Ian Sansom - The Case of the Missing Books

Israel had passed Ted's house a few times on some of the service runs. It was a neat little bungalow on the coast, at the foot of a sheer cliff, and it would have had fantastic views across to the sea if the main coast road didn't run right in front of it, inches from the door, so the magnificent view was obscured by the constant stream of traffic, carrying people and goods and food and drink up and round and back again, to and from the north coast, and so Ted's view in fact consisted mostly of the word 'Guinness' flashing by, again and again, and of the shining silver and red of thousands of nearly new cars, with the appropriate and accompanying sound of BBC Radio Ulster faintly to be heard above the hum of slightly worn tyre on tarmac.

Israel pulled the van over onto the weed and gravel forecourt cut into the cliff, and got out, and knocked and rang at the door. There was the distinct sound of growling: Ted had a dog. He might have guessed.

Israel's usual approach with dogs, as with small children, was to ignore them in the sure and certain hope that they'd soon get bored and go away. Israel hadn't grown up with dogs, had never had a dog, and he did not like them. He was more of a cat person.

'Ted! Ted!' he called, ignoring the barking dog, as Ted opened up.

'Israel,' replied Ted. He was wearing a pinny covered with flour and had a rolling pin in his hand, and there was a little Jack Russell at his heels.

'Are you cooking?' said Israel.

'No, I'm creosoting my fences.'

'Ted, I've done it.'

'Sorry to hear that.'

'What?'

'You've crashed the van again?'

'No! No. No. I've found the books.'

'The library books?'

'Yes, the library books. Of course the library books.'

'Aye, well, congratulations.'

'So.'

'So?' said Ted, who was not as excited as Israel might have hoped.

'So, let me come in and I'll tell you all about it.'

'Right.' Ted folded his arms across his chest, blocking Israel's way into the house and getting flour all over his arms in the process.

'Ted?'

Ted frowned-and when Ted frowned the deep frown lines ran all the way from behind the top of one ear, multiplying as they went, and all the way across to the other. They weren't so much frowns in fact as the folds on a complex origami forehead.

'All right. But don't be making a habit of making house calls. OK? It's not good for the dog. It makes him nervous. It's all right, Muhammad, he's a friend.'

'Muhammad? Your dog's called Muhammad?'

'That's right.'

'Oh. OK. After the Prophet Muhammad?'

'No. After the boxer.'

Ted turned to go inside, and Muhammad the Jack Russell terrier allowed Israel to enter.

The house was pretty much what you'd expect from a man of modest means in his sixties living by himself with a small Jack Russell called Muhammad on a windswept coast several miles from the nearest town: it was clean and it was practical and it made a good effort to appear cheerful, even though the overall and unintended effect was profoundly saddening, a consequence not only of the stench and scuffs of small dog but also of the clear and apparent lack of a woman's touch. There was a rich, thick, meaty smell, with just a hint of urine, coming from the kitchen, a smell that may have been mould, or it may have been food. There were old green oil cans containing peat by the front door, and a fire in the grate. The living room had its orangey 1950s sofa and a wood-effect Formica coffee table, and a plain pine dresser set with a few pieces of crockery. There was one door through to the bedroom and another straight out back into the spartan kitchen, which was empty save for an old sink, and a cupboard, and a narrow table, and a cream-coloured Rayburn. The dog basket with its vivid red blanket sat proud by the back door.

'Lovely house, Ted,' said Israel, standing awkwardly in the living room.

'All right, Israel, sit down if you're staying and get on with it. I'm cooking.'

'Thanks.' Israel noticed pastry draped over dishes in the kitchen. 'OK.'

'What's that with your nose?' said Ted.

'Ah yes, that's part of what I'm about to tell you.'

'You gone arse over heels agin?'

'No. Or yes. But anyway, I know where the books are.'

'Good. Where are they?'

'At P. J. Bullimore's.'

'Bullimore's?' Ted raised an eyebrow.

'Yes. Do you know him?'

'Course I know him. He's the big antiquey place round by the First and Last.'

'Yes! That's him!'

'And what, they're all there, are they, the books?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'You think so?'

'Yes.'

'You haven't actually seen them there then?'

'No. Not yet. But I know they're there.'

'Oh, aye. Because the wee fairies told you, or you have X-ray eyes, or you just have a feeling in your water?'

'No. Of course not. But I've got this.'

Israel took the padded envelope from his duffle coat pocket.

'Oh, that seals it then.'

'Yes! Ted, this is the smoking gun.'

Ted laughed, and started to move off towards the kitchen.

'Sorry, Israel. Time and pastry wait for no man. Lovely chatting to you. See you on Monday…'

'Hold on. Look, let me explain.'

Israel followed Ted out into the kitchen.

And this was the source of the smells.

'Mmm,' said Israel. 'What are you making?'

'Pies.'

'How do you do that?'

'What?'

'How do you make pies?'

'You don't know how to make a pie?'

'No.'

'You just get your pastry and you-'

'How do you make the pastry though?'

'Ach, for flip's sake, Israel,' said Ted, rolling out a circle of pastry. 'Do you know nothing?'

'Well…we eat out a lot in London.'

'Aye.'

'But my mum's a good cook.'

'Is she now?'

'Yes. She does a lovely vegetarian lasagne.'

'I'm sure.' Ted brushed the thin pastry.

'What are you doing there?'

'I'm brushing the pastry.'

'Ah, yes, I remember my mum doing that.'

'Good.' Ted then placed the thin pastry on top of a dish of steaming meat and took a knife, trimmed off the pastry from around the pie dish, and then took a fork and began sealing the edges. Israel was watching closely.

'There's a word for you, you know,' said Ted, washing his hands at the sink.

'Is there?'

'Yes. Bloody annoying.'

'That's two words.'

'Bloodyannoying,' said Ted.

Ted went into the living room and then returned.

'Here. Take this.'

'What is it?'

'What's it look like? It's a cookbook. That'll tell you how to make pastry.'

'Delia Smith's How to Cook, Book One?'

'You can borrow it.'

'Are you sure?'

'If it saves you asking me stupid questions about how to make pastry, I'm sure.'

'Well, thanks. Anyway. Ted, this is the key to the crime,' said Israel, brandishing the envelope.

'It's a key now, is it?'

'Metaphorically.'

'Aye, Ah'm sure.'

'It's the envelope in which I received the map-'

'That tells you where to find the buried treasure?'

'Yes. No! I'm serious. A map of the local area.'

'OK,' said Ted, carefully placing the pie inside the Rayburn. 'Someone sent you a map in the post? Why?'

'Because I needed to find my way around, for the service runs.'

'Right.'

'So I found one on the Internet.'

'Sure you could have got one out of the library.'

'But all the library books have been stolen!'

'Aye. True.'

'So I had to find one. So I sent off for it, and it was delivered to my home address in London. Forwarded to me here.'

'Fine.'

'And. Look…at this.'

He showed Ted the postmark on the envelope. It was red, and thin and smudged, like a lipstick trace, but you could still read it.

'It's Tumdrum,' said Ted.

'Exactly.'

'So?'

'Well, look at this.'

Israel then produced from the envelope the map-a perfectly ordinary green and cream-coloured Ordnance Survey map. It had a small purple reference label in the top right-hand corner.