Ian Sansom - Mr Dixon Disappears

‘No! No.’ Israel went to turn away. ‘I am not putting on any handcuffs. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Very well.’

Sergeant Friel nodded at the armed police officers flanking him, who promptly stepped forward and took Israel firmly by the elbows, while Sergeant Friel took the handcuffs and slipped them on Israel, palms inward.

‘Hang on!’ said Israel. ‘Hang on!’

‘Billy!’ called Sergeant Friel, and one of the white-suited policemen who were filling the room approached Israel.

‘Pockets,’ said Sergeant Friel, and the white paper-suited policeman started searching Israel’s duffle coat pockets.

‘What!’ shouted Israel. ‘What the hell are you…! Hey! Hey!’

He stepped back, and the two armed officers once again moved forward and took him firmly by the elbows. As the white-suited man removed the items from his pockets he gave them to another man in a white paper suit.

‘What the hell’s he doing?’ Israel asked of Sergeant Friel.

‘He’s Exhibits Officer,’ said Sergeant Friel.

‘He’s what?’

As the Exhibits Officer was handed each item from Israel’s pockets he placed them with his surgically gloved fingers in little see-through plastic bags, labelling each with a pen. (The contents of Israel’s pockets, as revealed by this process were: two Pentel rollerball pens; some tissues (used); a dog-eared copy of the London Review of Books , folded in half and then into quarters, which Israel had been carrying around with him for over six months, and which he fully intended to get round to reading, eventually, if only for the Personal ads at the back; a copy of Carry On, Jeeves , which was his current between-service-points reading; a page torn out from last week’s Guardian , containing an advertisement for the position of senior information assistant at the British Library, a job Israel knew he’d never get but which he might apply for anyway; a Snickers bar, which he’d clearly forgotten about, because if he’d known he’d have eaten it already; and a cassette, sides three and four, from an eight-cassette set of Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone , which had somehow become separated from the box in the library and which he’d forgotten to reshelve; his mobile phone; and lint, a lot of lint.)

Then they swabbed his hands.

Pockets emptied, hands wiped, Israel was escorted through the offices and down the first set of stairs into the department store, which was filled with policemen, swarming like locusts, and then down the mahogany staircase and out of the front of the building, where none other than Ted Carson happened at that moment to be arriving in his cab, his old Austin Allegro with its illuminated orange bear on the roof (‘Ted’s Cabs: If You Want To Get There, Call the Bear’). Ted was supposed to have been there over an hour ago, helping Israel set up the exhibition. He was too late now.

Ted wound down his window.

‘What’s he done now then?’ said Ted, as if all he could expect from Israel was trouble, and as though the sight of him being escorted handcuffed by armed police officers was pretty much a normal turn of events.

‘Ted!’ said Israel.

‘Ted,’ said Sergeant Friel.

‘Brendan. What’s the trouble?’

‘There’s been a theft, Ted. This is a crime scene now.’

‘Aye, well,’ said Ted, who made the fact of Dixon and Pickering’s having turned into a crime scene sound no more interesting than a change in the weather. ‘But what’s he to do with it?’

‘We’re to bring him in for questioning.’

‘Ach, him?’ Ted laughed. ‘Are you away in the head, Brendan? He’s the librarian, for goodness sake.’

‘Aye.’

‘And he’s English,’ added Ted, as if that were some further excuse or a disability.

‘Right enough, Ted, but I’m closing this area down.’

Ted got out of the car. His bald head glistened, in the dawn. He drew himself up to his full bearish height, and towered over Sergeant Friel.

‘Now, what would you want to be taking him away for, Brendan? We’ve the exhibition to be sorting here.’

‘Sorry, Ted. This is a serious crime.’

‘Aye, but he’s not going to have anything to do with anything, is he?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, Ted.’

‘Come on, Brendan. You wouldnae send him to fetch a loaf, would you? Look at him.’

‘Sorry, Ted, we’ve to get on here.’

‘Well, let me come with him then,’ said Ted, putting out an arm to block Sergeant Friel’s way. ‘I’ll follow yous in the car.’

‘I don’t think that’d be a good idea, Ted, would it? You’re hardly going to want to be seeing the inside of the station now, are you?’

‘Ach, Brendan.’

‘This isn’t your business now, Ted. You’ll be obstructing us if I’ve to speak to you again.’

Ted dropped his arm.

‘Ach, honest to God, Brendan. The boy’ll not be able to tell you anything. I mean, look at him. He’s not a baldie notion.’

‘Hello?’ said Israel. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You keep out of this,’ said Ted.

‘This is serious, Ted,’ said Sergeant Friel. ‘We’re taking him in.’

Sergeant Friel and his accompanying officers began hurrying Israel away.

‘Ach. No. Brendan!’ shouted Ted. ‘Hold on, Brendan! Israel! D’ye have a lawyer, Israel?’ called Ted.

‘What?’ Israel was starting to panic now.

Israel was bundled into an unmarked police car.

‘It’s all right!’ called Ted. ‘I’ll get on to me cousin. Don’t panic, son. We’ll have this sorted in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

He was driven away in the car, Sergeant Friel to the left of him, an armed policeman to his right, another armed policeman up front, and the driver. As they pulled off, Israel saw more policemen sealing off the entrance to Dixon and Pickering’s with tape.

‘Shutting up shop?’

Sergeant Friel wrote this down.

‘Are you writing everything down?’

Sergeant Friel wrote this down.

‘You’re like my recording angel.’

Sergeant Friel wrote this down.

‘Oh, God.’

Sergeant Friel wrote this down.

‘That’s it. Look.’ Israel shut his mouth. ‘My lips are sealed. Look. Mm mmm mm mmm.’

Sergeant Friel wrote this down.

They were driving out of Tumdrum on the coast road, the dark sea up high and fretting beside them. Israel was straining to see in the rear-view mirror, to see if Ted was following in his cab; he didn’t seem to be.

‘Now, why don’t you just tell us what happened, Israel?’ said Sergeant Friel, once they’d cleared the last of the housing estates and were out on the open road.

‘What do you mean, what happened?’ said Israel. He didn’t like the way things were developing. ‘Where are we going?’

‘You just tell us what happened.’

‘Nothing happened. I—’

‘We’re here to help you, you know.’ Sergeant Friel had adopted a horrible, oily, emollient tone, cut through sharply with sarcasm.

‘Right,’ said Israel, who disliked a tone of sarcastic emollience as much as the next man. ‘You’re here to help me, and I’ve been accused of something I didn’t do, and handcuffed, and bundled into the back of an unmarked police car—’

‘Are you not comfortable, Mr Armstrong?’ oozed Sergeant Friel.

‘No, I’m not comfortable! I’m squidged up here between you and…whatever his name is here, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to have done.’

‘Do you want us to speak to anybody?’

‘Yes.’ Israel wanted to speak to his mother, but he guessed she might not be the best person to help him in these circumstances. He had no idea what his mother would say. And his father – God – his father would be turning in his grave.