The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery
Page 16
“God, no. It’s shit.”
“It’s not shit, actually, Israel. You just don’t like it.”
“Well, there are objective critical standards.”
“Yeah, sure, if they’re yours.”
“Not just if they’re mine. Lots of people think Paulo Coelho is shit.”
“Look.” Veronica pointed the book out to him. “It says on the back here that the book has been translated into sixty-four languages and sold twenty million copies worldwide.”
“That still doesn’t mean it’s not shit. Hitler was pretty popular too.”
Veronica tutted.
“Israel! Anyway. I was going to show you this. Here.” She pulled a newspaper from her bag, flicked through, and pointed to a page. It was a copy of last week’s Impartial Recorder.
“What?” said Israel. He read the headline. “‘Solar Heating Firm Wins Prestigious Award.’ So?”
“What’s the byline?”
“‘By Our Reporter.’”
“That’s me.”
“Uh-huh,” said Israel, not understanding.
“What about that one?” She pointed to another story.
“‘Local Dairy Export Farm Praised for Its Marketing.’”
“Guess who?”
“You?”
“Correct.”
Israel flicked through the rest of the paper—the birth of a very large pig, a school recycling art project, and twelve jobs saved at the local meat-wrapping plant.
“So?”
“Israel. I am twenty-eight years old. I have been working on this newspaper for almost ten years. I have no intention of working on this paper for the next ten years. I need this story.”
“Well, you’re a journalist, can’t you—”
“I need this big story.”
“Right. Well, can’t you just sort of write it up, or whatever you usually do?”
“I don’t have any source or any inside information.”
“Ah.”
“Which is where you come in. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a source.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“So what do you say?”
“No, sorry. I don’t really see how I can—”
“Israel,” she said, putting her hand out and placing it on his. He noticed her nails. She had soft hands. “I don’t believe for one moment that you’re involved in this.”
“Good.”
“And it’s as a friend that I’m asking you to help me with this.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I value our friendship very much, Israel.”
“So do I,” said Israel. “But there’s really nothing to tell.”
“Israel.” She picked up her glass of wine and took a small sip. “I really think you should help me.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She took another, longer sip of wine. “There’s no easy way to put this. If you don’t, Israel, I’m going to have to report it in the paper anyway.”
“Report what?”
“Well, I don’t know. Something like, ‘A thirtysomething English man has been helping police with their inquiries.’”
“I’m not thirtysomething!”
“I thought you were.”
“Why does everyone think I’m thirty already?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not thirty…until next week.”
“Sorry.”
“But why would you write that?”
“Why not? It’s within legal limits. And the Impartial Recorder is a journal of record.”
“The Impartial Recorder?”
“Yes, actually.”
“But there’d be a witch hunt. People would think I had something to do with her disappearance. They’d send out a lynch mob.”
“I doubt it,” said Veronica. “Not a lynch mob as such. People might start asking questions, though, I suppose. You know what they’re like round here. ‘There’s no smoke without fire,’ they might say.”
“Exactly!”
“People will assume that just because you’ve been interviewed and it’s been reported in the paper, that you must have something to do with it.”
“But I don’t.”
“Of course not. And certainly none of us want to see an innocent man in court.”
“I’m not going to court!” said Israel.
“No, you’re not. That’s exactly what we want to avoid happening, Israel. Which is why I want to help you.”
“I thought you said it was me helping you?”
“We’d be helping each other,” said Veronica.
“That’s blackmail,” said Israel.
“Don’t be silly! That’s not blackmail, Israel. It’s how business works. It’s just a suggestion as to how we might come to an arrangement to our mutual benefit.”
“No,” said Israel, “sorry.”
“I’m sure if you help me, there are lots of ways I could help you.”
She looked Israel up and down.
“Erm.” Israel looked shyly away. And then he looked less shyly back at her. He had rather missed female company.
“Well,” he said.
“I don’t mean like that, Israel,” said Veronica.
“Oh. Sorry. I just thought you…”
“Israel. This is not like the last time.”
“When?” said Israel innocently.
“When Mr. Dixon disappeared. That was different.”
“Why?” said Israel.
“Well, he was a silly old fool. This is a young girl who’s gone missing.”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
“So,” she said, leaning forward. “Just to be clear. What happened between us before—”
“Yes?”
“Was a terrible mistake.”
“Ah,” said Israel. “Yes.”
“So long as you’re clear about that.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She straightened out her skirt and took a sip of her wine. “Look at us!” she said, laughing.
“Yes!” said Israel sadly. “Look at us.”
“Like old friends!”
Israel thought about Gloria again.
“So, do we have a deal.”
“Do I have a choice?” said Israel.
“Not really,” said Veronica. “No.”
“Well then.”
She put out her hand.
“So we’re in business?”
“I suppose,” said Israel.
“Good.” She took a napkin and a pen.
“You can’t write on the napkin!”
“At these prices, Israel, I can write on the walls.”
Veronica started making shapes and doodles on the napkin.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m mind mapping.”
“You’re what?”
“Mind mapping? Tony Buzan. It’s a good way of problem solving.”
“Like brainstorming?”
“Kind of. What we need to do is build up a complete picture of Lyndsay’s friends, her social circle. We need to think laterally.”
“We should try to get Ted on board,” said Israel.
“On board?”
“With the mission,” said Israel.
“Yeah, well, I’ll leave that to you. Good luck with that. We’ll need to talk to her parents, of course.”
“I can’t do that,” said Israel.
“Why not?”
“Well, we’ve had a little bit of a history, me and Maurice Morris.”
“Fine. I’ll do him. You can do the mother. What else do we know about Lyndsay?”
“She borrowed books from the library.”
“Apart from that.”
“She was at school.”
“What else? Clubs? Hobbies?”
“No idea.”
“She worked sometimes at weekends in the fish and chip shop at the bottom of High Street in Tumdrum.”
“The Venice Fish Bar?�
�� said Israel.
“That’s the one.”
“Why is it called the Venice Fish Bar? I’ve always wondered.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did she work there?”
“I’m guessing her father wanted to teach her the value of hard work. You know what wealthy parents are like. Listen, if you’re going back to Tumdrum, why don’t you check that out, and I’ll look into any other hobbies or interests that might be a lead?”
Veronica’s phone rang. Her phone had the theme tune to Mission: Impossible.
She answered it, naturally.
Israel smiled at her understandingly.
She held the phone away from her mouth for a moment.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just need to take this.”
“Sure,” said Israel.
She got up and strode out of the restaurant. Israel watched her go.
A few moments later the waiter appeared with their lunch.
Israel sat and waited. And waited.
He poured himself another glass of Riesling.
And then another. It was good.
He ate his vegetarian lasagna.
It was OK.
He ordered dessert.
Key lime pie.
It was OK.
And coffee.
When Veronica eventually walked back in she was looking thrilled. And unapologetic.
“Have you eaten?” she said.
“Yes,” said Israel. “Sorry.”
“No, no, that’s all right. Listen, I’ve managed to set up an interview with Maurice Morris.”
“Great.”
“Now. So I need to dash—would you mind settling up?”
“Erm…Yeah. But…”
“Thanks, Israel.” She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll be in touch, OK?”
“You’ll be in touch,” repeated Israel. “Right.”
“You’re going to the fish and chip shop.”
“OK.”
“Anytime today would be good. We need to stay on top of this.”
“Right.”
“You can report back later.”
“OK.”
“Ciao!” said Veronica, sashaying out the door.
“Bye,” said Israel.
“The bill, sir?” said the waiter.
“I suppose,” said Israel.
“Your treat?”
“Clearly.”
14
That evening Israel stood in the queue at the Venice Fish Bar, his vegetarian lasagna lying heavily in his stomach. The rain had kept on all afternoon: it was turning into one of those classic Tumdrum long, damp days. Fortunately, the Riesling kept him warm.
It was a long queue but a small shop, and as he waited outside in the rain, his duffle coat hood pulled up tight around him, Israel looked in through the window. Even from outside you could tell that it wasn’t exactly what you’d call spotless. The tiled floor was cracked in places, and the brown-spotted pale yellow walls looked as though they might have once been white, and there was an old TV mounted on a shelf up high in the corner, the volume turned up so loud that you could hear it outside, even in the rain; it was a repeat of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Israel stood staring blankly as Sarah Michelle Gellar raced around, skimpily, warding off evil. He only wished he was Anthony Head as Giles the Watcher. Buffy was probably one of the things that had made him want to become a librarian in the first place. That, and the fact that he was a mournful, withdrawn, unhappy individual who preferred books to people.
Through the window he studied blurrily the big plastic signboard above the counter. The Venice Fish Bar was the kind of fish and chip shop where fish and chips were just the beginning, the prelude to a big concerto grosso of battered fish and fast foods. As well as fish and chips it did burgers, pizzas, kebabs, and curries. Basically, if it was bad for you, the Venice Fish Bar did it: if you could batter crack cocaine, or just deep-fry salt and sell it, then the Venice Fish Bar would have done it. This was not Off Main Street.
He watched the women inside, serving. They wore red baseball caps and red polo shirts, and they were all pale white, discolored by the exposure to spitting fat, and they looked bored almost to the point of self-destruction, as though they had become their baseball caps and red polo shirts, mere chip shop automatons, like machines assembling food, moving slowly from the counter to the cash register, and from the deep fat fryers to the griddles. It was not a happy sight. Israel felt depressed just watching it.
He made it in through the door as a couple were making their way out.
“Smell that,” said the man, opening up a grease-stained brown bag with an incongruous image of a gondola crudely printed on it, the grease seeping through like flood water. The woman with him obediently sniffed the contents.
“Mmm,” she said.
“Beautiful that is,” said the man. “Hawaiian burger.”
The fumes were like those from a particularly fruity air freshener, like a meat-based fruity air freshener. Fructified manure. Israel quietly gagged, huffed, puffed out his cheeks, and queasily waited his turn.
Finally, there was just one more person in the queue in front of him, a woman with hair so shiny and so straight it had the appearance of man-made fibers. She ordered a cod supper and a Coke.
“No Coke, only Pepsi,” said the baseball cap behind the counter. But the straight-haired woman was wearing headphones, so she couldn’t hear.
“No Coke, only Pepsi,” repeated the baseball cap.
Israel tapped the straight-haired woman in front of him on the shoulder, and she turned round, her hair swaying, her face stony. A face that may have been eighteen. Or may have been thirty. A fast-food-preserved face; a face that had temporarily postponed the consequences.
“What?” she said.
Israel motioned for her to remove her earphones.
“Sorry,” he said, pointing to the woman behind the counter. “Just, the lady was saying there’s no Coke, only Pepsi.”
“Pepsi’ll do,” said the straight-haired woman, putting her earphones back in and turning her back on Israel.
When the woman handed over the Pepsi it was a liter bottle. The woman staggered out.
Just to his right a man and a woman sat in a booth with their daughter, who was perhaps four or five years old. She was lying down on the wooden bench.
“Get up,” said the man. The girl got up quickly and proceeded to nibble at the plastic clamshell of chicken nuggets set before her.
“Can I eat it on the way home, Mummy?”
“No,” said the man.
“Your daddy says no,” said the woman. “Eat it now.”
“But, Mummy, I want to save it for home.”
“No. Your daddy says you can’t. Eat it now.”
“Daddy…”
“Shut up and eat it or you’ll get a slap round the head,” said the man.
Israel concentrated again on the menu board.
“Who’s next?” said the baseball-becapped young woman behind the counter.
“Oh, I think I am. Erm,” said Israel.
He gazed up.
“Yes?”
“Erm…”
“Yes?”
“Just a portion of chips, er, please,” said Israel.
“Regular or large?”
“Regular, please.”
“That all?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“That’s one pound seventy, please,” she said.
Israel handed over the money.
The young woman walked over to a brightly lit metal container full of chips and with one hand scooped a metal shovelful into one of the plastic clamshell containers. And then she walked back and handed over the chips.
“Thank you,” said Israel.
“Who’s next?” said the woman.
A man behind Israel started jostling to get past him. But Israel stood his ground at the counter, spreading his arms slightly to prevent the man coming forward.
“Erm. A
ctually, I wanted to ask you about Lyndsay Morris?” he said.
The young girl looked at him.
“Are you the police?”
“No, I’m not the police.”
“Are you a journalist?”
“No, I’m not a journalist.”
“Who are you, then?”
“You done?” said the man in the queue behind Israel.
“Yes,” said Israel, turning round. “Just one moment, please. I just really need to speak to someone about Lyndsay.”
“There’s people queuing here,” said the man behind Israel.
“Please,” said Israel to the girl behind the counter.
“Ask Katrina,” said the girl.
“Right. Thanks,” said Israel.
“Oi,” said the man. “It’s not a talking shop, it’s a fish and chip shop. Come on.”
“And where would I find Katrina?” persisted Israel.
“Go out and up the stairs,” she said. “Yes, love?” she said to the man who had pushed past Israel. “What can I get yous?”
Israel walked triumphantly from the shop and dumped the chips in the nearest bin.
Immediately outside the shop and to the right there was an open stairway filled with rubbish—the remains, mostly, of the Venice Fish Bar meals, both the meals themselves and the wrappings, along with plastic knives and forks smeared with ketchup, like elaborate place settings for a rat’s tea party.
Israel kicked his way gingerly through the rat’s place settings and walked up the stairs. At the top was a steel door.
He knocked. There was no reply.
He knocked again.
“Yes?” said a voice from inside.
“Katrina?” said Israel.
“Yes,” said the voice.
“The lady downstairs sent me up to see you. I’m looking for Katrina.”
“Are you the police?”
“No. I’m a librarian.”
This was Israel’s trump card.
“What?”
No one wanted to turn away a librarian. It would be like turning away the postman or Jimmy Stewart. It wouldn’t have seemed right.
“A librarian?” said the woman.
“Yes,” repeated Israel.
And as usual, it worked its magic; it was just a pity the same trick didn’t work on more romantic and intimate occasions.
The heavy steel door was heaved open.
“A librarian?” said the woman as Israel stepped over the threshold.
“Katrina,” he said. “I should introduce myself,” he said. “I’m—”
“A librarian,” she repeated “Yes, and I just wanted to ask about…”