Overdue Item

by Peter Menadue

  "Yes."

  "Why here?"

  Eric Adams grinned. "I thought all English criminals ended up here."

  "Hah, hah."

  A shrug. "For him, Australia ticked a lot of boxes: you're a long way from England; he'd been here several times before, and you speak English - sometimes. Men on the run always fall back on their old habits. So, when he arrived, he got a job as a librarian."

  "Even though he seemed to hate libraries?"

  "He loved them and hated them: he'd spent his whole life working in them, but they made him feel trapped. I assume that's why he torched the library in Adelaide."

  "In other words, he is completely nuts?"

  "Yep."

  "How'd you find out he was in Australia?"

  "My department recently received intelligence - I won't say how - that he had contacted Markov and offered to sell him the Codex Durham. They agreed on a price - US$2 million, as it turns out - and arranged to make the hand-over in Sydney."

  She remembered the argument 'Mr Cheshire' had with a guy in Spoons Cafe. "What does Markov look like?"

  Eric Adams pulled out his mobile phone, tapped it a few times and showed her a police mug-shot of the man she saw arguing with 'Mr Cheshire' in the cafe.

  "God, I've seen him before."

  "Where?"

  "Last Friday, I went out for lunch and saw Mr Cheshire arguing with that guy in a cafe."

  "What were they arguing about?"

  "I don't know - I couldn't hear them."

  "But you're sure they were arguing?"

  "Yep, they were sitting across from each other, scowling and finger-pointing."

  "They were obviously arguing about the codex. Markov arrived in Sydney about ten days ago to purchase it. However, after he arrived, Cheshire murdered the old guy and somehow lost the codex. Markov was obviously very pissed off about that."

  "Do you know why Cheshire killed the old guy?"

  "No. That's a real mystery. But, after he did, he couldn't run away, because the police would have immediately known he was the killer. He also had to hang around and try to recover the codex."

  "How did he lose it - what happened?"

  "I don't know. But I think he lost it in the library."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "Cheshire accused you of stealing it, right?"

  "Yes."

  "The only place you could have stolen it was in the library. He must have hidden it there, and somebody stole it."

  "Maybe the old guy stole it."

  "Unlikely."

  "Why?"

  "He didn't leave the library alive."

  She laughed. "I take your point."

  Adams drained his glass. "Maybe the little Asian boy took it."

  "You mean the kid who saw the old guy get murdered?"

  "Yes. Maybe there's a connection between Cheshire murdering the old guy and Cheshire losing the codex. I wouldn't be surprised. If so, the kid may know where it is, or might even have it."

  She'd been thinking along similar lines, but didn't want to get the child into further trouble. "That's all speculation."

  "I know. But I've got no other leads."

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "Keep looking for the codex, of course."

  An itch in her brain had to be scratched. She summoned up her courage. "You didn't, umm, look in my terrace yesterday, did you, when you disappeared?"

  He frowned. "Of course not. I had to go back to my hotel and talk to my superiors in London. But it's quite possible that Markov broke into your place and looked around. He's cunning and dangerous." He drained his glass. "Anyway, I hope you'll help me find the codex."

  "How?"

  "If you have a bright idea about where it might be, or maybe see the Asian kid again, let me know."

  This was definitely the most exciting moment of her life. An undercover investigator from the British Library wanted her to help him recover a priceless book. She nodded. "Will do."

  He touched her arm, creating a charge, and stared deep into her eyes. "Thanks. I'm sorry I lied about who I was, but I was just doing my job."

  She shrugged. "I understand. So, you'll be back at the library tomorrow morning?"

  "Of course. The library's the best place to find out what happened to the codex."

  She smiled. "So, tomorrow morning, you'll be Tom Birkett again?"

  He laughed. "Yes. How am I doing in that role?"

  "You mean, playing a mild-mannered librarian?"

  "Yes."

  "Not well, I'm afraid: you stick out like a sore thumb."

  A frown. "Why?"

  "Not many librarians look like you - in fact, none."

  A shrug. "Nothing I can do about that."

  "True."

  "Anyway, see you tomorrow. And, umm, please keep this conversation to yourself. I don't want to approach the local police just yet. I'll let you know when I do."

  "Don't worry, I'll keep quiet."

  "Thanks."

  She watched every step he took as he strolled out of the pub. Even before his big disclosure, she found him very attractive. Now he seemed exotic and dangerous, like James Bond. True, he worked for the British Library instead of MI-6 and didn't carry a pistol, but those were minor details.

  She walked home with mounting excitement. So what if the local detectives and an investigator from the British Library were hunting for the Codex Durham? She would find it herself and claim the credit for doing so.

  She wondered again if the little boy had it. She'd long suspected the kid was a book thief. Did he somehow find the codex and flee with it? Was it in his satchel when he left the library after the murder? Of course, good investigators kept an open mind and didn't put all their eggs in one basket. They stayed humble before the facts. She shouldn't pin her hopes on the kid. But she'd certainly keep a look-out for him.

  He mother once said: "miracles happen every day, we just don't notice them." Well, she'd noticed this one.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  To Julia's surprise, the Bradfield Public Library functioned smoothly the next morning. Bronwyn stayed in her office, out of the way, Gary was unusually co-operative and Eric Adams went back to being 'Tom Birkett', though she felt a frisson of excitement every time she remembered his true identity.

  About an hour after the library opened, she was strolling towards the borrowing counter when she heard someone outside, with a megaphone, chanting: "One-two-three, hands off our lib-rar-ee; one-two-three, hands of our lib-rar-ee ..."

  After a moment of confusion, she realised the protest rally to save the library had kicked off. Good grief.

  She strolled out of the entrance, stood under the alcove and saw that about forty protesters had assembled on the pavement, many brandishing signs that called for the library to be saved. Most of the protesters were quite elderly, though there were several yummie mummies and a few of the suburb's vestigial bohemians. She was pleased to see that many of the protesters were regular patrons.

  Standing nearby were about a dozen much younger protesters with dread-locks, nose-rings and ear studs, dressed in Goth gear or hoodies. They were obviously hard-core agitators - probably Trotskyites and Anarchists - who planned to hijack the protest and cause trouble. They didn't care about the fate of the library and regarded the other protesters as middle-class wankers.

  A little further away, three cops lounged against a patrol car, alert for trouble. A couple of mounted police officers had also turned up and sat impassively on their horses, one of which had already dumped a huge turd onto the pavement. Julia reckoned the cops should either clean it up or arrest themselves.

  A beefy guy with a megaphone stood in front of the middle-class group. He altered his chant: "Why are we here?"

  The protesters yelled: "To save the library."

  "Why are we here?"

  "To save the library."

  "Why are we here ..."

  She wandered back into the library. There were only six patrons in the
reading room. 'Tom Birkett' was in the workroom cataloguing some books and Gary had, as usual, disappeared, probably to smoke dope out the back.

  She had just started shelving books in the Children's Section, when she turned a corner and saw a little boy with a mop of dark hair sitting on a bean-bag, engrossed in a book, a khaki satchel on the floor next to him.

  Whenever she wandered around the streets of Bradfield, she kept an eye out for the little Asian boy who witnessed the murder, prepared to pounce and hold him until the police arrived. As each day passed, she became less hopeful of ever seeing him again. But she strongly suspected this was the child.

  She took a few steps to the side to get a better look at his face. Holy shit. It was him.

  Hands trembling, she carefully perched on a small plastic chair and tried to stay calm. "Hello?"

  He looked up and gave her a gentle smile without a hint of alarm. "Hello."

  "Welcome back. I haven't seen you for a while."

  "Mum was busy and couldn't bring me to the library." His speech was clear and measured, like an adult's.

  "My name's Julia. What's yours?'

  "Philip - Philip Yam."

  "Y-A-M, like the vegetable root?"

  "Yes. It's a funny name, huh?"

  "It's a lovely name." She wanted to build a rapport before trying to extract the information she desperately wanted. "What are you reading?"

  He showed her the cover of Peter Pan.

  She said: "You like it?"

  "It's my favourite book."

  "Why do you like it?"

  "Peter doesn't have to grow up."

  "You don't want to grow up?"

  "I like being a boy."

  "I don't blame you. Why don't you want to be an adult?"

  "Adults have lots of problems, and they don't get to play much."

  She laughed. "Very true. You like reading books?"

  "Yep - more than TV."

  Weird kid. "I like books too. If you become a member of this library, you can borrow books."

  "Mum doesn't want me to join."

  "Why not?"

  "She says I'll borrow stuff and won't bring it back, and then she'll get in trouble."

  That was obviously why the kid stole books instead.

  Julia said: "Where's your mum now?"

  "She's gone shopping."

  "Why didn't you go shopping with her?"

  "She says I get in the way. Anyway, I like to read."

  Time to start asking the big questions on her mind. She took a deep, slow breath. "Now, Philip, do you remember how, about a week ago, you found an old man in a chair who was dead? You came and told me about it, remember?"

  Philip opened his book and nervously stared at a page to indicate he wanted to resume reading, thank you very much.

  She persisted: "… do you remember?"

  He looked up. "Umm, yes, sorta."

  Julia sucked in a quick breath and tried to sound relaxed. "You saw the old man die, didn't you?"

  After a long stare, the little boy leaned close and whispered. "Yes."

  "How did he die?"

  "The other guy - the bald guy - stopped him breathing."

  "You mean with his hands?"

  "Yes."

  She raised her hands and imitated strangulation. "Around his neck?"

  "Yes."

  "Why did he stop him breathing?"

  The little boy shivered. "Because I took his book." He shook his head. "I shouldn't have done that - I was bad."

  "What book? How did you take it?"

  "Umm, I was sitting in a chair, reading, when I saw him - the bald man - open a little door in the wall and put a book inside."

  What door was the child talking about? She scanned the area near the Children's Section where the old guy died. A small screen, about a metre off the ground, covered an air conditioning duct.

  She pointed. "You mean, that little square door in the wall?" "Yes, that one."

  "Did the bald man see you?"

  "No, I was behind a bookshelf - there was just a little gap - and I stayed very quiet. I'm always quiet in the library."

  "Yes, you are. Alright, what happened next?"

  The little boy's eyes wandered around. "He went away and I opened the little door; I saw the book and I ... I ... I ... took it back to my chair."

  When the little boy saw 'Mr Cheshire' hide the book, he obviously sensed it was important. So, with the natural curiosity of a child and instincts of a book thief, he swiped it. She could hardly breath. "When you got back to your chair, did you open the book?"

  "Yes."

  "What was inside?"

  "It was very old, with lots of writing and beautiful drawings."

  "The drawings were on the sides of the page?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you read the book?"

  "No, it had funny words."

  "You mean, it wasn't in English."

  "Yes, it was weird."

  "Philip, that book was a bible. It’s more than a thousand years old. A religious man - a monk - spent many years writing it and drawing the pictures. What happened next?"

  "The smelly old man sat in the chair, near the little door in the wall."

  "Yes?"

  "The bald man came back and saw the little door was a bit open, 'cos I didn't close it properly. He looked inside the wall and saw the book was gone."

  "Because you had it?"

  "Yeah. He got real angry and asked the smelly old guy if he took it."

  Julia saw where events were heading. "And the old guy got angry back?"

  The little boy looked distracted and rifled through a few pages of his book. "Yeah, he kept saying rude words. So the bald man grabbed him and stopped him breathing."

  Bingo. "The bald guy didn't see you?"

  "No, I stayed behind the bookshelf."

  "What happened after that?"

  "The bald man went away looking very angry. His head looked red, like a lobster."

  Julia easily pictured that. "And you came and saw me?"

  "Yes."

  "When you left the library, you took the old book with you, didn't you, in your satchel?"

  The little boy looked at his feet. "Yes, I'm sorry, I ... I ... I ... shouldn't have taken it."

  "Don't worry. I'm glad you did. The bald man didn't own it. He stole it from a library in England. You know where England is?"

  "Yes."

  "So it's lucky you took it off him. Did you tell your mum you took it?"

  "No. She woulda been angry. You won't tell her, will you?"

  "Of course not. But I want you to give the book to me, so I can give it back to the library in England."

  A grave nod. "OK."

  "Great. So, can I come over to your house a bit later, when your mum's there, and collect it?"

  He shook his head. "No."

  "No?"

  "No, because I’ve got it here."

  Her heart thumped. "Really?"

  "Yes."

  Philip picked up his satchel and took out a large leather-bound book, when he handed over. It made her hand feel hot and she almost dropped it. "Jesus."

  "What?"

  "Nothing." She opened the book and saw the vellum pages were old, creased and discoloured, as if they had been cooked in an oven. The book looked a thousand years old. But the thick Latin script and illuminated drawings were in good condition. She studied a flight of angels in the margin.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it?" the boy said.

  "It certainly is."

  Eric Adams from the British Library, posing as Tom Birkett, was in the workroom. She was tempted to give him the book. However, she felt a jab of suspicion. He'd already lied to her once about his true identity. How did she know he was really from the British Library? He didn't show her any ID. Further, the police would want to talk to the boy and, when they did, expect to be given the book. She'd better call them first. Eric Adams could claim the book from them.

  She also considered waiting for the little
boy's mother to turn up before phoning the police. But, if she did, the mother might whisk the kid away. Best to call the police now and they could deal with the mother.

  She said: "Alright Philip, this is my plan: we'll go over to the borrowing counter and I'll call the police. They'll come and take the book, and give it back to the library that owns it; they'll also ask you a few questions about how the old man died. Is that OK?"

  The boy put his hand on her arm and looked up with big eyes. "You won't go away?"

  "No, I'll stay with you."

  He nodded. "OK then - you call the police."

  She took his tiny hand. "Good, let's go."

  They stood up and headed towards the borrowing counter.

  However, after a couple of paces, two men stepped out from behind a large bookshelf and blocked their path. Her heart constricted. It clenched even tighter when she saw who they were: Eric Adams a.k.a. Tom Birkett and Victor Markov. What on earth were they doing together? Eric Adams had claimed he was a security officer at the British Library and Markov was a dealer in stolen rare books. Surely, they were natural enemies. Yet they looked very comfortable together.

  To add to her confusion, she didn't even know if Eric Adams was still pretending to be Tom Birkett. What should she call him? "Eric - I mean, Tom - what are you doing here?"

  He said: "We're here to collect the codex."

  We. They were working together. His stare and tone made her shiver. Her mouth snap froze. "Really?" She pointed at Victor Markov. "What are you doing with him?"

  A savage smile. "I'm afraid I've told you a few fibs - in fact, a lot of them. My real name is Robert Markov. This is my father, Victor."

  Holy Jesus. Now, he mentioned it, there was a strong family resemblance. He had obviously taken her for a ride, twice: first, he pretended that he was a librarian called Tom Birkett; then that he was a security officer for the British Library called Eric Adams. The whole time he was a crook called Robert Markov trying to steal the Codex Durham from 'Mr Cheshire'.

  She said: "You slimy bastard.”

  He stared hard at the codex in her hand, his handsome features contorted and his charm now a distant memory. "Shut up and give me the book."

  "No, I'm going to give it to the police. Get it off them."

  His face darkened. "Give it to me!"

  "No."

  He reached into his jacket, pulled out a big, black pistol and pointed it at her. "Give it to me, now."