The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery (21 page)

“Calculator,” said Israel.

“Yes. Calculator. And the wife, she is gone. In bed. And the man says he will pay me ten pounds.”

“I see.”

“Or he says he will pay twenty pounds, but I have to do something for him.”

“What?”

“Sex!” The man on the bed laughs.

“Yes,” agreed Katrina. “He means sex with him.”

“Oh god.”

“His wife is bed, upstairs,” said Katrina.

“That’s terrible,” said Israel. “I’m so sorry.”

She blew smoke up toward the ceiling. “Is not your fault.”

“No, but…”

“What do you want to know about Lyndsay?”

“Well, I don’t really…Anything, really.”

“She was nice.”

The man on the bed nodded his head in agreement.

“I like her. She help me with things.”

“And did she have any boyfriends, or…”

“Yes, of course. Boyfriends. She is pretty.”

“Yes. Anyone in particular?”

Katrina looked at the man. The man looked back.

“You don’t know anybody we know this.”

“No. No. Of course.”

“We think Gerry.”

“Gerry who?”

“The boss.”

“She was friendly with the boss?”

“Yes. He used to give her a lift home.”

“I see.”

“In his Mercedes.”

“Oh.”

“He pick her up, night she disappear.”

“In his Mercedes?”

“Yes.”

“You saw him pick her up?”

“I see the car,” said the man on the bed.

“Are you sure?”

“Mercedes.” The man nodded his head.

“Did you tell the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to lose my job.”

“But what if Lyndsay’s been…”

“What can I do?” said the young man.

“What’s he like, this Gerry?”

Katrina hesitated in her answer.

“He’s a bad man.”

“Really?”

“
Bad
,” piped up the young man on the bed.

“I see.”

“DVDs. Computer things. His other business. Illegal. Friend of ours. He was caught by police. He go back to Romania.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Did you tell the police?”

Katrina laughed.

“We’re just immigrants.”

“And you’re a librarian!” said the man on the bed, laughing.

“In Romania, I study literature,” said Katrina. “One day, I think I believe I will become great playwright! Like Ionesco. And look! Here I am! You know Ionesco?”

“No. Not really. I mean, I know—”

“
Rhinoceros
? Everybody knows
Rhinoceros
.”

“In Romania, everybody knows
Rhinoceros
,” echoed the man on the bed. “Schoolboys!”

“Here,” said Katrina. “Nobody knows nothing.”

“Anything,” said Israel.

“What?”

“Nobody knows anything, that’s the…”

“Nobody knows anything!”

“Yes. Well, thanks.”

“Nobody knows anything!”

“‘Les morts sont plus nombreux que les vivants. Leur nombre augmente. Les vivants sont rares
,’” said Katrina.

“Yes,” agreed Israel, assuming that she’d told him a joke. “Very good.”

As he left the building he could still hear them laughing.

He returned to his chicken coop.

Rang Gloria.

No reply.

Lay on his bed.

Wept.

Decided it was time to go and see a doctor.

15

W
hile Israel was doing his best for the cause of international relations, Veronica was doing her best with Tumdrum’s Independent Unionist candidate for Member of the Legislative Assembly, Maurice Morris.

Maurice’s office was on the High Street in Rathkeltair, a street that boasted more clubs and takeaways than any other comparable small town in the north of the county. Which was quite a claim to fame. High Street had helped transform Rathkeltair into a weekend mecca for the young and hungry and thirsty of the north of the north of Ireland. On High Street, in just a few hundred yards, you could sample the culinary delights of pizzas, kebabs, chips, Chinese, and Indian food, some of it actually cooked by people from China
and India or countries thereabouts. Stumbling out of or into one of the town’s renowned clubs—Club Foot, the Water-front, or the Destination—you could choose to eat in or out at the Great Wall, or the Pooh Ping Palace, or Yum Yums, or in Billy’s Fat Subs, the Bakehole, Gobble and Go, Nachos, Little India, Taste of the Taj, or half a dozen others of lesser renown. Indeed, some young people took it as a challenge on a Friday or Saturday night to eat in
all
of Rathkeltair’s popular eateries, often ending up in the Thai Tanic, a Thai restaurant and karaoke bar with a
Titanic
theme, which served, it was said, the best Thai curry chip in the whole of Ireland—evidence of such being often available on Saturday and Sunday mornings, before the road sweepers got to work clearing last night’s fun.

Maurice’s office was up at the untakeaway end of the street, above Dennis McIlhone’s, the podiatrist, who advertised his business with a large pair of plaster of paris feet in the window, and below Alison Arden, the dentist, who advertised her business with a banner showing a blonde, lipsticked woman smiling with perfect white teeth. Maurice had chosen as his party symbol a heart, which had been produced in large sticky graphics and pasted up on the window. The building looked like a bizarre art installation.

The big heart had been Maurice’s idea. As an Independent Unionist, according to his campaign literature, Maurice believed in Strong and Safe Communities, and in Quality Public Services, and Protecting the Environment and Maintaining the Union. But above all, Maurice believed in people. Or rather, Believed in People. And he had A Big Heart for the people of Rathkeltair and Tumdrum and county.

In the reception area of Maurice Morris’s office (open
8:30–4:30 Monday to Friday) there were fluorescent and halogen lamps, beech-effect filing cabinets, a large wall-mounted plasma screen TV set on the usual magnolia walls, a vase containing some sad little drooping tulips, a laptop computer, a printer, and a shredding machine set up on furniture that looked as if it had been bought yesterday from a catalog—it had little tufts of plastic in hard-to-get-at corners. There were certificates and photographs on the wall, and a map of the area with ominous looking Post-it notes attached.

Veronica was sitting on a bright blue office chair. Next to her—worryingly close to her—was Mickey Highsmith, a small, stout, tense man with an uneven mustache, prominent bulging eyes, and the active hand movements of an ex-smoker, who was Maurice Morris’s election agent and handler. He was briefing her.

“Now, before you go in, you understand that this interview with Mr. Morris is a feature piece?” he said, his mustache bristling wonkily.

“Sure,” said Veronica.

“You’re in no doubt about that.”

“None at all,” said Veronica.

“You’re going to keep it fairly light.”

“Of course.”

“Not funny, though. You’re not going to try and be funny.”

“I don’t do funny, Mr. Highsmith.”

“Good. Maurice Morris doesn’t like journalism that’s more about the interviewer than the interviewee.”

“Me neither,” she lied.

“So no questions about…economics.”

“Fine.” She didn’t have a clue about economics.

“Or the war on terror.” It was difficult to see what she might ask Maurice Morris about the war on terror.

“You’re not recording this, are you?” asked Mickey.

“You don’t want me to record it?”

“Definitely not!” said Highsmith. “When I spoke to the paper, I said—”

“I’m not recording it,” said Veronica.

“Good. No recording devices on you?”

“No. I’m going to use”—she held a spiral-bound reporter’s notebook—“this.”

“OK. Oh. Here.” Highsmith produced from his pocket a ballpoint emblazoned with the words “Maurice Morris: The People’s Choice.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll…treasure it.”

“You’re going to be focusing more on his personal life.”

“Sure,” said Veronica, flashing her most winning smile, in a way that suggested not merely acquiescence but a supine obedience; it was this smile, one might argue, and this smile alone that had ensured she was one of the
Impartial Recorder
’s most successful reporters. It was her ticket out of here.

Highsmith looked at her, with a middle-aged man’s look between lust and contempt: her clingy dress, her high heels. She did not seem to him to be dressed so much for a serious political interview as for a cocktail party covered by the
Ulster Tatler
. She did not look serious. She was perfect as an interviewer for Maurice Morris.

Highsmith looked at his watch.

“You’re only going to get about fifteen minutes, OK?”

“That’s fine. That’s plenty.”

“May I look at your questions?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m sorry, I haven’t got anything written down.”

Highsmith viewed her up and down. She looked too stupid to do any serious damage.

“Wait here. I’ll see if he’s ready to see you.” He knocked on the door of the inner sanctum, waited, and then entered, closing the thin wood-effect door carefully behind him.

She glanced around at the black-framed certificates and photographs on the wall—certificate for this, certificate for that, Maurice Morris emerging from the sea, his body surprisingly lean for a man in his fifties. And his wife and daughter of course. The wife—she’d always struck her as a little bohemian looking.

Highsmith returned and ushered her in.

She had interviewed politicians before, but not often, and always at press conferences or local ceremonies and events: public occasions. This was the first time she’d secured a one-on-one. And she had to admit, she was excited. Previously she’d always been separated from them by a certain distance. Even then, she could feel it, although exactly what the “it” was she wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t exactly charisma, though some of them certainly had that. It was something else, though, something that made you look at them, watch
them. Maybe it was power, pure and simple—like being in thrall to an animal, the thrill of some nonhuman thing.

Maurice Morris was taking her hand in front of a large mahogany desk and leading her to a seat. How old was he? Forty-five? Fifty? Fifty-five? It was difficult to tell. His hair was beginning to gray around the temples, but he was still attractive. Two words sprang into her mind. George. And Clooney. And then another two.

“So. Miss—it is Miss?”

“Yes.” She blushed through her blushes.

“Tell me about yourself. How long have you been with the paper?”

Within ten minutes Veronica seemed to have told Maurice Morris her entire life story—her hopes, her dreams. She told him all about growing up in Tumdrum, the daughter of the owner of the grocery store, how she’d worked there helping her father after her mother had died, and had given up her dreams of going to university in order to pursue a career in journalism, which would allow her to assist her father. He smiled serenely and nodded. It was like talking to her father, except Maurice was better looking, with white teeth and hair and no paunch.

“Well, let me wish you all the best in your career,” said Maurice Morris, with the tone of someone wrapping up the interview.

“Actually, sorry. I do have some questions.”

“I’m sure you do,” he said.

There was a knock at the door and Highsmith entered.

“Time’s up,” he said.

“Oh, no. What a shame!” said Maurice. “That’s our time up. I’m so sorry.”

“But I haven’t had time to ask all my questions,” said Veronica. “For the profile.”

“Ah.”

“I think we maybe need a little more time together, don’t we, Veronica?” said Maurice. “Could you give us five minutes, Mickey?”

Mickey nodded and silently exited.

“Thanks so much,” said Veronica.

“No problem,” said Maurice Morris. “You’ve some more questions?”

“Yes, I wanted to ask you about your daughter, if that’s OK?”

“Well, yes.” Maurice looked down. Tears sprang instantly to his eyes.

“This must be a very difficult time for you,” began Veronica.

“Yes. It is. It’s…awful. It’s very difficult for me to talk about this. Particularly with the election so close. I don’t want the focus to be on me. I want the focus to remain on policy issues.”

“Of course,” said Veronica. “But your daughter’s disappearance must be a terrible worry and a burden to you.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind telling me a little bit about your daughter and your relationship with her?”

Which Maurice Morris gladly did.

“That’s all now,” said Highsmith, reappearing five minutes later.

“That’s such a shame,” said Maurice. “Perhaps we could meet up for an informal chat,” he said, “over coffee?”

“Well, that would be…”

“Here’s my card,” said Maurice. “Call me anytime. If there’s anything I can help you with.”

16

I
srael managed to get an early morning cancellation with a doctor in Tumdrum’s state-of-the-art health center out on the main road going up toward Coleraine.

The health center looked like something designed by dreamy Finns and built by Australians in a screaming hurry, a kind of cross between an Alvar Aalto and a woolshed in New South Wales, with a lot of ambitious angles and exposed wood and steel frames and corrugated iron cladding in bright blue and red, and with a big black roof like a butterfly straining to take off from its mounting board. Yard upon yard of thick red plastic guttering spewed rain into downpipes, as if the building itself had realized its mistake and had slit its veins and was slowly bleeding to death into
Tumdrum’s bitter ground. There was what appeared to be a cattle ramp—a long, high-sided yellow platform bridge, the yellow of an old French postal van, like a long, sickly unrolling tongue glistening with saliva—leading from the car park to a deep, shady veranda stretching along the whole front of the building, set with low steel benches on which sat disconsolate smokers, people shamed and condemned by their own families and contemporaries, who sat inside staring out at the backs of them through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The building would probably have worked in Helsinki or Sydney, and may even have won prizes, but in Tumdrum it was a sick joke, as if an architectural prankster had dumped it off the back of a truck and driven away at high speed: the iron parts were rusting, the wood cladding was rotting into a sickly shade of green, the miserable phormiums planted up all around it looked as though they’d been chewed at by hungry hounds, and the acres of glass were not a good idea in Ireland, thought Israel, as he sat and waited to see the doctor, the whole building thrumming with the sound of rain and the big windows streaked as if they themselves were downpouring. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was elsewhere.