Ian Sansom - The Case of the Missing Books

'Yes, of course.'

'But what I'm really after is a map of the area, that might help me get around, you see. And Minnie, down at Zelda's, the, er, café, she said she thought you might have something, you know, having been a stranger here yourself.'

'Oh yes, very much so. A stranger in a strange land, isn't it. Ho, ho, ho! Indeed. A map though. Hmm. Now I did used to have something, years ago, but it's all in my head now-worse luck! Ho, ho, ho! Actually, I think perhaps I borrowed the map from the library.'

'Ah. Oh well.'

'But!' boomed England. 'I'm sure I can help you with some overdue books, if that's a help to you?'

'Oh really?'

'Yes, of course. I can ask in the notices for the congregation to return their overdue books to me.'

'That'd be great, if you could.'

'No problem! But first, let's start with my own little hoard, shall we?'

England Roberts then indicated the long, low bookcases that lined the room. Israel glanced at some of the titles: it seemed to be all books about the Bible and devotional works, but then the Reverend Roberts went over to a small gathering, a group of books at the bottom row and far end of one of the bookcases, and all of them had the tell-tale purple mark of the Tumdrum and District Library along the spine. Israel bent down to look at the titles: Elmore Leonard; Carl Hiaasen; American crime, mostly, and true crime, plus a few books about serial killers and the occult.

'Phew. That's pretty racy reading for a minister.'

'Ah, well. I suppose as Christians we have a very well-developed sense of sin, ho, ho, ho!' laughed England, who was now heaping the books onto the table in the middle of the room: as well as the fiction there was also the Chartered Management Institute's Guide to Building a Brand, The Hypnotic World of Paul McKenna, and Stephen R. Covey's The Seven Habits of Successful People.

'There we are now. That's a start for you, I hope.'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'So have you gathered many in yet?'

'Well, a few dozen so far.'

'That's very good.'

'Actually, it's not,' said Israel miserably. 'There are thousands missing.'

'Thousands? Oh dear.'

'I'm a bit stuck, to be honest, trying to find them all.'

'These are all overdue books that people have at home?'

'Well…' Israel glanced around, conspiratorially. 'If I tell you this in the strictest confidence?'

'Yes, of course,' said England, leaning slightly towards Israel. 'Anything you tell me is strictly between me, you and the gatepost-I mean the Lord, of course. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Right,' said Israel. 'Well, I think there's a possibility they've been stolen.'

'My goodness! Stolen? How many?'

'All of them.'

'All the library books?'

'Yes. But we've not told anyone.'

'I see. But what about the police?'

'Well, it doesn't look good for the library service.'

'Hmm.'

'So, you can't mention that to anyone…'

'No. Absolutely. You have my word, as a man of God.'

'Thank you.'

Israel looked totally defeated.

'So, Israel,' said the Reverend Roberts, his voice dropping even deeper, unfeasibly deeper and warmer. 'It's all down to you then?'

'I'm afraid so. It's my job to find out who stole them.'

'To find the perp?' said the reverend, perking up.

'Sorry?' said Israel.

'The perpetrator: that's what they're called, in the books.'

'Is it? Right? Yes, I suppose.'

'Have you got many leads?'

'Er…Well, a few.'

'Yes. You're going to need juice on the inside.'

'What?'

'Juice. On the inside.'

'Sorry, you've lost me.'

'You need a snitch, or a nark-isn't that what they're called? Someone with their ear to the ground, who'll tell you the word on the street.'

'The word on the street? Right.'

'Oh yes, that's essential. Have you tried at the market?'

'No.'

'Oh, well. That'd be the place for you to start, wouldn't it? You're bound to find people there who've heard about any missing books-you know what market traders are like.'

'Right. No, I don't actually.'

'Slags, mostly. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Sorry?'

'"Slags?" It means part of the criminal fraternity, I believe. Come, come, Israel, do you never read any crime fiction or watch television?'

'No. I don't watch a lot of TV.' Gloria didn't agree with TV. She was always busy working. 'I've read the classics, you know, Dashiell Hammett and what have you. And I read The Name of the Rose a few years ago…'

'NYPD Blue though? Murder One? CSI? LA Law? The Sopranos? The Bill even?'

Israel shook his head.

'I used to love them. Can only get a lot of them on satellite and cable now, alas. You don't have satellite or cable, do you?'

'No. I don't, I'm afraid.'

'It doesn't look good for a minister, you see, to have a satellite dish.'

'I see.'

'Never mind. CSI is on terrestrial again at the moment. That's very good. And there's a new 24 coming up, apparently. Gives one something to look forward to.'

'Yes. Good.'

'Apart from the Second Coming, of course. Ho, ho, ho! But anyway. What we need to do is get you a grass or something.'

'Some juice on the inside?'

'Exactly! See-very good!-you're picking up the lingo already. Come on, the market's today: we can take a walk down there, if you like. I can introduce you to some people.'

'See what's the word on the street.'

'Yes. Ho, ho, ho!'

'And the slags?'

'That's it!'

The reverend made for the door.

'And also, Israel, can you remind me-let's see-while we're at the market I need some potatoes, a new scrubbing brush, and some out-of-date biscuits…'

'Sure.'

The Reverend Roberts waved Israel through into the corridor.

'Now, just before we go, though,' said the reverend, lowering his voice ominously.

'Yes?' said Israel.

'How about a cup of coffee?' The reverend was virtually whispering now.

'Er.' Israel's experience of coffee in Tumdrum so far had not been good.

'Would you like an espresso?'

'Erm.' He'd been caught out with that one before also.

'I have my own machine in the kitchen,' explained the mighty reverend. 'My little luxury.' He looked around suspiciously. 'Don't tell the congregation, though: I keep it locked up. They'd think the money would be better spent on poor black children in Africa, you know. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Right,' said Israel, following the reverend's huge silent strides.

'It's my only vice,' he explained. 'I roast my own beans also: I have them sent from Scotland.'

'From Scotland? Really? Is it known for its-'

'No, no, no! My brother Scotland, in London.'

'Oh, right.'

'You can't underestimate the importance of a good cup of coffee, can you?'

'Absolutely. No. You can't.'

'And yet you can't describe it either,' said the reverend reverently, ushering Israel through a door. 'Which is a little bit like God, isn't it?' he mused. They were up behind the lectern.

'Yes. I suppose…' agreed Israel.

'Now. Here.'

Glancing around, England Roberts knelt down and extracted a large bag of coffee beans tucked behind one of the organ pipes.

'Keeps them cool,' he explained, grinning. 'Perfect temperature.' He then rustled around again. 'And…To go with that…My other vice…' He pulled out a large box wrapped in brown paper. Israel suspected for a moment that…'Chocolates!' boomed England.

'Reverend?' said the dark-suited man in the floral pinny, who popped his head round the door.

'Ah!' said England, flustered.

'Keep the noise down.'

Israel and England spoke to a lot of traders down at the market-most of them slags, touts, sleeks and millies, according to England, who was nonetheless on first-name terms with them all and who greeted all the women with hugs and all the men with high fives and a complimentary booming 'Ho, ho, ho,' not a typical Presbyterian kind of a greeting, Israel guessed, judging by the fact that a lot of the various slags, touts, sleeks and millies tried to hide behind their stalls at England's approach. And anyway the word on the street down at the market was pretty much what the word on the street always is everywhere: that the price of petrol was getting ridiculous; that the traffic-calming measures on the one-way system were a joke; and that something should be done about the state of the public toilets, which were a disgrace.