The Case of the Missing Books

7

It's definitely easier said than done, finding fifteen thousand missing library books, by yourself, in a place you don't know, among people you don't trust and who don't trust you, and in clothes that are not your own, but the finding of the many missing books was a task and a challenge that the now permanently rough and rumpled Israel Armstrong was setting about with his characteristic good humour and fortitude.

'Oh, God. You bastard. You bloody, bloody, bastard. You fff…'

It was his first day out on the job, book-hunting, Ted-less, out on his own in the mobile library; Linda Wei had given him a few names and a few places to start rounding up overdue books and books out on special loan, a few people he might want to talk to, and he'd been edging the mobile library slowly-very, very slowly-towards the school gates, two traditional fat brick pillars separating the traditional rusty cast-iron railings that surrounded the traditionally low, squat grey buildings of Tumdrum Primary School, his first port of call, and he was feeling pretty confident, pretty sure that he was getting the hang of the thing now, pretty sure that he'd got the distance about right, enough room to squeeze through, at least a couple of inches to spare either side, maybe more.

Unfortunately, though, Israel was still judging distances in the mobile in terms of the dimensions of his mum's old Honda Civic.

He'd turned neatly off the main road into the approach, eased the wheel round gently in his hands, crunching his way carefully through the old gears, and then he'd glanced up and seen a man striding towards the van across the school playground, waving at him. He was shouting something to him, Israel couldn't hear what-and he kept on waving.

And so of course Israel automatically lifted a hand from the wheel to wave back.

At which point the steering slipped slightly-just ever so slightly.

And there was this almighty bam! and an unholy crunch! and a horrendous eeecchh!-horrible, huge sounds straight out of a Marvel comic, which is where they really belonged, not here and now in the real world, and the man who'd been striding across the playground was now running towards Israel, at cartoon speed, and Israel jerked on the handbrake.

Oh, God.

He'd managed to wedge the van tight into the entrance to the school, like a cork hammered into a bottle. He nervously wound down the window of the mobile library as the man approached.

It took him maybe a moment or two, but then Israel recognised that it was his old friend Tony Thompson-the man he'd met only the other night in the back of Ted Carson's cab, the man who had punched him so hard in the face that he'd given him a black eye that was still throbbing.

Tony Thompson did not look pleased to see him.

'Small world!' said Israel.

'You!'

'Yes. Sorry, about the…' said Israel, gesturing towards the collapsing gateposts, prodding his glasses.

'You!'

'Sorry.'

'You!'

'Sorry?' Israel smiled, wondering if Tony had perhaps developed some kind of Tourette's syndrome since the last time he'd met him.

'You!'

'Sorry? Sorry. Sorry?'

The two brick pillars were leaning pathetically, like two miniature council Towers of Pisa, buckling the rusty cast iron on either side. It didn't look good.

'Look, I'm really really sor-'

'I know you're sorry!'

'Sorry.'

'Well, apology not accepted!'

'Right. Sorry.'

'Stop saying sorry!'

'Sorry. No! I didn't mean sorry-sorry. I meant OK.'

'Did you not see me waving you down?'

'Yes.'

'So?'

'Sorry. I thought you were just waving at me.'

'Why? Do you think I'd be pleased to see you?'

'Erm.'

'Of course I'm not pleased to see you. What the hell are you doing here?'

'I was just…it's about books for the library. Linda Wei, up at the council, she said the school might have some. I'm trying to put the library back together, you see, and-'

'And destroying my school in the process?'

'Erm. Your school?' said Israel. 'Do you work here then?'

'I,' said Tony Thompson, flushing and stiffening, and staring Israel in the eye, 'am the headmaster of this school.'

Oh, Jesus.

It took most of the day to ease the mobile library from between the school gates. The children in the playground at their break-time and lunch-time had to be held back from all the pushing and squeezing and hammering and excitement by a cordon of mug-hugging and distinctly unimpressed-looking teachers. The children were playing a new game, which they'd just invented, which involved running into each other at high speed and falling down: they called the game 'Car Crash'. Some of the more imaginative children, pretending to be Israel, got up from the floor when they'd fallen, puffing their cheeks out and waddling, in imitation of a fat, injured person. It was a miracle that Israel hadn't been hurt, actually, and that the van wasn't worse damaged-bodywork only.

'Just a flesh wound,' joked Israel to the miserable school caretaker who'd been drafted in to oversee the rescue operation, as the two of them set about knocking down the school gates using a sledgehammer, a pickaxe and a large lump of sharpened steel that the caretaker referred to affectionately as his 'wrecking bar'.

'I feel like Samson Agonistes,' said Israel, as he set about the pillars with the pickaxe.

'Aye,' said the caretaker, digging in with the wrecking bar. 'And I feel like a cup of tea.'

After the van was eventually released Tony Thompson's secretary grudgingly arranged for Israel to visit the school library-which also served as the school's computer suite, its special needs resources room, and apparently as some kind of holding area for hundreds of small grey misshapen pottery vases-for him to pick up any of the old Tumdrum and District Library books that had been on loan to the school during the period of the library's closure.

Israel fingered his way confidently along the little shelves marked 'Poetry' and 'Easy Reads' and 'Information', plucking off books with the tell-tale Tumdrum and District Library purple sticker on the spine and their identifying Dewey decimal number.

'It's a bit like blackberrying, isn't it?' Israel said merrily to the woman watching him, who was either the librarian or the computer suite supervisor or the special needs tutor, or the keeper of the pots, or possibly all four at once: she had man's hands and wore a machine-knit jumper, slacks and sensible shoes; she looked like she was more than capable of multi-tasking. Israel, on the other hand, had borrowed another of Brownie's T-shirts-which read 'Smack My Bitch Up', and which was now covered in brick dust-and looked fit for nothing. The school librarian did not deign to reply.

'I said-' began Israel.

'Sshh!' said the machine-knit jumper woman.

'Sorry,' said Israel.

Once he'd gathered in the books from the library he went back to thank the secretary, but there was no sign of her in Tony Thompson's office, or of Tony himself, and as he stood hesitating for a minute, staring up at Tony's many certificates and awards for personal and professional excellence-including an award for competing in an Iron-Man triathlon and raising £5,000 for school funds-Israel noticed a shelf of books behind the big brown desk, with the tell-tale purple markings on their spines and he went over and sat down in Tony's purple plush swivel chair, and took down one of the books.

At exactly which point Tony Thompson entered the room.

'What?' spluttered Tony. Israel swivelled round, plushly. 'Are. You doing here?'

'Ah. Yes. Hello,' said Israel. 'I've finished getting the books from the library.' He held up the book in his hand. 'And then I noticed you had a few…'

'They're mine.'

'Ah. Well. I think you'll find actually they belong to Tumdrum and District Council. It's the-'

'They're my books.'

'No. Sorry. Look. They've got a little call number here, the Dewey, and-'

'Give me the book,' said Tony Thompson, approaching Israel.

'No. Now, don't be silly.'

'Give me the bloody book!' said Tony, as he moved round the desk and stood towering over Israel.

'Now, now,' said Israel. 'Let's not get carried away.'

Tony Thompson thrust out a fist then, and, given his previous form, Israel thought he was perhaps going to hit him again and give him a black eye to match the other, so he threw up his left arm in order to block the blow, an instinctive martial arts kind of a move that would have done Bruce Lee proud, if Bruce Lee had been a tousled, overweight librarian in borrowed, ill-fitting clothes and old brown brogues out collecting books in Tumdrum Primary School on a damp December afternoon.

Tony Thompson, though, was not about to punch Israel; he was in fact simply reaching forwards to grab the book from Israel's hand, and he grabbed, and Israel held on, and before either of them knew it there was a loud rip, rip, ripping, and suddenly Israel was standing there with the cover in his hands, and Tony Thompson with the pages.

'Oh,' said Israel.

'Ah!' said Tony.

'Sorry. 101 Poems To Get You Through the Night (And Day). Never read it myself. Is it any good?'

'Look!' said Tony Thompson, holding the coverless book on its side towards Israel.

'What?' said Israel.

'Look! Idiot!'

Stamped along the top edge of the book were the immortal words: WITHDRAWN FROM STOCK.

'Ah,' said Israel. 'Sorry.'

'Go!' said Tony Thompson.

'I really…'

'Go!'

Israel went.

So, as he was saying, it was easier said than done: on his first day as book-bailiff, amateur sleuth and driver of his very own mobile library, Israel Armstrong had managed to crash the library van, cause thousands of pounds of damage to school property, offend and upset just about everyone he'd met, get into a fist fight with a headteacher, and he had rounded up a grand total of just 27 books, leaving approximately 14,973 to go. If he kept it up at this rate he'd be lucky to make it back home safely in one piece to north London in time for his own retirement.

He was trying to explain his predicament to Brownie and George and old Mr Devine as they sat down to eat dinner together that night.

'Oh, God. I don't know. What the hell am I going to do?' he asked, pushing his patched-up glasses up high onto his furrowed forehead and plonking his elbows firmly on the kitchen table.

'Elbows!' said Mr Devine, who was bustling with dishes and plates.

Israel politely withdrew his weary elbows and ran his fingers through his hair.

'Sorry.'

He'd just been telling them about the disaster with the school gates.

'Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction,' said Mr Devine.

'It's tricky,' agreed Brownie.

'Champ?' said Mr Devine, pushing towards Israel a bowl of what looked like steaming hot Play-Doh with little bits of green stuck in it, like grass clippings.

'Ah yes, champ,' said Israel hungrily in recognition. 'Mmm. Now. Champ. Yes. Thank you, Mr Devine. Spring onions, isn't it?' he said, pointing at the green bits, like little sketches, in the mashed potato.

'Scallions,' said Mr Devine.

'It's the same difference, Granda,' said Brownie.

'Aye,' said Mr Devine.

'My father used to make champ when I was growing up,' said Israel, rather mournfully.

'Aye,' said the old man. 'George?'

'Thank you, yes.'

George was sitting at the head of the table, regally uninterested in Israel's tales of woe, resplendent in a man's plaid shirt (L), washed-out dungarees (XL), and a dark blue mud-stained fleece (XXL), and knee-high wellies.

'You don't think it could have been Ted then,' asked Israel of everyone and no one, 'who stole the books?'

He had been sworn to secrecy, of course, by Linda Wei not to mention the theft of the books to anyone, but Israel reckoned it would be safe to tell the Devines; frankly, he couldn't imagine them having anyone else to tell, and also, to be honest, he didn't have anyone else to tell himself. Gloria hadn't been answering her mobile for days: she was involved in a very important case at work, apparently. Mind you, Gloria was always involved in very important cases at work; he'd hardly got speaking to her since he'd arrived.

'Ted who stole them? I doubt it,' said Brownie, mounding piles of champ on his plate, in answer to Israel's question.

'He goes to First Presbyterian,' said Mr Devine, although Israel wasn't clear whether this implicated or exonerated him.

'Oh, God…' said Israel, even more deeply mournfully.

'Mr Armstrong!'

'Sorry. I don't know,' said Israel, shifting his plate slightly, so that he could speak round the steaming mound of potato and onions. 'If Ted's not guilty-'

'We are all guilty in the eyes of the Lord,' said Mr Devine.

'I need proof, though,' said Israel.

'For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain…'

'Apriorism,' said Brownie.

'Sorry?' said Israel, sniffing hungrily at the food in front of him.

'That's apriorism: you've decided he's guilty, and now you're looking for evidence to support it.'

'No,' said Israel. 'I haven't decided he's guilty. But he had the key to the library, so-'

'Now you're just affirming the consequent.'

'What? Really? Am I?'

'Events can be produced by different causes,' explained Brownie. 'It's a classic fallacy in law and logic: in the absence of any evidence, you just affirm the consequent.'

'Sorry, you've lost me.'

'Aye,' said Mr Devine. 'He does that all the time.'

'If I intended to kill you,' said George, smiling menacingly, illustrating her brother's point from the top of the table, 'I would have had a weapon. I did have a weapon. Therefore…'

'That's it,' said Brownie.

'Oh right, I see,' said Israel.

'Ach, Ted's yer man,' said Mr Devine. 'No doubt. He's the face for it.'

'Granda!' said Brownie.

'Well, young people today,' said Mr Devine, returning to one of his favourite themes, 'sure they're all the same.'

'What?' said Israel.

'Come on now, Granda,' said Brownie. 'Ted's in his sixties.'

'Well, he's that young I can still remember him in short trousers,' said Mr Devine, conclusively. 'Mr Armstrong, chicken?'

'Thanks,' said Israel, absentmindedly. 'I…'

Israel looked at the glistening crispy bird that the old man was in the process of dismembering-the deep brown crackling skin wisping off, with the revelation of pure white flesh underneath, and the rich, full smell of fat and onions.

'Erm.'

He hesitated and fiddled with his glasses.

Chicken was the thing he missed most as a vegetarian, although admittedly he did also miss salami quite a lot, and pastrami, and salt beef, and sausages, and Cornish pasties, and meatballs, charcuterie, that sort of thing. A Friday night chicken, though, you really couldn't beat that: his mother used to do this thing with tomatoes and paprika, and admittedly she tended to use paprika as a condiment rather than as a spice, a culinary shorthand, a way of getting from A to Z, from meat to meatball and chicken to pot by the quickest possible route, but it was so good…Her boiled chicken also, that was good, with matzo balls and a nice side-order of gherkins. And chicken liver pâté. But that was all a long time ago, in his far-off, golden, meat-eating childhood and Israel had been vegetarian now for almost his whole adult life, and when he'd moved in with Gloria a few years ago they'd tended to eat a lot of chick peas-she was vegetarian too. There'd always been a hell of a lot of falafel and omelettes in his relationship with Gloria.

'Breast? Leg? Thigh?' asked Mr Devine.

Israel's eyes were glazed and he was busy remembering a lovely, thick, greasy turkey schnitzel he'd eaten once as a child on holiday in Israel with his parents, visiting his mother's uncle; that was the best thing about Israel, actually, the schnitzel, as far as Israel was concerned. He'd spent six months on a kibbutz when he'd first left college, and it had not been a great success-a lot of heavy metal and Russians were what he remembered, and the endless washing of dishes.

'Is it free-range?' he asked Mr Devine.

He thought perhaps he might be able to get away with free-range. He reckoned eating free-range was probably about the closest you could get to being a vegetarian; although obviously that might take a bit of explaining to the animals.

'Free-range?' asked Mr Devine.

'You know. Like, running around free in the countryside?'

Mr Devine simply raised an eyebrow.

Brownie and George were looking quietly amused.

'What?' asked Israel, noticing the silence and their smiles. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing,' said George.

'What's so funny about free-range?'

Brownie just shook his head, stifling a laugh.

'All I'm asking is has it had a good life?'

'A good life?' asked Mr Devine, clearly bemused.

'It's a chicken, Armstrong,' said George.

'Yes, but…'

'Chickens don't have feelings. I hate to be the first to break it to you.'

'Ah, yes, but the question is, can they suffer?' said Brownie.

'Exactly,' said Israel.

'Well, he didn't seem to be suffering this morning when I took him from the yard,' said Mr Devine.

'What? Hold on. He's…one of yours?'

'Of course he's one of ours,' said George. 'This is a farm, Armstrong.'

'Yes. I know it's a bloody-'

'Mr Armstrong!'

'Sorry. Blinking. Whatever. I know it's a farm.'

'Well, you'll remember the chicken who was sharing your bed last night?' said George.

'What?'

'And you said you wanted rid of it?'

'Yes. But.' Israel stared at the pile of freshly cooked and quartered flesh. 'You don't mean…I didn't mean…'

'Lovely big bird,' said Mr Devine.

'I'll take a thigh, Granda,' said Brownie.

'And breast for me,' said George.

'I…' began Israel, who suddenly had an image of the poor, sick, injured chicken tucked up tight in bed with him, wearing stripey pyjamas, sipping chicken soup. 'Er. Actually. No. I'm not that hungry, thanks.'

Mr Devine said grace and then they started in on the champ and chicken.

'Mmm,' said Israel, politely tucking in to the champ.

'Hmm,' he then said, as the scalding hot white mush hit the roof of his mouth.

Then, 'Ah!' he said, and 'Ergh!' and 'Ah, yes, I almost forgot,' and he got up, fanning his mouth, and hurried over to his duffle coat, which was hanging by the door.

'Are you all right, Armstrong? Not leaving us already?'

'No. Yes. I'm fine. I…Ah. I bought us some…ho, ho, ho, some…wine. To…thank you for your…hospitality.'

George and Brownie and Mr Devine looked at Israel in deep congregational silence.

'So,' he said, smiling, returning to the table, turning the bottle reverently in his hand. 'Merlot just, I'm afraid. Not a lot of choice in town.' He'd found a £10 note tucked in the corner of the pocket of his old brown corduroy jacket and had decided to invest it all in wine and Nurofen.

George and Brownie and Mr Devine continued to gaze in hush.

'Ah, yes, right. I know what you're thinking.'

He quickly darted back over to his duffle coat and with a flourish reached into his other pocket and produced a bottle of white.

'Ta-daa! A white for those who prefer.'

The gathered Devines remained silent. Israel looked at the label.

'Mmm. Chardonnay was all they had, I'm afraid.' He now had exactly seven pence to his name. 'Still. I think we have a sufficiency. Do you have a corkscrew?

'Corkscrew?'

'Erm. No. 'Fraid not,' said Brownie, breaking the solemn silence.

'You don't have a corkscrew? Well, OK. That's, erm…What about a Swiss army knife or something?'

'No.'

'We don't drink, Armstrong.'

'You don't drink?'

'No.'

'Not at all? But what about…'

Israel was about to point out that the other evening George seemed to have been more than happy to drink, if her exploits with Tony Thompson on the back seat of Ted Carson's cab were anything to go by, unless it was perhaps just the spare ribs at the Pork Producers' Annual Dinner that had done it, in which case Israel wished he'd known about that growing up in north London. But George was looking at Israel at that moment much in the same way she might look at a chicken she was about to pick up by the legs and swing at with an axe.

'I see. So.'

The Devines remained silent.

'Not even half a glass?'

'We've all signed the pledge,' said Mr Devine proudly.

George and Brownie were staring down at their plates.

The irony was, of course, that he didn't really drink as such himself. He and Gloria would sometimes share a bottle of wine in the evenings, if they were together, and Gloria was partial to the various liqueurs that she brought back with her from business trips, and Israel, who liked to keep a few boiled sweets about his person and whose already sweet tooth had been getting a whole lot sweeter over the years, was not averse to trying the odd liqueur with her: a nice flaming sambucca, perhaps, now and again, or an insanely sweet amaretto. And he'd occasionally go drinking with old college friends in London-a few beers-but he was a lightweight by any normal standards. Compared to the Devines, though, Israel was virtually an alcoholic.

Certainly, at this moment he needed a drink.

'Well,' he said, gingerly setting the bottles of wine down on the floor at his feet. 'I'll save them for my own…er…personal use, then.'

The wine went unmentioned for the rest of the rather strained meal and when everyone had eaten their fill of chicken and champ, Israel helped Mr Devine with the dishes while George and Brownie did various farm-type things, and then he made his excuses and went across the farmyard to his room.

Reconciled to the fact that he was going to be spending at least a few days in his whitewashed chicken shed in this mad teetotal wasteland, Israel decided to try and make the place feel a little more like home. He began properly unpacking the rest of his belongings from his old brown suitcase, or at least those that hadn't already been ruined by the wayward shitting chickens: it was books mostly, some clean underwear, and then more books, and books and books and books, the ratio of books to underwear being about 20:1, books being really the great constant and companion in Israel's life; they were always there for you, books, like a small pet dog that doesn't die; they weren't like people; they weren't treacherous or unreliable and they didn't work late at the office on important projects or go skiing with their friends at Christmas. Since childhood Israel had been tormented by a terrible fear of being caught somewhere and having no books with him to read, a terrible prospect which had been realised on only two occasions: once, when he was about nine years old and he'd had to go into hospital to have his tonsils removed, and he'd woken up in an adult ward with dried blood on his face and not even a Beano or a Dandy annual to hand; and again, years later, when his father had had the heart attack and had been rushed to hospital, and Israel had rushed there with his mother, and there was that long period of waiting while the doctors did everything they could for him…and always since then Israel had associated the bookless state with trolley-beds and tears, that demi-world of looming horror and despair, familiar to anyone who's ever sat for long in a hospital corridor with only their thoughts for company.

Israel piled the books onto the bed, erecting a kind of wall or a tower that might protect him from marauders, or the evil eye, or any remaining sneaky chickens, and then he changed into his holey pyjamas, and his jumper, and an extra pair of socks, and he prodded his glasses and snuggled down under the duvet-this was more like home now-and reached for the first book on the top of his pile…

A loud tap rattled the door.

'Hello?' he said, a little scared.

'Only me,' said Brownie from outside.

'Oh, right. Come in,' said Israel. 'God, you gave me a fright. I'm not used to receiving visitors.'

'Sorry,' said Brownie, entering. When he saw Israel in bed in his pyjamas he started walking straight back out again.

'No, it's fine,' said Israel. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine o'clock. It felt like midnight. 'Come in. Have a…' He jumped down out of bed. There were no seats to offer. 'Ah.'

'No. It's OK,' said Brownie. 'I won't stay. I just brought you…' and he reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small, half-full bottle of Bushmills whiskey.

'For me? Really?' said Israel.

Brownie handed over the bottle. 'I felt a wee bit sorry for you back there, you know, with the wine and all, and I thought you might like a…you know, a nightcap.'

'Well, thank you, that's very kind. Do you want to-'

'No, you're all right. I've got all this reading to do for an essay on epistemology for when I get back to college.'

'Right. Sounds like fun.'

'It is, actually.'

'Good. Well, good luck with it.' Israel raised the bottle of Bushmills aloft, admiring the golden liquid. 'Is this yours, then?'

'Aye,' said Brownie, ashamed. 'Just occasionally me and George have a wee swally, you know.'

'A whatty?'

'A wee dram just.'

'Right.'

'You won't mention it to Granda will you?'

'No. Of course not, no.'

'Because he's dead against the drink.'

'Yes. I noticed. Well. It can be our secret, eh?'

'Aye. Well,' said Brownie. 'Any inspiration yet about finding the books?'

'God. No. Not so far,' said Israel.

'Two-pipe problem?'

'At the very least.'

'Actually, I've been thinking about what I said at the dinner table,' said Brownie.

'Have you?'

'About affirming the consequent.'

'Ah, right, yes. That was very interesting.'

'I forgot about Occam's razor.'

'You did?' said Israel, sounding surprised. 'I mean, you did,' he then said, not wishing to appear as if he didn't know what Brownie was talking about. 'Yes, of course. And, er, what is it, Occam's razor-just to remind me?'

'"Entities should not be multiplied beyond what is necessary."'

'Ah, yes. That's it-took the words right out of my mouth. Which means what in my case, do you think?'

'Kiss.'

'Sorry?'

'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'

'Right.'

'You should really be starting your investigation not with Ted but with Norman Canning.'

'My "investigation", yes. Norman Who?'

'The ex-librarian,' offered Brownie.

'Yes. Of course.'

'They sacked him,' said Brownie. 'When they closed the library.'

'Oh.'

'So he'd be your prime suspect, I would have thought.'

'Prime suspect? Yes. Would he?'

'Well, he'd have motive and opportunity.'

'Right. Always useful. And…what's he like, this…?'

'Norman? He's…Well, we used to call him Canning the c-'

'All right. Yes, I can imagine.'

'I don't know if he'd be that pleased to see you.'

'Oh, I'm sure I can use the old Armstrong charm.'

'Right,' said Brownie. 'Your first case.'

For a moment, the way Brownie was talking made everything seem much more exciting than it actually was: looked at from Brownie's perspective Israel's life was almost like the kind of life you read about in novels. He could quite see himself as a Sam Spade-type character, actually: chisel-jawed, wry, laconic, solving crimes. Maybe he'd found his métier after all. Maybe that's where his true genius lay. He'd have to tell his mum.

'Occam's razor,' he said dreamily. 'Sword of Truth. Many Hands Make Light Work. Miss Marple. Lord Peter Wimsey.'

'Sorry?' said Brownie.

'Nothing,' said Israel, snapping back from his reverie, and searching around for a glass for the whiskey. 'Just thinking. Anyway. Ah. Here we are.'

'Well, goodnight then,' said Brownie.

'Yes. What did you say his name was? The librarian?'

'Norman. Norman Canning. He lives up round Ballymuckery.'

'Righto. And where's that exactly?'

'D'you know the old Stonebridge Road?'

'No.'

'Ah. Have you got a map at all?'

'No. 'Fraid not.'

'Ah. It's a bit tricky to explain.'

'Well, I'm sure I'll find it. Thanks for the-'

'Lead?'

'The whiskey. Do you want to-'

'No, you can keep it.'

'Are you sure?'

'Aye, you work away there.'

'Thanks. That's great. Well, I'll maybe speak to the, er…'

'Suspect?'

'"Suspect." Yes. The suspect. Indeedy. Tomorrow. Thanks again, Brownie. Goodnight.'

Israel poured himself a glass of whiskey and reached again for the first book on the top of his pile and he took a pencil and wrote on the inside cover of the book the word 'Suspects' and wrote down Ted's name and then the name Norman Canning. He was definitely getting the hang of this business.