It certainly took some explaining to George, about Brownie’s bike having been stolen from outside the church: Israel had explained, and apologised, and explained again, and George had just looked at him, silently, her arms folded, and in attempting to explain Israel was in fact simply digging himself a larger and deeper hole, and when he thought he’d dug down deep enough George’s silence had kept him digging some more.
‘I’ll pay for it,’ he said in the end, breaking light somewhere near Melbourne, Australia.
‘Correct,’ said George, walking away.
It was the Easter Monday morning and he was no closer to solving the mystery of Mr Dixon’s disappearance than he had been on Easter Sunday. He’d sat up half the night again reading Brownie’s damp crime fiction but that was still getting him nowhere, so he’d decided to take the Wonderful Wilsoni’s advice and go and see Mrs Dixon. It was a high-risk strategy, but he didn’t have any others.
Ted was taking the day off, and so Israel, having lost the bike, and the van, and all other forms of transport being unavailable to him–buses in and around Tumdrum being about as rare as hen’s teeth–decided to walk, which gave him an opportunity to enjoy Tumdrum’s scenery and to review his evidence so far. So far, he had established that Mr Dixon had disappeared, and the fields were certainly looking nice this time of year. On the long wet road down by the sea the endless waves were endlessly lashing against the shore.
The Dixons lived in a house off the main coast road to Rathkeltair; you could just see the house from the road, although it was surrounded on all sides with high white rendered concrete walls, and a protective miniature forest was planted all around it, and at the big black iron gates there were CCTV cameras and a buzzer.
Israel rang.
‘Yes?’ fuzzed a voice after a few moments.
‘Librarian,’ said Israel.
‘Say again?’ fuzzed the voice back faintly.
‘Librarian.’
It was amazing really where the word librarian would get you. As a cover it was perfect: no one suspected librarians of anything, except chronic timidity, and dandruff, and the collecting and issuing of books. Saying to someone you were a librarian was pretty much the equivalent of saying to them, ‘No, really, I’m no one, tell me about yourself.’ ‘Librarian’ was the perfect disguise.
The gates swung open and Israel walked up a long gravel drive. The house appeared from a distance to be an old, old house but in fact when you got up close you could see that it was pretty much brand spanking new–no more than a couple of years old at the most by the pristine scuffless look of it, and yet brilliantly and pointlessly built to appear old, or Olde, some unspecified ultimate age of Oldness. The Dixons’ was not so much a home as an illustrated guide to the history of genteel building, a generically Tudor-Georgian-Victorian-Edwardian mansion (incorporating a glass and steel Modernist conservatory with a swimming pool stuck on the side). Parked outside the house was the traditional black Saab convertible with a cream leather interior.
The front door was flanked by columns–either Doric or Ionic; Israel could never remember his columns–and as he approached the door opened, and a woman stood there staring unsteadily at him.
‘Mrs Dixon?’ said Israel.
‘Yes?’ said the woman.
She was wearing a bottle-green tailored suit, of a kind that Israel had thought had long gone out of manufacture, and certainly out of fashion, a suit that might properly be described as a ‘power suit’, of a kind that might have found favour among dictators’ wives in former Soviet republics. Her odd, possibly inimitable Northern-Irish-Euro-chic style was further accentuated by a cream silk scarf knotted at her throat, and the addition of some heavy gold jewellery, and by her eyebrows, which were etched high on her forehead; she looked like an old Catherine Deneuve playing a younger Catherine Deneuve in a film set in the 1980s, in Northern Ireland.
‘The librarian?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Israel. ‘Hello! I’m Israel Armstrong.’
He went to shake hands but Mrs Dixon drew close and kissed him on both cheeks, continental-style. This would have been unusual enough in north London; in Northern Ireland it was nothing less than profoundly shocking. Israel felt like he’d been slapped, or tickled. He detected mints and wine.
‘Welcome,’ said Mrs Dixon, drawing back and looking out past Israel at the driveway. ‘Did you say your name was Israel?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a very unusual name.’ Her voice seemed a little slurred.
‘I suppose it is, yes.’
‘And you’re on foot, Israel?’
‘Yes. The van is…It’s got a problem with its…erm…It’s broken down. Anyway, your husband—’
Mrs Dixon raised a raised eyebrow even higher at the mention of her husband. ‘Yes?’
‘He had…has, sorry, has a lot of books overdue.’ He’d been rehearsing his story on the way over. ‘They’re on order for another reader. So I wondered if I might…’
‘Yes?’ Mrs Dixon notched up the etched eyebrow again.
‘It’s because they’re on order for another reader, you see. A very…old reader.’
‘I see.’
‘Who has read all the other books in the library.’
Mrs Dixon simply looked at him.
‘It would really be very helpful.’
‘Well, in that case, Israel, you’d better come in.’
‘It’s a lovely house you have here, Mrs Dixon,’ said Israel, stepping across the threshold.
The Dixons’ house reminded him of his mum and dad’s, in the way that an actual building might remind you of a painted plyboard doll’s house, or Legoland might remind you vaguely of London, Paris, New York and the Taj Mahal. His parents’ house was a kind of miniature, amateur, hobbyists’ flat-pack version of the Dixons’: they shared a similar taste in furnishings, though where his mum had dark, heavy reproduction period-style furniture bought from a young man wearing a shirt with a nametag on it in a brightly lit showroom up at Brent Cross, the Dixons had actual dark, heavy period furniture, presumably bought from a dimly lit antiques showroom from a man with second homes in France and Cork and children at English public schools.
‘Can I get you a drink of anything?’ asked Mrs Dixon, wobbling slightly.
‘Erm. No, thanks. It’s a little—’
‘Tea, coffee?’
‘Ah, right! Well. A cup of coffee perhaps, would be…’
‘Good,’ said Mrs Dixon. She smiled at him warmly, if a little lopsidedly. ‘Shall we go upstairs first?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Upstairs, Israel,’ said Mrs Dixon, hand on hip. ‘My husband’s office is upstairs.’
‘Ah, right, yes.’
Mrs Dixon led Israel to the bottom of a proverbial sweeping staircase–the kind that two people might comfortably ascend or descend together, side by side, carrying a piano.
‘After you,’ said Mrs Dixon, turning to face Israel; she had a habit of staring at you when speaking to you, eyes wide, eyebrows taut, lashes erect, giving you her full, mad, undivided attention, and as a librarian Israel had become accustomed to people not meeting his eye–who wants a librarian to acknowledge your gaze, eye-to-eye, when you’re checking out Viagra for Dummies?–so he found this rather unnerving. It felt like she was looking straight into his soul.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his throat dry.
Mrs Dixon followed him closely up the stairs.
‘What age are you, Israel?’
‘What age am I?’ he said, half turning.
‘Yes. If it’s not a rude question.’
‘No, it’s…I’m twenty-nine.’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Dixon with a sigh. ‘And you’re making the most of it, I hope?’
‘Of what?’
‘Your youth!’ Mrs Dixon laughed.
‘Erm,’ said Israel. ‘Yes. I suppose, I, er…You know…I…’
‘You mustn’t let it pass you by.’
‘No. Quite.’
‘The flower of youth fades.’
‘Yes.’
‘And leaves behind it…’ Mrs Dixon’s voice trailed off.
‘I’m sure this must be a very difficult time for you,’ said Israel.
‘This?’
‘With your husband having…’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘Very difficult time.’
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up…safe,’ said Israel.
‘I’d really rather not talk about it, thank you,’ said Mrs Dixon huffily.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Israel.
Family photographs lined the stairway going up. At the very top of the stairs was a black and white photographic portrait of a man and woman in evening dress, holding what appeared to be miniature banjos.
‘That’s a lovely photo,’ said Israel.
‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Dixon. ‘They were my parents.’
‘Oh, right. They were banjo players?’
‘Ukuleleists.’
‘Right.’
‘The Bells?’ said Mrs Dixon hopefully. ‘Bill and Antoinetta?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘They were very famous locally.’
‘I see.’
‘My mother was French,’ said Mrs Dixon, as though this explained every failing and success in her life.
‘Really?’ Well, that explained the kissing, at least. That, and a bottle or two of early morning Chardonnay.
‘Come!’ commanded Mrs Dixon, heels clicking, leading Israel down a long corridor decked on either side with paintings–actual paintings, rather than reproductions–towards the rear of the house, where she opened a door.
‘Here we are, young man.’ She didn’t enter the room herself, but gestured for him to enter. ‘Please? Now, you know what you’re looking for?’
‘Yes. I think so,’ said Israel.
‘Good. The books will be over there, somewhere,’ she said, indicating shelves. ‘I’ll go and get you that coffee.’
‘Right. Thanks. Yes. I shouldn’t be…’
Mrs Dixon had gone, leaving behind her just the smell of perfume and dry white wine.
Israel had absolutely no idea what he was looking for. He was hoping something would make itself apparent–a clue.
In Brownie’s crime novels the detectives solved mysteries by using a combination of profound reasoning, forensics, sidekicks, and their extraordinary natural resources of intuition and intelligence, intelligence that manifested itself only, it had to be said, in solving grisly and improbable crimes, because when not solving crimes they seemed to spend all their time drinking, smoking and listening to their favourite music ad nauseam. Did none of them ever get a little bit tired, or hungry, or suffer from mild headaches?
Israel gazed desperately around the room, trying to think detectively. How long did he have? How long did it take to make a cup of coffee?
Opposite, the bookshelves. Israel liked to think he was something of a connoisseur of shelves. These were oak, as far as he could tell; they looked like oak, plain, simply finished, not too many frills. Nice. If he had a spare few thousand they were exactly the sort of shelves he might have had installed back in the chicken coop. On these fine sleek shelves of oak there were books of magic, and more books of magic, and nothing but books of magic–legions, thousands, row upon row. There were dozens of Principles and Secrets of magic, and encyclopaedias and dictionaries and guides and histories and illustrated histories of magic, and biographies of magicians, and bibliographies of magical books. Mr Dixon’s vast collection of magic books was fully representative, like a complete library of the world, except this was a world made up only of sleight of hand and trickery, the world made over and revealed in all its deceptions. There was volume upon volume of something called Card College and books by Kreskin and by Randi and by other men with improbable names. Was there ever a magician named Smith? One shelf–about 8 foot long–a full stretch–seemed to contain only books by and about Houdini: Who Was Houdini?, This is Houdini, The Life of Harry Houdini, The Death of Harry Houdini, The Lives and Deaths of Harry Houdini, and one called simply Houdini!, and another Houdini!!, and another, finally, Houdini!!! Another shelf was filled with books about someone called Dante–not the thirteenth-century Italian poet, but a man with a little forked beard who appeared to have been ‘The World’s Greatest Master of Mystery’ back some time when only black-and-white photos were available. Half a dozen shelves of the library contained videos and DVDs–box-sets upon box-sets of the work of a man called Richard Osterlind, and another, Juan Tamariz, and Banachek, whoever he was, and men called Chad and Jay and Tad, all of them acclaimed as Masters and Lords and Kings of their realms; it was like discovering a parallel universe of other Shakespeares. Other shelves were weighed down with what appeared to be entire runs of magic magazines–all the way down from a big glossy called Magic, through Abracadabra, and Genii, down to queer little things called The Crimp and Dr Faustus’s Library.
Clue, clue, God grant him a clue.
A book caught his eye. He took down a copy of Houdini’s The Right Way To Do Wrong. He flicked through, looking for some inspirational, magical passage.
Nope. No good.
Table in the centre of the room; globe, atlases, travel books: Eric Newby, Jan Morris, Bill Bryson.
Clue, clue, where are you?
At the far end of the room there was a mirrored built-in wardrobe, the kind of thing you might find in a dance studio, or a suburban semi. Israel quickly slid open a mirrored door. Inside: magician’s cloak, tails, top hats, rack of wands, sparkly stiletto shoes, sequinned bodices…
Well, that was interesting. And beside the mirrored wardrobe, just behind the door, was a little collection of photographs that caught Israel’s eye: photos of a man in tails, Mr Dixon, pulling a rabbit from a hat; Mr Dixon in tails with a lovely assistant; Mr Dixon with another lovely assistant; and another; and all the lovely assistants sporting little else but sequinned body suits, ostrich feather boas, white gloves and sparkly stilettos. In their make-up and headdresses and plunging outfits all the women looked the same. Except for one. He thought he recognised the face. He stood on tiptoe and looked close, at the…Was that? No, it couldn’t be.
‘Nice photos, aren’t they?’ said Mrs Dixon, who had appeared behind Israel, holding two mugs of coffee. ‘Here.’ She handed him a mug. The coffee smelt good.
‘Thanks,’ he said. His heart was pounding.
‘So, did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Erm. No. I mean yes. Actually, I…’
The smell of wine seemed mixed now with something stronger–a wee snifter. Mrs Dixon gazed at the photos. The snifter and the photos seemed to put her in the mood to talk.
‘The police say if he’s not been kidnapped then we have to face the possibility that he has some mental health problem,’ she said, looking at the photos. ‘It’s just—’ She broke off, choking with tears.
Israel didn’t carry handkerchiefs.
‘Shall I get you a…Do you want a…?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Mrs Dixon, dabbing at her eyes. ‘The police, you see, it’s been very…They’ve been asking all sorts of questions.’
‘I’m sure it’s been very difficult.’
‘Yes, yes. They’ll be here again in a minute, actually.’
‘Who? The police?’
‘Yes, they’re coming back this morning. There’s a press conference this afternoon.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Sergeant Friel, he’s very sweet, he’s an old family friend, but—’
There was the sound of ringing downstairs.
‘That’ll be him,’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘Excuse me, Israel, won’t you? I’ll just be a minute. You relax there.’
Relax? Sergeant Friel was not going to be happy to see him. Israel had to get out.
There was a window at the far end of the room. Sash window. He ran across and threw it open. Looked out. Short drop down onto sloping roof. Should be fine. Better than being caught tampering with evidence by Sergeant Friel.
He started levering himself onto the window ledge. And then he remembered the photograph. He hurried back across the room, behind the door. Was that? It certainly looked like it. But he couldn’t be quite sure. He’d have to…He took the picture off the wall, and ran back to the window.
By the time Sergeant Friel walked into Mr Dixon’s study, Israel was hobbling as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him back down the Dixons’ long gravel drive. He’d twisted his bloody ankle. Again.
‘Here we are, Sergeant,’ Mrs Dixon was saying. ‘The librarian.’
But the room was empty.
‘That’s funny,’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘He was here a moment ago. He seems just to have disappeared.’
‘Aye,’ said Sergeant Friel, going over to the window. ‘Not for long, Mrs D. Not for long.’