Ian Sansom - Mr Dixon Disappears

And when he stepped back to admire this thing, his handiwork, this Bayeux Tapestry of North Antrim’s greatest department store – to the tune of Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ arranged for flute and classical guitar – he saw that it was good.

Unfortunately, though, when he stepped back he also stepped straight into one of the freestanding glass display cases.

Which, to his horror, began to fall, taking with it its display of miniature crystal teddies, china meerkats, porcelain kittens, carved owls and collectable Scottie dogs, elephants and pigs.

And as it fell, it hit another display case.

And then another.

‘Oh…’ began Israel, but didn’t have time to finish his sentence as he did his best to prevent a fancy goods domino effect, trying to hold on to toppling cases, but he was too late and by the time the toppling had ceased, five cases were down: broken bowls and jugs and decanters, carriage clocks, charm bracelets, lockets and little glass candleholders were everywhere.

It was giftware apocalypse. Israel was speechless.

‘Beat It’ had morphed into John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’.

The caretaker appeared.

‘What the—’

‘Sorry,’ said Israel.

‘Sorry?’

‘For the—’

‘Forget it.’

‘Really?’

Something was wrong here. The caretaker’s already ghastly pale and freckled features had turned a ghostly, paler white.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Israel. ‘Are you OK?’

‘It’s all gone.’

‘What’s all gone?’

‘Everything,’ said the caretaker. ‘The money. We’ve been robbed.’

Israel and the caretaker hurried up the big mahogany stairs to the first floor – hurrying past Ladies Fashions, which were mostly XL and pastel, past Accessories, which were mostly scarves and super size handbags, and past the Cosy Nook cafeteria, which was dark and empty and smelt of yesterday’s scones and lasagne and milky coffee, and further still, through double doors marked ‘Private: Staff Only’ – and then up another staircase onto the second floor.

They were in the eaves of the building. It was warm. Downstairs on the ground floor there were high ceilings and chandeliers, but up here, tucked away, it was all fluorescent lights and polystyrene tiling, and there was that eloquent whiff of bleach from the toilets. There were Health and Safety notices on the walls, and whiteboards and pin boards, and water coolers, and computers and reams of paper, and gonks and cards and piles of paper on desks – all the usual paraphernalia of office life.

Israel followed the caretaker through the open-plan area into a smaller private office.

‘Oh dear,’ said Israel. Chairs were tipped over, paperwork strewn all over the floor. ‘This doesn’t look good. Signs of a—’

‘Struggle,’ said the caretaker, his breathing shallow. ‘And look here.’

‘Where?’ said Israel.

‘There.’

The caretaker was pointing to a wall safe.

Israel had never seen an actual wall safe before – had never had use for one himself, barely required a wallet in fact – and he was shocked to find that a wall safe in reality looks much like it does in films and in the imagination: a wall safe looks like a little square metal belly-button, small, neat and perfect in the flat expanse of wall.

‘Huh,’ said Israel.

‘Look,’ said the caretaker.

Israel went over to the safe, pushed the little door shut, opened it again.

‘Double-locking system,’ said the caretaker.

‘Right. Er…’

‘Key and combination.’

‘Uh-huh. And this is where the money was stolen?’

‘Some of it.’

‘How much was in there?’

‘Few thousand.’

‘Ah well,’ said Israel breezily, ‘big business like this, be able to absorb that, won’t it?’

‘Come here till I show ye,’ said the caretaker, who really did seem to be taking things very badly, who looked like a beaten man, in fact, his whole body and his stomach sagging, and he walked through with Israel into another room off the office.

This room was warmer, and smaller still. There were no windows. And lined up against the back wall were two large metal boxes, like huge American fridges, though without the cold water and ice-dispenser facility – Gloria’s family had a big fridge, back home in London, and Israel could never work it properly; he always got ice-cubes all over the floor.

The doors of the safes stood open.

‘Wow.’

‘These are the deposit safes,’ said the caretaker.

‘Right.’ Israel went over to them. ‘Can I?’

‘Go ahead.’

Israel peeked inside. He stroked the smooth steel shelves.

‘They’re empty too then.’

‘Aye.’

‘But they should be full?’

‘Aye.’

‘Gosh,’ said Israel. He always sounded more English in a crisis. ‘So how much money would have been in there?’

The caretaker did not reply.

‘How much in these?’ repeated Israel, remembering not to add ‘my good man’ and sound too Lord Peter Wimsey.

‘A lot.’ The caretaker was ashen-faced.

‘OK. And how much exactly is a lot?’

‘Ach…’ The caretaker huffed. ‘Difficult to say. You know, Bank Holiday. There might have been farmers in yesterday, might ha’ sold a heifer, and that’d be the money for a new dining suite, so.’

‘Right. I see. So…how much, do you think? Thousands?’

‘Tens of thousands.’

‘Good grief. That much?’

‘Could have been. Busy time of year. These uns take about £100,000 apiece I think.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Aye.’

‘Gosh. Well…’

Israel looked around the room.

‘I just cannae understand it,’ said the caretaker. ‘All the security. CCTV and alarms and all.’

‘The doors look fine,’ said Israel. ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone broke in.’

‘I can’t find Mr Dixon anywhere,’ said the caretaker.

‘Well, maybe he’s just—’

‘He’s always in his office by now. He arrives half six, parks up down below.’

‘Is that his car out front?’ said Israel.

‘The Mercedes, aye,’ said the caretaker.

‘Nice car,’ said Israel. ‘Maybe he’s just gone to the toilet, or—’

‘Mr Dixon doesnae go to the toilet at this time,’ said the caretaker.

‘Right.’

‘He doesnae go till eight o’clock.’

‘Erm. OK. Gone for a stroll then maybe?’

‘He doesnae go for a stroll.’

‘Well, maybe he’s just popped out. You know, to get a paper or—’

‘He wouldnae.’

‘Well. OK. So…’

‘I think something’s happened.’

‘Well, yes, I’d say that’s certainly a—’

‘Kidnap, d’ye think?’ said the caretaker.

‘Well, I wouldn’t…I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical…There’s not a note or anything, is there?’

‘I couldnae see one.’

‘Could someone have smuggled him out, past all the security?’

‘I don’t rightly know.’

‘D’you mind if I…’ Israel indicated the office.

‘Go on ahead there.’

‘You should ring the police.’

‘I’ve rung ‘em already. They’ll be here any minute.’

Israel took the opportunity to take a quick look around Mr Dixon’s messed-up office, which looked out over the front of the department store.

The office was beige. But it went beyond the average beige: it was a profound beige; its beigeness was total and complete. The furniture in the room – pale cream store cupboards and filing cabinets – was all fitted flush to the walls, and the walls were cream, the carpet was beige, and the table and chairs were a pale, pale pine; if you squinted, it would almost have been as though everything had been erased from the room, as if everything had disappeared. It wasn’t just neat and functional – it went beyond that: it was a room that seemed to have vanished.