'Sorry?' said Brownie.

'Nothing,' said Israel, snapping back from his reverie, and searching around for a glass for the whiskey. 'Just thinking. Anyway. Ah. Here we are.'

'Well, goodnight then,' said Brownie.

'Yes. What did you say his name was? The librarian?'

'Norman. Norman Canning. He lives up round Ballymuckery.'

'Righto. And where's that exactly?'

'D'you know the old Stonebridge Road?'

'No.'

'Ah. Have you got a map at all?'

'No. 'Fraid not.'

'Ah. It's a bit tricky to explain.'

'Well, I'm sure I'll find it. Thanks for the—'

'Lead?'

'The whiskey. Do you want to—'

'No, you can keep it.'

'Are you sure?'

'Aye, you work away there.'

'Thanks. That's great. Well, I'll maybe speak to the, er…'

'Suspect?'

'"Suspect." Yes. The suspect. Indeedy. Tomorrow. Thanks again, Brownie. Goodnight.'

Israel poured himself a glass of whiskey and reached again for the first book on the top of his pile and he took a pencil and wrote on the inside cover of the book the word 'Suspects' and wrote down Ted's name and then the name Norman Canning. He was definitely getting the hang of this business.

It was no good. He was driving round and round in circles. All the roads from Tumdrum seemed to lead back to Tumdrum.

'I wonder,' he asked, pleasantly and smartly, having pulled the mobile haphazardly over to the side of the road back in the town and wound down the window and stuck out his head. 'Can you help me, sir? I'm looking for Ballymuckery?'

This was the fourth time now that he'd had to ask for directions, which was not a very detectivey kind of thing to have to do, and no one seemed to be able to help him, or indeed to be able to understand his accent, or to have any ability whatsoever in the simple explaining of how to get from A to B, or from Tumdrum to anywhere else. The first person he'd asked had told him he'd need to drive to Ballygullable first and then to go on from there, so he was now asking everyone for Ballygullable.

'Ballygullable?' Israel asked, hopefully.

'Come agin?' asked his latest possible help-meet, a man with a lively little dog and an accent so thick it sounded as though it had been freshly cut from a wheaten loaf and slathered on both sides with home-churned butter.

'Can you—' began Israel, his own voice suddenly sounding rather thin and undernourished in comparison

'Packy! Down!' commanded the man, which silenced Israel, but seemed to have no effect on the dog. 'Down! Or I'll give you a guid dressin'. That's a fierce cold, isnae it?' he continued, addressing Israel now, presumably, rather than the dog.

'Yes. It is. A fierce cold. Absolutely. Quite,' agreed Israel, prodding his glasses; the masking tape was unravelling.

'Now, son, whereareyoufor?' continued the man, leaning right in through the window: up close Israel could see that the gentleman had yellowy teeth with gold fillings, and skin as pale as a new potato–apart from the burst red veins and the flush on the cheeks–and that there were hairs growing from his nose, and not from inside his nose, but actually
on
his nose, and there was the distinctive smell of many years of cigarettes and pints, even at this early hour of the morning.

'Erm. Ballymuckery? It's just past Ballygullable, apparently.'

'Right you are,' said the old man, laughing a hollow, dry laugh–a real Old Holborn and blended whiskey kind of a laugh. 'And whereareyoufrom?'

'I'm not from round here,' said Israel rather weakly.

'Aye,' laughed the man. 'Well I knew that. Ballygullable! You nim-no.'

'Sorry?' Honestly, he couldn't understand half of what people said round here.

'Down, Packy!' the man told the dog. 'Will you stop yer yappin'? Stop! Down!' And with that he ferociously cuffed the dog, which cowered and whimpered and finally settled down. 'D'you know Abbey Street?' the man asked, smiling, turning back to Israel.

'Er…' Israel was more than a little put off and disconcerted by the sight of the now beaten and chastised dog–he was a vegetarian, after all–and he was not inclined to disagree or to contradict the man, but he couldn't work out the logic here: if he wasn't from round here, how was he supposed to know Abbey Street, unless for some reason Abbey Street carried its name and notoriety before it, like Fifth Avenue, or Oxford Street? And as far as Israel was aware, it did not: Abbey Street might be famous locally, but word of it had not yet reached Israel back home in north London. He looked down at the cuffed dog, though, and decided not to point out the logical error.

'No. Sorry,' he said, 'I don't know Abbey Street,' and then he started to speak more slowly, in that speaking-to-foreigners-and-those-with-possible-mental-impairments kind of a voice that he'd found himself resorting to increasingly since arriving in Tumdrum.

'It's-Ballymuckery-Yes?' and he nodded his head at this point, encouraging assent, 'That's-What-I'm-Looking-For.'

'Aye, aye. Right you are,' said the man, amused. 'And you reckon it's just past Ballygullable?'

'So I've been told.'

'Aye, well.' The man coughed again, and spat on the pavement. 'They're blaggarding you, you know.'

'Oh. I see,' said Israel, though he didn't.

'Never worry. It's just the way of us,' chuckled the man.

'Right. Yes. Ho, ho.'

'I'll see you right though–just let me think.'

This took some time–time that Israel used profitably in feeling sorry for himself, because now he saw: Ballygullable! Oh, honestly. They could have had their own Friday night sitcom, the people round here. Absolute side-splitters, the lot of them.

'Aye,' said the man eventually. He pointed down the road. 'I know. D'you see yon park?'

'Yes,' said Israel, although to be honest the patch of football-studded grass in the distance didn't look like much of a park to him. Hyde Park, that was a park.

'Up to the park there, and past the memorial.'

'Right.'

'You'll see the wine team.'

'Sorry?'

'The wine team, by the memorial. Old Shuey and them. They're harmless.'

'Right. OK,' said Israel, still with absolutely no idea what on earth the man was talking about.

'If you're wanting Ballymuckery you'd be turning left.'

'Right.'

'No, left.'

'Yes. Sorry, I meant left.'

'Aye, right. Just follow the road, son.'

The man now seemed to have finished giving his directions.

'OK. Great. Thanks,' said Israel, who went to wind up the window.

But the man hadn't finished. He pushed the window down, rather menacingly, thought Israel.

'So, you follow the road, right? Past the Spar. But that's not there any more. That's gone. It's one of them hair places now.'

'OK.'

'Then there's a roundabout.'

And here he paused again, for what seemed like a long time.

Israel assumed that this concluded proceedings.

'OK. Great, thanks,' he said, going to wind up the window again.

But no, there was more–the man was just thinking.

'Steady,' he said. 'I'm just thinking.'

There was a pathetic bark from the dog.

'And it's definitely Ballymuckery you're for?'

'I think so.'

'Aye, well. That's all right. Then there's another roundabout.'

'Right.'

'Straight on,' corrected the man.

'OK,' said Israel, through gritted teeth.

'And then there's the mini-roundabout.'

'OK. And then?'

'No, that's it. And Ballymuckery's up there on the left, by the old railway bridge.'

'Right. Good. How long do you think that should take?'

'Well, it's a brave wee walk, if you're walking.'