Overdue Item

by Peter Menadue

  "What did you say?"

  "Oh, I dished up a lot of crap about being a community hub and providing on-line services as well. I don't think they swallowed it."

  "Did they give any clue about which libraries they want to close?"

  Bronwyn's glanced away. "Nope, though someone did point out this library is the most expensive to run."

  "That's because we've got the most patrons."

  She shrugged. "Don't worry, I won't just lie down and die. I've got very pointy elbows."

  "Maybe we should get some patrons to lobby the committee."

  "You kidding? They see the deadbeats who come in here, we're stuffed." Bronwyn dropped her used tea-bag into a bin. "Speaking of which, there's something I want you to do ..."

  "What?"

  "The armchair near the Children's Section - the one in which the old guy died - I want to get rid of it. It freaks me out, and it's falling apart anyway. Get Maintenance to take it away."

  "Will do."

  "Alright, if I'm needed, I'll be in my office."

  Bronwyn headed for her office and Julia returned to the borrowing counter, where she called the Council's Maintenance Department and told them to remove the armchair. With unusual swiftness, half-an-hour later a couple of beefy Maoris in green overalls arrived. Like many of their brethren, they had huge frames that belied their good manners and soft voices.

  She showed them the armchair, which either still exuded the old guy's aroma or triggered a memory of it in her brain. "This is the one that's got to go."

  Mr Cheshire came around a corner, pushing a trolley full of books and looked suspicious. "What's happening?"

  "Bronwyn wants to throw out this armchair. It freaks her out because the old guy died in it."

  Mr Cheshire nodded. "Good idea. She's right for once."

  The Maoris each grabbed an armrest and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They next morning, just before the library was due to open, Julia sat behind the borrowing counter. The phone rang. She picked it up and listen to Gary moan that he was sick and wouldn't make it to work.

  "What's wrong with you this time?"

  "Flu, I think."

  "You don't sound too bad."

  "That's because you can't see me coughing blood."

  "Hah, hah. We're very short-staffed already."

  "Not my fault. I don't want to infect the rest of you. You're my big concern. Will you tell Bronwyn?"

  She wasn't going to do his dirty work. "You tell her. I'll transfer your call."

  A theatrical cough. "No time, I'm afraid. I'm late for a doctor's appointment. See you tomorrow."

  "Weasel."

  "Thanks for your sympathy."

  He hung up. Bastard.

  She strolled into Bronwyn's office and broke the news about Gary.

  Bronwyn shrugged. "Lazy little shit. I'd love to sack him, but nobody else will take his job. This means we'll only have you and Mr Cheshire out the front. Don't worry, we'll make do."

  Actually, Julia and Mr Cheshire would have to make do, because Bronwyn would not endanger her health by handling any of the books in the library. Julia felt a surge of anger. "You mean, you'll sit out the front, if necessary?"

  Bronwyn's expression said Julia had crossed way over the line. "I'd love too, but I can't - my doctor won't let me. And, if I get sick, we'll be even more short-staffed."

  Her absence would reduce the number of productive staff by exactly zero. Julia shrugged mutinously. "Your call."

  Bronwyn shot out a warning look. "Yes, it is."

  Julia went back outside and opened the front doors. She was sitting at the borrowing counter with Mr Cheshire, dead air between them and around them, when a class of ten-year-old boys and girls from a local school arrived for their regular library visit.

  Julia usually read them a story before a few of the more intellectual or curious ones borrowed a book. So, after their teacher snuck out to buy a cup of coffee, she read them a story about a little boy kidnapped by pirates. The children sat on the floor, obviously wishing that, instead of listening to her, they could tap a portable screen or watch TV.

  Russell, near the back, started picking his nose and wiping it against a wall. Mr Cheshire left the counter and circled around towards him. Suddenly, he grabbed the little boy's wrist and growled like a Mafia don: "Stop that, now, you horrible boy."

  Russell looked up at a gaunt bald skull with two piercing eyes and looked terrified. Two dozen small heads spun around and wore similar expressions.

  Mr Cheshire leaned close to Russell. "You can't do that in a library, understand?"

  The boy nodded slowly, unable to speak. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that - not even his parents when he set his dog's tail on fire.

  Jesus, Julia thought, if a teacher or parent hears that Mr Cheshire grabbed a child, for whatever reason, there will be hell to pay. Even parents can't grab their kids any more, let alone scare the shit out of them. What the hell was he thinking? The sickle of unemployment fanned past her face.

  Somehow, she had to stop 20 school children bursting into tears. "Don't worry, Russell understands; you understand, don't you, Russell?"

  Russell nodded dumbly.

  Mr Cheshire dropped his wrist, said "Good" and headed back towards the counter.

  Julia smiled at Russell and prayed he wouldn't cry. "You OK, Russell?"

  Russell looked stunned.

  She quickly resumed reading the book to distract him, talking loud and fast.

  Fortunately, with the resilience of youth, Russell soon started picking his nose again, though now he cautiously chewed some and wiped the rest on the front of his shirt.

  After the teacher returned and took his charges away, she decided to give Mr Cheshire a crash course in common sense.

  He sat alone behind the borrowing counter.

  She perched on the stool next to him. "Umm, Mr Cheshire?"

  He swivelled and gave her a coffin-plate smile. "Yes."

  "Umm, about earlier: you can't grab children like that - not in a library, or anywhere else for that matter."

  "You mean I should have let him wipe his snot all over the wall. This is a library: he should show some respect."

  Didn't he understand that nobody respected anything anymore, particularly libraries? This incident confirmed her suspicion that he had no children. "Maybe, but these days you can't yell at kids or punish them because it's bad for their self-confidence. Russell complains and we'll be in a lot of trouble."

  Mr Cheshire dialled up his glare. "Don't worry. Next time I'll let him wipe his snot all over the wall, or maybe give him a book to put it in."

  Better than getting charged with child abuse. "Look, I'm not saying you were wrong; I'm just saying it could cause trouble, understand?"

  He frowned. "What I understand is that nobody respects libraries any more, including librarians."

  Hands shaking, he grabbed the book trolley and headed off down an aisle. As she watched his flaming skull disappear, she reached two conclusions: she should have kept her mouth shut and he was, as Gary said, a spooky guy.

  She wandered back to the borrowing counter and had just sat down when Detective Dryden entered with a fat man whose red hair, broiled face, nasty suit, get-out-of-my-way expression and proximity to Dryden screamed that he was a detective. What on earth were they doing here?

  Detective Dryden approached her, looking all business. "Is the Head Librarian here?"

  "Bronwyn? She's in her office." She pointed at the office.

  "The door's closed."

  "Just knock."

  "She busy?"

  "I doubt it."

  He raised an eyebrow and strolled over to the door. Julia edged after him, wanting to hear what was going on.

  Detective Dryden knocked on the door.

  Bronwyn opened it and looked annoyed until she recognised him, then smiled daintily. "Ah, Detective, how can I help?"

  Dryden nodded towards his colleag
ue. "This is Detective Sergeant Cochrane. Can we have a chat, in private?"

  "Of course, come in."

  The two detectives entered and closed the door behind them.

  Drat. Julia was dying to know what they wanted. She briefly wondered if Mr Cheshire was in trouble for grabbing Russell. Surely not. They obviously wanted to give Bronwyn an update on the old guy who died by confirming that a hard life on the street finally caught up with him.

  She sat behind the counter for fifteen minutes, on tenterhooks, helping several patrons, until the office door swung opened.

  Bronwyn stepped out, hands shaking and ten years older. Her voice quivered. "Julia, will you please come in here?"

  Though the library was quite crowded, Julia was desperate to find out why Bronwyn looked shaken up. "For how long?"

  "Maybe a while."

  "OK. I'll tell Mr Cheshire to watch the counter."

  She quickly located Mr Cheshire, still shelving books, and asked him to keep his eye on the borrowing counter while she had a chat with Bronwyn.

  His skull-tone had subsided to salmon pink and he spoke curtly. "Chat? What about?"

  She was loath to mention the detectives and get dragged into a discussion. "I don't know."

  He paused. "OK."

  She retraced her steps and found Bronwyn still outside her office wearing a glazed expression; she strolled past her into the office.

  The two detectives sat facing the desk, their bulk shrinking the office. Tension bruised the air.

  Bronwyn pointed to an empty chair beside them. "Sit there, please."

  As Julia complied, Bronwyn slumped into her chair behind the desk and stared at Julia with wide eyes and trembling lips. "Umm, I think you've already met Detective Dryden."

  "Yes, the other day."

  "And this is Detective Sergeant Cochrane from the Homicide Squad."

  Homicide Squad.

  Julia's muesli breakfast geysered up her gullet and almost escaped. "Homicide?"

  The detective spoke gruffly. "Yes, I'm in charge of the investigation. Detective Dryden's my local contact."

  "What investigation?"

  "The murder investigation."

  Maybe she didn't wake up this morning and this was all a dream. Or maybe she'd murdered someone and was in a dissociative state, whatever that was. Or maybe she'd better find out what was going on. "What murder?"

  The detective glanced at Bronwyn, nominating her as the bearer of bad tidings. The Head Librarian leaned forward and spoke as if trying to convince herself she was telling the truth. "I'm afraid these detectives have just given me some horrible news which is very, very hard to understand."

  Julia's stomach flew into a storm front and got sucked into a down-draft. "What?"

  "I don't quite know how to explain this, but you know the old man who died here a few days ago ...?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, well ..." The Head Librarian's voice trailed off and she glanced at Detective Dryden.

  He cleared his throat and looked at Julia. "Your boss is trying to say he was murdered."

  Julia gasped. Her chair seemed to float and she touched the desk to re-connect with reality. Words formed in her head and escaped out her ears. Finally, one limped onto her tongue. "M … m … m … murdered?"

  "Yes, murdered."

  "You're serious?"

  "Of course."

  "Christ. That's ridiculous. This is just, well, a local library. We're just, well, librarians. People don't get murdered here."

  "The old guy did."

  "I thought he had a heart attack."

  Detective Sergeant Cochrane interjected. "He did, but only because someone strangled him."

  Someone seemed to be strangling her from behind. A big strong bastard. "What?"

  The Detective Sergeant dug a meaty thumb into the side of his neck. "He was strangled. Heavy pressure on the carotid artery caused a heart attack which caused death. Killer was probably a man, but could have been a woman with a strong grip - after all, the old guy wasn't exactly in prime condition. The forensic pathologist reckons that he probably only had a few years left to live." He glanced at her hands, which she wanted to hide.

  Bronwyn bureaucratic instincts sprung into action. "Do you have to call it a murder?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Can't you call it a suicide, or something like that?"

  The detective frowned. "He didn't strangle himself."

  "I thought you had ways of, sort of, brushing things under the carpet."

  The detective glared. "I'm afraid you've been watching too much TV. The pathology report says he was 'strangled'. That's pretty definitive."

  "OK, OK."

  Julia said: "Who'd kill a homeless old man in a library?"

  "No idea."

  "Who was he?"

  "Don't know. He had no ID, which is pretty rare these days, even for a hobo. His only distinguishing feature was his tatt."

  She remembered seeing a tattoo with a strange inscription on his left arm. "You mean, the one on his arm?"

  "Yes, this one." The detective dipped his meaty fist inside his jacket, pulled out a photograph and laid it in front of her. It showed a waxy inner forearm with the tattoo she saw on the dead body. "Looks like writing. Any idea what it means?"

  "Nope."

  "We don't either. I've seen lots of weird tatts in weird places, but nothing like that."

  The Detective Sergeant scooped up the photo, popped it back in his jacket and looked at Bronwyn. "I understand four librarians were on duty on the day of the murder?"

  She paused, as if answering a trick question. "That's right: me, Julia here, Mr Cheshire and Gary Clarke - though Gary popped out for coffee just before the body was discovered."

  "The other two, umm, Mr Cheshire and Gary Clarke - are they working today?"

  "Only Mr Cheshire; Gary's sick."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "Flu. He gets a lot of it, particularly when he doesn't feel like working."

  "Understand. Has Mr Cheshire got a first name?"

  "Yes, umm, Arthur, though we always call him Mr Cheshire."

  "Why?"

  "He's a pretty formal guy - not very friendly."

  "OK. Did either of you see anyone acting suspiciously around the time the old guy got strangled?"

  Julia said: "No."

  The detective glanced at Bronwyn, who shook her head. "I spent the whole day in here, doing admin." She sighed. "Never stops, I'm afraid."

  Detective Dryden interrupted. "You don't, by any chance, have CCTV cameras in the library?"

  "Of course not. I asked the Council to put them up to stop people stealing books, but they said they're too expensive. I don't think they want to catch anyone stealing anyway: that would create too much trouble."

  The Detective Sergeant turned his bloodshot eyes on Julia. "You found the body, right?"

  She shivered. "N ... n ... not quite."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The little boy found him."

  "What little boy?"

  "I mentioned him to Detective Dryden."

  Cochrane glanced at his partner.

  Dryden frowned and looked at Julia. "Well, mention him again."

  "OK." She described how the Asian boy came up to the borrowing counter and said a smelly old guy sitting in a chair was dead.

  "That's all he said?"

  I saw it.

  She didn't want to get sucked into their investigation, but felt obliged to help. "Not quite. He said something else."

  "What?"

  "I told him the old guy is probably asleep, and he said: 'No, he's dead - I saw it'."

  A frown. "So what?"

  "When he said '... I saw it', I think he meant he saw how the old guy died."

  The older detective flushed. "Jesus, you sure that's what he meant?"

  "Of course not. He's a kid. Maybe he got confused; maybe I'm confused. How would I know?"

  "Why didn't you tell us this earlier?"
/>   Now she was annoyed. "Nobody told me earlier that the old guy was murdered. It didn't seem important. I only remembered it just now."

  Dryden interjected. "OK, OK. We understand. What's the name of the little boy?"

  "I don't know."

  A scowl. "What?"

  "Like I told you before, his mother dumps him in the library when she goes shopping."

  "He doesn't have a library card?"

  "No."

  "What if the little boy wants to borrow a book?"

  "I think he just steals it."

  "You serious?"

  "Yep. You've got no idea how many of our books walk out the door without permission. I think the boy's stolen quite a few."

  "You sure about that?"

  "No. I've just got a suspicion. Books seem to go missing when he's about. I was keeping an eye on him, hoping to catch him - then this happened."

  "Do you check his bag?"

  "No, and I don't frisk him either. We're not the Gestapo."

  "Pity, great pity. Can you describe the little boy?"

  She gulped. "Sort of."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, he was about eight, with dark hair and, umm, a roundish face."

  ""What nationality?"

  Was it racist to assign the boy a nationality? Surely not. And even if it was, this was a murder investigation. "Chinese, I guess, or maybe Japanese, or maybe Korean - I'm not sure."

  A frown. "That's no help."

  "I'm sorry, he was only eight. I didn't pay much attention to him."

  The Detective Sergeant exhaled. "If you see the little boy again, you'll recognise him?"

  "Yes, I think so - maybe." The cop glared at her. "Yes, yes, I will."

  "Good. If you see him, grab him and hold him until we arrive."

  "I'm allowed to do that?"

  "Don't worry, you won't get into trouble."

  Despite his assurance, Julia didn't fancy getting between a Tiger Mum and her cub. "OK."

  The older detective leaned back and sighed. "This murder's a big puzzle: unknown culprit, unknown motive, unknown witness and even unknown victim. I mean, why would anyone bother killing an old derelict? God, I hate mysteries."

  Julia said: "I thought you were paid to solve them."

  A wan smile. "You watch too much TV. We usually know who the killer is: we've just got to arrest him and then do a lot of paperwork."