Ian Sansom - The Case of the Missing Books

Linda got up from her seat, gathered up some papers, and made to leave the office.

'But, Linda…' Israel had rather lost the advantage now. He had a headache coming on.

'But nothing, Mr Armstrong. I would be grateful if you wouldn't waste my time in future with your mad conspiracy theories. Now, I trust I shall be seeing you later this evening?'

'Sorry?'

'I had rather thought that's why you'd come here and interrupted me this afternoon-to discuss the reception for the launch of the new mobile library service?'

'The what?'

'You hadn't forgotten?'

'Erm.'

'All the details were in your welcome pack and guide.'

'Ah, right. I'm afraid…actually I lost all that stuff, I'm afraid. I…It was on the Rayburn at the farm, you see, and I…'

Linda was clearly losing interest in Israel's explanation.

'And all my money,' he continued, 'and all my cards and…'

Oh, God. Now he thought about it he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He was going to be condemned to living here for all eternity.

'Your personal misfortunes are no concern of mine, I'm afraid, Mr Armstrong. I do expect you however to attend tonight's reception. It's very important. The lady mayoress is going to be there.'

'But we can't launch the new mobile library service when we haven't got any books!'

'Well, whose fault is it we haven't got any books?'

'Yours?' said Israel.

'Yours,' said Linda, holding up a little fat finger. 'But we shall have to agree to disagree on that particular issue. In the meantime we can't alter the date of the launch. So if you could perhaps get yourself smartened up-I don't want you letting us down. And not a word to anyone, please, about the missing books? And certainly not a word about your pathetic theories? I don't want you embarrassing yourself and us.'

Israel remained silent.

'Mr Armstrong?'

'All right. All right, all right, yes.'

'Good. You'll be expected to say a few words of course.'

'What?'

'Just the usual: what a pleasure and privilege it is, blah, blah, blah. The mobile library is a fantastic community resource, blah, blah, blah. I don't know, whatever it is librarians say. "I love books," you know, something like that.'

'But we haven't got any books.'

'Yes, well, but no one needs to know that, do they?'

'I can't lie.'

'I'm not asking you to lie, Mr Armstrong.'

'Are you not?'

'Ach, no, silly. Just do what other people do at these things.'

'What's that?'

'Pretend.'

The grand civic reception to mark the opening of the new mobile library service was held at the Tumdrum and District Community Halls, which were thronged with flush-faced middle-aged men in suits and made-up women in heels. The peanuts, and the sausage rolls, and the Thai chicken-satay sticks, the Shloer and the warm white wine were flowing thick and fast. If not exactly bacchanalian, the atmosphere in the halls that night was at the very least convivial.

'Most convivial,' Israel was saying to everyone he met, unable to think of anything else to say to the endless parade of men in dark suits and the women in heels, whose names he didn't catch and couldn't remember.

'Most convivial. Lovely. Wonderful. Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Thank you. Lovely to meet you too.'

Once everyone had loaded up their paper plates and finished off a glass or two of the warm white wine there were a few kind words about the new mobile library service from the Tumdrum and District mayoress, the magnificently one-eyed Councillor Maureen Minty, who stood up at the front of the hall, beneath a portrait of the Queen, on a makeshift podium constructed from three thick gym mats.

Mayoress Minty spoke eloquently, from notes, with her black velvet eyepatch set at a jaunty angle, about her own personal love of reading, and about Shakespeare, 'The Bard', as she called him, and about Catherine Cookson, her own personal favourite, and about the importance of the library service in general and about large-print and audio books in particular, and she ended by reading a poem she had composed specially for the occasion, unmemorable except for the ingenious and uniquely Northern Irish rhyme, to Israel's ears, of 'librarian' with 'non-sectarian'.

And then there was the handing over of the mobile library keys to Israel.

He was hauled up to the front and introduced to the many gathered guests and dignitaries as the new Outreach Support Officer. There was a rousing round of applause and he stared out at the sea of round and wine-lipped faces.

He could have said anything. He could have told the people of Tumdrum exactly what he thought of them-not much. He could have revealed the scandal of the missing library books; he could have revealed his hunches and explained his theories. He could have spoken passionately about the cause of vegetarianism or pleaded for peace and reconciliation among the people of the island of Ireland and in the Middle East. He could have delivered an oration worthy of the end of a Hollywood movie, something stirring and profound that would have been right up there with the likes of Al Pacino and Ralph Waldo Emerson, but instead, under the fierce monitoring gaze of Mayoress Minty and the Queen on the wall and Linda Wei at the back of the hall he just mumbled a few words of thanks-words consisting mostly of 'Most congenial', 'Lovely', 'Wonderful', 'Pleasure and a privilege'-and shuffled off the gym mats.

He wanted to go home. Instead he found himself instantly plucked and pushed and ushered and introduced to yet more women in heels and more men in suits, including the local MP, a tall and sweaty fat man, a Mr Peter Easton, a man who looked and sounded as though he had devoted a lifetime to sucking on lemons and riding uncomfortable hobby-horses. Israel gulped down some wine and some Nurofen to steady his nerves.

'Ah, yes. I've always taken a very close interest in the arts,' said Peter Easton, MP, as though somehow blaming Israel for this unfortunate state of affairs.

'Have you?' said Israel, who had taken an instant and huge and not, he felt, entirely irrational dislike to the man, who was wearing some sort of sickly, thick aftershave and whose pin-stripes on his pin-stripe suit seemed suspiciously far apart, and the knot of whose tie was too perfectly plump, and his hair too smooth and too silky, making him look like a comedy or imitation MP, a huge, weird, life-sized, hand-operated puppet of Mr Peter Easton, MP, and not the thing itself.

'Stalin,' said Israel.

'Sorry?' said Mr Easton, MP, leaning down over Israel.

'Stalin-you know, Soviet leader. Big moustache. He took a very keen interest in the arts.'

'Really?' said Mr Peter Easton, MP, who was already gazing around, his pin-stripes wriggling, his tie and hair stock-still, ready to move on and press more flesh.

'Yes. Used to phone Pasternak to ask him about Mandelstam.'

'Hmm. Fascinating.'

'And then he had him executed.'

'Well,' said Mr Peter Easton, MP, smiling. 'Let's hope that won't be necessary in your case, Mr Armstrong. Pleasure.' And he shook Israel's hand and was gone.

Israel wiped his hand of MP sweat and cologne on his trousers and went to help himself to some more crisps, and a couple of mushroom and mayonnaise vol-au-vents-actually, the plate was nearly done, so he took the lot-and another glass of wine, which was being dished out from big tin jugs set on a makeshift table constructed from the base of a vaulting horse and a flip-chart with its legs removed. Israel was feeling hot and uncomfortable and ever so slightly woozy, so he took a few mini-quiches also, just in case, to line his stomach: Jews, his mother always said, can hold their drink, as long as they're eating at the same time. It seemed to be working.

Then he spied Ted on the other side of the hall, done up in a suit and tie, looking as though he'd been trussed up and was ready for slaughter. He hurried over.