Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

Israel clambered down the steps. Imperious, was what it was, that wave of hand. He was trying to work out the word for it. Imperious was definitely it. As he clambered down the steps he saw the three other policemen standing outside and two police cars. They seemed to tense as he appeared. Israel instinctively raised his arms.

“He’s fine,” called Friel behind him. “Call of nature.”

One of the policemen waved what looked like a crowbar in friendly acknowledgment.

Israel did his best to look calm and smiled and stood staring at Ballintoy Harbor. There were some mornings when you couldn’t deny the beauty of where he was living. Some mornings when the sea was a rippling gray steel, and the sky was blue and the sun was golden, the views out across the North Antrim coast took your breath away.

This was not one of the mornings. The sky was gray; the sea was squally; there was, as far as Israel could discern, no sun.

He’d suddenly lost the urge to go. He stood for a moment, not urinating into the ocean. And then he climbed back, defeated even by his own body, onto the mobile library.

Friel was browsing the biography section.

He waved a book at Israel. It was a book about a footballer.

“Any good?”

“It’s OK. If you like that sort of thing.”

Israel hovered nervously by the issue desk.

“Take a seat,” said Friel. “Make yourself at home.”

Israel sat down on what Ted called the “kinder box,” a wooden box containing children’s books. We’re Going on a Bear Hunt, To Catch a Falling Star, and a Jan Pienkowski were sticking up uncomfortably. He stood up, neatly placed them in the correct height order, and sat down again.

“Sorry. I still don’t quite understand what you’re doing here,” he said.

“Well, I haven’t seen you for a while, Mr. Armstrong, and I just thought we might catch up. Maybe borrow some books.”

The last time they’d met up, Israel had been falsely accused of robbery. And the time before that he’d been accused of kidnapping. And the time before that-

“Right. Well. It’s always nice to see you, obviously, but the library’s not open until-”

“I was joking, Mr. Armstrong,” said Friel.

Someone should perhaps tell him his jokes weren’t funny.

“Ah. Right,” said Israel. “That renowned Northern Ireland sense of humor. Hilarious.”

“I’d think twice before taking a tone, Mr. Armstrong.”

“I’m not ‘taking a tone.’”

“Good.”

“So this is just a social call, then, is it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Right.”

“We’re looking for a young girl.”

“Ah.”

Friel reached into his jacket pocket and produced a photograph and handed it to Israel. It was a schoolgirl. She was maybe twelve or thirteen. Blonde hair. Smiling. School uniform. Could have been any schoolgirl.

“Do you recognize her?”

“No. I don’t think so,” said Israel, and went to hand the photo back.

“Could I just ask you to look again more carefully at the photo, sir.”

“Yes. Of course.” Israel scanned the photo with more care. She had a few freckles. Smile slightly lopsided. Hint of eye-shadow, perhaps. He took a few moments to consider.

“Take your time now,” said Friel.

Israel half huffed and looked again.

“No,” he said finally and definitively. “That’s definitely not someone I know.”

“Definitely not?” said Friel.

“Well, maybe not definitely, but I certainly don’t recognize her.”

“What about if I told you she was in the library last week?”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we get a lot of people on the library during the week, what with being open to the public and everything. So it’s difficult to remember everyone who’s-”

“I’m sure. Perhaps this photo might help.”

Friel then produced a piece of paper printed from an Internet site: the image showed what appeared to be a girl in her late teens, wearing black, in makeup. She was grinning at the camera, making a face.

“God. This is the same girl?”

“It is.”

“She looks different.”

“Indeed. Recognize her now, do we?”

“Well, she does look…familiar.”

“I see.”

“Is that…Maurice Morris’s daughter?”

“Lyndsay Morris.”

“Yes. She was in at the end of last week.”

“Ah,” said Friel. “So your memory’s miraculously come back to you, has it?”

“Well. I mean…I’ve just remembered now.”

“I see. And I don’t suppose you’re suddenly going to remember seeing her since last week, are you?”

“No. No. Definitely not. She was just on the library, borrowing some books. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Hmm. You’re absolutely sure.”

“Definitely.”

“Well. You can perhaps see it might be difficult for me to take your word at face value now, Mr. Armstrong, seeing as a few moments ago you lied about never having seen her before.”

“I didn’t lie,” said Israel. “I just forgot to…remember and then I just…remembered.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Really. And I definitely haven’t seen her since.”

“So you said.”

Friel walked up and down the narrow space, hands behind his back, for all the world as though he were pacing in front of the fireplace in his own personal library.

“I don’t really understand what this is all about, Sergeant-”

“Well, let me explain then, for your benefit. I think you’ll agree it might seem just a wee bit odd that shortly after a young girl goes missing on our patch, you turn up, sleeping out in your van, tucked away, clearly emotional and upset.”

“I don’t think it’s odd,” replied Israel. “And I’m not emotional and upset.”

“With a beard.”

“It’s…just a coincidence.”

“The beard?”

“No, the whole thing.”

“A coincidence?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me by what strange coincidence you’re here then?”

“Just. I had a bit of a shock yesterday-”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you tell all about it, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Because it’s…Well, it’s private.”

“Well, you’re among friends, Mr. Armstrong.”

“I don’t know if I’d-”

“And I’m sure you’d rather have it this way, Mr. Armstrong, rather than accompanying me to the station, wouldn’t you?”

Israel had absolutely no desire to revisit Rathkeltair police station.

Friel pulled up one of the metal tub steps and sat down.

“A nice cozy little chat. Just the two of us.”

“Cozy little chat?”

“That’s right.”

“So I don’t need a lawyer?”

“Only the guilty need a lawyer, Mr. Armstrong,” said Friel, smiling, and showing his teeth.

“Erm. Actually, the last time we had a cozy little chat I was falsely accused and had to-”

“Ach,” said Friel, shaking his head disappointedly. “Let’s not talk about the past, Mr. Armstrong. That’s all water under the bridge. Let’s concentrate on the present, shall we?”

“Well…”

Friel produced his notebook.

“You’re taking notes?” said Israel.

“That’s right.”

“Of a cozy little chat?”

“Just so that we get an accurate record of our conversation.” He smiled again.

“Right.”

“So, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“What happened when?”

“From the beginning.”

“From the beginning of what?”

“I don’t know. You’re what? Early thirties, Mr. Armstrong-”

“I’m still in my twenties, actually. It’s my birthday next-”

“And you’re not married?”

“No.”