Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

“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.”

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.