Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery

by Ian Sansom

'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?'

  'No, you first.'

  'Ach! Israel! You're just like all the others.
'

  Israel blushed. 'So, what do you know about Mr Dixon?' he asked.

  'What do you want to know?'

  'I don't know. Anything,' said Israel.

  'I know he'd wear the same suits every day. Same shirts. Same shoes.'

  'What, he'd never wash them?'

  'No, he had several pairs of each, all exactly the same. That's what people say, anyway.'

  'Why would someone wear the same clothes every day?'

  'I don't know. It's a disguise I suppose, isn't it? Which you would know more about than me, frankly.'

  'Yes. Thanks.' Israel fingered his stick-on moustache. 'And what about money trees? Do you know anything about money trees?'

  'Money that grows on trees? Hello? Calling Israel?'

  'No, I mean those investment schemes, where people—'

  'Oh, you mean like pyramid selling?'

  'Exactly.'

  'Oh yeah, we get those occasionally.'

  'Recently, round here?'

  'I don't know. They tend not to come to light until the whole thing's collapsed, and then people are too embarrassed to come forward and admit that they've been involved. There was one in a church, I think, a few years back. There's probably been some stuff in the paper. I don't think I've ever done a story on it myself. I could check. Why do you want to know?'

  'It's just…something I'm working on.'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'Would you be able to get some information on them?'

  'I could. But what's in it for me?'

  'You get my full story, when it's all over and done with.'

  'Ah, Armstrong,' said Veronica, 'you are a good boy. You know the way to a girl's heart.'

  Alas, thought Israel, he did not.

  13

  The back room at the the First and Last–which was run by the famously rude and teetotal Elder Agnew Jr, and which was either Tumdrum's first or last pub, depending on which way you were coming into town–didn't look as though it had been touched since about 1950, and if it had, the touch had been light, the wrist limp. Elder, as a born-again evangelical Christian, did not regard cleanliness as in any way related to godliness–he believed in justification by faith and not sanctification by works–and he was just too mean to pay a cleaner. In the back room of the First and Last dust had long since turned to crust, and there was a slight stickiness to every surface. The front bar of the First and Last at least made a pretence of a few home comforts: velveteen banquettes, the occasional wipe of a surface, pictures, Scripture-text mirrors, the fire. But in the back room there just was a single grimy 'Guinness Is Good For You' print on the wall, an old jukebox, a boarded-up fireplace, and that was it. Bare boards, tables and chairs that did not match, primitive wooden benches, windows with grilles over them, smoke so thick and so dense it felt you were eating it, and you were so close to the vat of Elder's illicit mini-distillery out back that you only had to stay in the room for about half an hour and even if you were drinking sparkling mineral water your eyes would soon start to roll, your spirits soar, your speech slur, and eventually you'd pass out.

  Ted was introducing Israel to a few people; he'd been lying low during the afternoon at the offices of the Impartial Recorder with Veronica, working his way through the microfiche; he hadn't discovered as much as he'd hoped.

  'Big Red, Israel Armstrong.'

  'Hello.' Israel and Big Red shook hands.

  Big Red had a ginger moustache.

  'This is One Brow.'

  'Hello.' Israel and One Brow shook hands.

  One Brow had one brow.

  'Barney.'

  Barney sported both comb-over and moustache.

  'Hi, Barney.'

  Israel went to shake Barney's hand.

  'All right, forget the shaking of hands,' said Ted, 'or we'll be here all flippin' night.'

  'Sorry, Ted,' said Israel.

  'Jim Savage,' continued Ted.

  Israel simply nodded. Savage by name, savage by…

  'This is Thompson–we call him Tonky,' said Ted.

  'Hello, Tonky.' Tonky looked withered from drink.

  'And Tonky's son, Honky.'

  'Honky Thompson?'

  'Aye.'

  'Hello, Honky.' Honky hadn't yet withered as much as his dad, but he was getting there; he'd shrivelled.

  'Wesley you might know. He runs Virtual Victuals.'

  'What?'

  'Virtual Victuals, the Internet butcher?'

  'Irish bacon. Irish hams, black puddings, white puddings,' said Wesley.

  'Lovely,' said Israel.

  'And Billy,' concluded Ted, nodding towards a man seated at a table with a group of other men, 'and Sammy. And Billy. Sammy. Billy.'

  'Billy, Sammy, Billy, Sammy, Billy?'

  'Aye.'

  'You'll be set a test on the names later,' said a Billy.

  'Which I'll fail!' joked Israel.

  'Aye,' agreed Ted. 'Drinks then?'

  'I'm a bit…' Israel patted his pockets.

  'Aye. Put your money away.'

  Israel accompanied Ted to the bar, which was a plank of wood across the back of the front bar.

  Ted ordered.

  'Ted.' Israel spoke quietly. 'Who the hell are all these people?'

  'These boys? Some of them are from the choir I was telling you about, some of them from the lodge.'

  'The Orange lodge?'

  'Give over. Masonic lodge.'

  'Right. And they're here because?'

  'We're putting our minds together to try and help you out. Brainstorming, you know.'

  'Brainstorming? No, Ted, look, that's very kind of you and everything, but I'm not sure that's going to help. I don't think we're going to solve this by committee.'

  'Aye, right. So how far have you got on your own then, Detective Inspector Rebus?'

  'Erm. Well, I think…' Israel lowered his voice and looked around to check that no one could overhear him. 'I think there's a possibility Mrs Dixon might be involved in some kind of financial mismanagement.'

  'What, she's topping up her housekeeping? And that's it? That's what you've discovered so far?'

  'Sshh, Ted. It's a bit more complicated that that actually—'

  'And how long have you got left to sort things out, before they haul you back in?'

  'Till Saturday.'

  'And today is?'

  'Tuesday?'

  'It's Monday, you eejit. I think you'll be needing a hand then, eh, if you don't even know what day of the week it is? Here, take these.'

  Israel helped Ted take pints back to the tables.

  'So?' said Ted, drinks delivered, sitting down.

  'We need to look at this logically,' said the man called Big Red.

  'Aye,' added One Brow. 'Why would anyone kidnap him?'

  'Because he disturbed them?' said a Billy.

  'Wouldn't he just become a liability?' said One Brow.

  'Why?'

  'Because he knew their identity?'

  'Aye, well, there is another possibility,' said another Billy.

  'Which is?'

  'He was working with them.'

  'You think Mr Dixon was involved in a criminal gang run by former paramilitaries?' said Tonky, who was smoking a pipe.

  'No. Not really,' said a Billy. 'I'm just thinking out loud here.'

  'Well, can you not, it's confusing me,' said Tonky.

  Israel was keen to make his own voice heard. 'Erm. If I could just—'

  'Wesley knows him, don't you, Wesley?' said Ted.

  'Aye, Ted. Saw Mr Dixon on the golf course last week.'

  'How'd he seem?'

  'He looked rightly.'

  'You can't judge a book by its cover.'

  'Aye.'

  'But a rich man has his problems also,' said Wesley.

  Israel thought on that for a moment. He thought about all the rich men he knew. Gloria's father: he certainly had his problems. He was some kind of businessman, import-export. He was divorced from Gloria's mother. When Israel was first getting
to know Gloria, her parents were both still living in the house together. Terrible atmosphere. Terrible. It had put him off divorce. Whenever Israel went round her father would be banished to the back room, slumped in front of the TV, eating ready meals. A condemned man. Probably the richest person Israel knew was an old friend from college, Pete; he'd gone into some sort of Internet start-up, crested the wave, and these days Israel could never get him to return his calls, and when he did he wished he hadn't, because he'd usually be on board a private jet on his way to Monte Carlo. Last time Israel had spoken to Pete he was just back from a weekend in Iceland; he'd had a good time. In fact, 'Reykjavik is my new party city,' he'd said. They were maybe drifting apart.

  'You know, I think he's done himself in,' said Honky, a man for whom the glass seemed always–metaphorically and literally–half empty. 'Pint anyone?'

  'Why would he do himself in?' said Tonky.

  'Just because,' said Honky, getting up for the bar.

  'I think we need to look at this logically,' said Big Red again.

  'Aye,' said Tonky. 'People don't just kill themselves for no good reason.'

  'There were always those rumours, mind,' said a Sammy.

  'What rumours?' said Israel.

  'That he was, you know…'

  'What?'

  'A kiddie fiddler,' called Honky from the bar. 'Pints?'

  'Aye!' came a collective response.

  'Ach,' said Ted. 'Lot of nonsense. That was because he did the children's parties, just.'

  'Right,' said Israel. 'Erm, I wouldn't mind some crisps, actually…Tonky?'

  'Honky,' said Honky. 'Tayto cheese and onion?'

  'Please. I'll have two packets actually, if that's…'

  'Aye. Lads?'

  'Aye,' came the further call.

  Israel hadn't eaten a proper meal since…Saturday? It had been all crisps and sandwiches. He thought he'd maybe lost a few pounds. He was on the fugitive diet, but he couldn't recommend it. A stomach staple would be easier.

  'I think he's just taken hisself off,' said Wesley, who spoke as though he'd recently eaten a large mixed grill which, being a butcher, he probably had.

  'Why would he take hisself off?' said Ted.

  'To get away.'

  'To get away from what though?'

  'People do, don't they? Just throw up the head and…'

  'Aye,' agreed a Sammy. 'What about that fella Stephen, what do you call him, a few years back? Mate of yours, Ted?'