The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery (19 page)

“No!” said Israel. “Just—”

“You’re not on a diet, are you?”

“No, not really.”

“Have you been going to the gym?”

“Do I look like I’ve been going to the gym?”

“Yes, actually.”

“And the beard?”

“Yes,” said Israel. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure about the beard,” she said. “What’s that all about?”

“I’m…cultivating my mind,” said Israel.

“Well,” said Veronica, “that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to be cultivating your beard at the same time, does it?”

Israel took the opportunity to draw Veronica’s attention to the venerable history of learned beards, arguing that it was in fact only a recent twentieth-century phenomenon that sophistication should be associated with beardlessness: shaving, he argued, being merely a sign of a male vanity that is directly linked to the West’s military-industrial-puritan complex.

“My brother, Esau, is an hairy man, but I am a smooth man!” he said.

“Whatever,” said Veronica.

There was a silence as they looked at each other.

“This is where you’re supposed to compliment me on how I’m looking,” said Veronica.

“Gosh. Sorry,” said Israel. “I mean, of course you’re looking well.” Veronica looked more than well.

“Well, thank you. We do our best,” she said.

The reason Israel liked Veronica was because she was so candid. She was the sort of person who cut to the chase.

She cut to the chase.

“So do you want to talk business or pleasure first?”

“Erm,” said Israel. “Can we order first?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Silly me.”

“What are you going to have?”

“I can’t decide,” said Israel.

“I’m having the Caesar salad,” said Veronica.

“Oh,” said Israel, slightly disappointed.

“What?”

“Ladies always have Caesar salad.”

“We have to think of our figures.”

“Right.”

“Don’t let that stop you having something else. The steak’s good.”

“I’m vegetarian.”

“Oh, I forgot.” And then, without waiting further for Israel, she called over the waiter and ordered her Caesar salad. Israel, under pressure, went for what looked like the least-worst option—the vegetarian lasagna.

“So, shall we get down to business?” said Veronica.

“Here?” said Israel, who’d been rather buoyed by Veronica’s compliments about his newfound svelte figure. He decided he rather liked it here. He had an unusual sense of ease. Glass of wine in hand. Beautiful woman paying him compliments. He felt dangerously wonderful and alive.

“Not that sort of business, Armstrong,” said Veronica.

“Sorry,” he said.

“So?” she said.

“What?”

“Do you want to tell me all about it?”

“About what?”

“Israel! About the police investigation into the disappearance of Lyndsay Morris, of course!”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about it. I don’t have anything to do with it, obviously,” said Israel.

“Obviously!” said Veronica, in a way that suggested not so much Israel’s welcome innocence as that he was clearly destined to be only a bit-part player in the theater of life, and so was incapable of being responsible for any action, good or bad.

“Oh god, what’s this music?” Veronica said suddenly.

“I don’t know,” said Israel.

“You do, you do. It’s the Kings of Leon! I love the Kings of Leon.”

Israel felt very much his almost-thirty.

“I saw them at Glastonbury,” said Veronica. “They were fantastic!” She looked Israel in the eye.

“Can I be honest with you, Israel, as a friend?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I need this story,” she said.

“What story?”

“The Lyndsay Morris story.”

“The Lyndsay Morris story? It’s hardly a story, is it? She’s a young girl who’s—”

“Everything’s a story, Israel.”

“Right. Well.”

“And I need your help.”

“Well, I don’t know how I can help, but of course if I can—”

“I need to know everything the police told you.”

“They didn’t tell me anything, really,” said Israel, swirling the wine around in his glass. “Anyway, how have you been? What have you been up to?”

“No, Israel. Concentrate.”

“I am concentrating.” He was concentrating for that moment on her pretty face and her lips.

“I need this story,” she was saying. “I
really
need this story.”

She suddenly reached down under the table. Israel wondered what was happening. She pulled her handbag up onto her lap. There was a book poking out the top.

“What are you reading?” said Israel.

She pulled out a copy of
The Alchemist
, by Paulo Coelho.

“Oh,” he said, involuntarily.

“What?”

“Paulo Coelho.” He pronounced it “Co-el-you.”

“Is that how you pronounce it?”

“I think so.”

“I love Paulo Coelho.” She pronounced it “Coal-Ho.” “Have you read any?”

“God, no. It’s shit.”

“It’s not shit, actually, Israel. You just don’t like it.”

“Well, there are objective critical standards.”

“Yeah, sure, if they’re yours.”

“Not just if they’re mine. Lots of people think Paulo Coelho is shit.”

“Look.” Veronica pointed the book out to him. “It says on the back here that the book has been translated into sixty-four languages and sold twenty million copies worldwide.”

“That still doesn’t mean it’s not shit. Hitler was pretty popular too.”

Veronica tutted.

“Israel! Anyway. I was going to show you this. Here.” She pulled a newspaper from her bag, flicked through, and pointed to a page. It was a copy of last week’s
Impartial Recorder
.

“What?” said Israel. He read the headline. “‘Solar Heating Firm Wins Prestigious Award.’ So?”

“What’s the byline?”

“‘By Our Reporter.’”

“That’s me.”

“Uh-huh,” said Israel, not understanding.

“What about that one?” She pointed to another story.

“‘Local Dairy Export Farm Praised for Its Marketing.’”

“Guess who?”

“You?”

“Correct.”

Israel flicked through the rest of the paper—the birth of a very large pig, a school recycling art project, and twelve jobs saved at the local meat-wrapping plant.

“So?”

“Israel. I am twenty-eight years old. I have been working on this newspaper for almost ten years. I have no intention of working on this paper for the next ten years. I need this story.”

“Well, you’re a journalist, can’t you—”

“I need
this
big story.”

“Right. Well, can’t you just sort of write it up, or whatever you usually do?”

“I don’t have any source or any inside information.”

“Ah.”

“Which is where you come in. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a source.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“So what do you say?”

“No, sorry. I don’t really see how I can—”

“Israel,” she said, putting her hand out and placing it on
his. He noticed her nails. She had soft hands. “I don’t believe for one moment that you’re involved in this.”

“Good.”

“And it’s as a friend that I’m asking you to help me with this.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I value our friendship very much, Israel.”

“So do I,” said Israel. “But there’s really nothing to tell.”

“Israel.” She picked up her glass of wine and took a small sip. “I really think you should help me.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She took another, longer sip of wine. “There’s no easy way to put this. If you don’t, Israel, I’m going to have to report it in the paper anyway.”

“Report what?”

“Well, I don’t know. Something like, ‘A thirtysomething English man has been helping police with their inquiries.’”

“I’m not thirtysomething!”

“I thought you were.”

“Why does everyone think I’m thirty already?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not thirty…until next week.”

“Sorry.”

“But why would you write that?”

“Why not? It’s within legal limits. And the
Impartial Recorder
is a journal of record.”

“The
Impartial Recorder
?”

“Yes, actually.”

“But there’d be a witch hunt. People would think I had something to do with her disappearance. They’d send out a lynch mob.”

“I doubt it,” said Veronica. “Not a lynch mob as such. People might start asking questions, though, I suppose. You know what they’re like round here. ‘There’s no smoke without fire,’ they might say.”

“Exactly!”

“People will assume that just because you’ve been interviewed and it’s been reported in the paper, that you must have something to do with it.”

“But I don’t.”

“Of course not. And certainly none of us want to see an innocent man in court.”

“I’m not going to court!” said Israel.

“No, you’re not. That’s exactly what we want to avoid happening, Israel. Which is why I want to help you.”

“I thought you said it was me helping you?”

“We’d be helping each other,” said Veronica.

“That’s blackmail,” said Israel.

“Don’t be silly! That’s not blackmail, Israel. It’s how business works. It’s just a suggestion as to how we might come to an arrangement to our mutual benefit.”

“No,” said Israel, “sorry.”

“I’m sure if you help me, there are lots of ways I could help you.”

She looked Israel up and down.

“Erm.” Israel looked shyly away. And then he looked less shyly back at her. He had rather missed female company.

“Well,” he said.

“I don’t mean like that, Israel,” said Veronica.

“Oh. Sorry. I just thought you…”

“Israel. This is not like the last time.”

“When?” said Israel innocently.

“When Mr. Dixon disappeared. That was different.”

“Why?” said Israel.

“Well, he was a silly old fool. This is a young girl who’s gone missing.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“So,” she said, leaning forward. “Just to be clear. What happened between us before—”

“Yes?”

“Was a terrible mistake.”

“Ah,” said Israel. “Yes.”

“So long as you’re clear about that.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She straightened out her skirt and took a sip of her wine. “Look at us!” she said, laughing.

“Yes!” said Israel sadly. “Look at us.”

“Like old friends!”

Israel thought about Gloria again.

“So, do we have a deal.”

“Do I have a choice?” said Israel.

“Not really,” said Veronica. “No.”

“Well then.”

She put out her hand.

“So we’re in business?”

“I suppose,” said Israel.

“Good.” She took a napkin and a pen.

“You can’t write on the napkin!”

“At these prices, Israel, I can write on the walls.”

Veronica started making shapes and doodles on the napkin.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m mind mapping.”

“You’re what?”

“Mind mapping? Tony Buzan. It’s a good way of problem solving.”

“Like brainstorming?”

“Kind of. What we need to do is build up a complete picture of Lyndsay’s friends, her social circle. We need to think laterally.”

“We should try to get Ted on board,” said Israel.

“On board?”

“With the mission,” said Israel.

“Yeah, well, I’ll leave that to you. Good luck with that. We’ll need to talk to her parents, of course.”

“I can’t do that,” said Israel.

“Why not?”

“Well, we’ve had a little bit of a history, me and Maurice Morris.”

“Fine. I’ll do him. You can do the mother. What else do we know about Lyndsay?”

“She borrowed books from the library.”

“Apart from that.”

“She was at school.”

“What else? Clubs? Hobbies?”

“No idea.”

“She worked sometimes at weekends in the fish and chip shop at the bottom of High Street in Tumdrum.”

“The Venice Fish Bar?” said Israel.

“That’s the one.”

“Why is it called the Venice Fish Bar? I’ve always wondered.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did she work there?”

“I’m guessing her father wanted to teach her the value of hard work. You know what wealthy parents are like. Listen, if you’re going back to Tumdrum, why don’t you check that out, and I’ll look into any other hobbies or interests that might be a lead?”

Veronica’s phone rang. Her phone had the theme tune to
Mission: Impossible
.

She answered it, naturally.

Israel smiled at her understandingly.

She held the phone away from her mouth for a moment.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just need to take this.”

“Sure,” said Israel.

She got up and strode out of the restaurant. Israel watched her go.

A few moments later the waiter appeared with their lunch.

Israel sat and waited. And waited.

He poured himself another glass of Riesling.

And then another. It was good.

He ate his vegetarian lasagna.

It was OK.

He ordered dessert.

Key lime pie.

It was OK.

And coffee.

When Veronica eventually walked back in she was looking thrilled. And unapologetic.

“Have you eaten?” she said.

“Yes,” said Israel. “Sorry.”

“No, no, that’s all right. Listen, I’ve managed to set up an interview with Maurice Morris.”

“Great.”

“Now. So I need to dash—would you mind settling up?”

“Erm…Yeah. But…”

“Thanks, Israel.” She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll be in touch, OK?”

“You’ll be in touch,” repeated Israel. “Right.”

“You’re going to the fish and chip shop.”

“OK.”

“Anytime today would be good. We need to stay on top of this.”

“Right.”

“You can report back later.”

“OK.”

“Ciao!” said Veronica, sashaying out the door.

“Bye,” said Israel.

“The bill, sir?” said the waiter.

“I suppose,” said Israel.

“Your treat?”

“Clearly.”

14