The back room at the the First and Last–which was run by the famously rude and teetotal Elder Agnew Jr, and which was either Tumdrum’s first or last pub, depending on which way you were coming into town–didn’t look as though it had been touched since about 1950, and if it had, the touch had been light, the wrist limp. Elder, as a born-again evangelical Christian, did not regard cleanliness as in any way related to godliness–he believed in justification by faith and not sanctification by works–and he was just too mean to pay a cleaner. In the back room of the First and Last dust had long since turned to crust, and there was a slight stickiness to every surface. The front bar of the First and Last at least made a pretence of a few home comforts: velveteen banquettes, the occasional wipe of a surface, pictures, Scripture-text mirrors, the fire. But in the back room there just was a single grimy ‘Guinness Is Good For You’ print on the wall, an old jukebox, a boarded-up fireplace, and that was it. Bare boards, tables and chairs that did not match, primitive wooden benches, windows with grilles over them, smoke so thick and so dense it felt you were eating it, and you were so close to the vat of Elder’s illicit mini-distillery out back that you only had to stay in the room for about half an hour and even if you were drinking sparkling mineral water your eyes would soon start to roll, your spirits soar, your speech slur, and eventually you’d pass out.
Ted was introducing Israel to a few people; he’d been lying low during the afternoon at the offices of the Impartial Recorder with Veronica, working his way through the microfiche; he hadn’t discovered as much as he’d hoped.
‘Big Red, Israel Armstrong.’
‘Hello.’ Israel and Big Red shook hands.
Big Red had a ginger moustache.
‘This is One Brow.’
‘Hello.’ Israel and One Brow shook hands.
One Brow had one brow.
‘Barney.’
Barney sported both comb-over and moustache.
‘Hi, Barney.’
Israel went to shake Barney’s hand.
‘All right, forget the shaking of hands,’ said Ted, ‘or we’ll be here all flippin’ night.’
‘Sorry, Ted,’ said Israel.
‘Jim Savage,’ continued Ted.
Israel simply nodded. Savage by name, savage by…
‘This is Thompson–we call him Tonky,’ said Ted.
‘Hello, Tonky.’ Tonky looked withered from drink.
‘And Tonky’s son, Honky.’
‘Honky Thompson?’
‘Aye.’
‘Hello, Honky.’ Honky hadn’t yet withered as much as his dad, but he was getting there; he’d shrivelled.
‘Wesley you might know. He runs Virtual Victuals.’
‘What?’
‘Virtual Victuals, the Internet butcher?’
‘Irish bacon. Irish hams, black puddings, white puddings,’ said Wesley.
‘Lovely,’ said Israel.
‘And Billy,’ concluded Ted, nodding towards a man seated at a table with a group of other men, ‘and Sammy. And Billy. Sammy. Billy.’
‘Billy, Sammy, Billy, Sammy, Billy?’
‘Aye.’
‘You’ll be set a test on the names later,’ said a Billy.
‘Which I’ll fail!’ joked Israel.
‘Aye,’ agreed Ted. ‘Drinks then?’
‘I’m a bit…’ Israel patted his pockets.
‘Aye. Put your money away.’
Israel accompanied Ted to the bar, which was a plank of wood across the back of the front bar.
Ted ordered.
‘Ted.’ Israel spoke quietly. ‘Who the hell are all these people?’
‘These boys? Some of them are from the choir I was telling you about, some of them from the lodge.’
‘The Orange lodge?’
‘Give over. Masonic lodge.’
‘Right. And they’re here because?’
‘We’re putting our minds together to try and help you out. Brainstorming, you know.’
‘Brainstorming? No, Ted, look, that’s very kind of you and everything, but I’m not sure that’s going to help. I don’t think we’re going to solve this by committee.’
‘Aye, right. So how far have you got on your own then, Detective Inspector Rebus?’
‘Erm. Well, I think…’ Israel lowered his voice and looked around to check that no one could overhear him. ‘I think there’s a possibility Mrs Dixon might be involved in some kind of financial mismanagement.’
‘What, she’s topping up her housekeeping? And that’s it? That’s what you’ve discovered so far?’
‘Sshh, Ted. It’s a bit more complicated that that actually—’
‘And how long have you got left to sort things out, before they haul you back in?’
‘Till Saturday.’
‘And today is?’
‘Tuesday?’
‘It’s Monday, you eejit. I think you’ll be needing a hand then, eh, if you don’t even know what day of the week it is? Here, take these.’
Israel helped Ted take pints back to the tables.
‘So?’ said Ted, drinks delivered, sitting down.
‘We need to look at this logically,’ said the man called Big Red.
‘Aye,’ added One Brow. ‘Why would anyone kidnap him?’
‘Because he disturbed them?’ said a Billy.
‘Wouldn’t he just become a liability?’ said One Brow.
‘Why?’
‘Because he knew their identity?’
‘Aye, well, there is another possibility,’ said another Billy.
‘Which is?’
‘He was working with them.’
‘You think Mr Dixon was involved in a criminal gang run by former paramilitaries?’ said Tonky, who was smoking a pipe.
‘No. Not really,’ said a Billy. ‘I’m just thinking out loud here.’
‘Well, can you not, it’s confusing me,’ said Tonky.
Israel was keen to make his own voice heard. ‘Erm. If I could just—’
‘Wesley knows him, don’t you, Wesley?’ said Ted.
‘Aye, Ted. Saw Mr Dixon on the golf course last week.’
‘How’d he seem?’
‘He looked rightly.’
‘You can’t judge a book by its cover.’
‘Aye.’
‘But a rich man has his problems also,’ said Wesley.
Israel thought on that for a moment. He thought about all the rich men he knew. Gloria’s father: he certainly had his problems. He was some kind of businessman, import-export. He was divorced from Gloria’s mother. When Israel was first getting to know Gloria, her parents were both still living in the house together. Terrible atmosphere. Terrible. It had put him off divorce. Whenever Israel went round her father would be banished to the back room, slumped in front of the TV, eating ready meals. A condemned man. Probably the richest person Israel knew was an old friend from college, Pete; he’d gone into some sort of Internet start-up, crested the wave, and these days Israel could never get him to return his calls, and when he did he wished he hadn’t, because he’d usually be on board a private jet on his way to Monte Carlo. Last time Israel had spoken to Pete he was just back from a weekend in Iceland; he’d had a good time. In fact, ‘Reykjavik is my new party city,’ he’d said. They were maybe drifting apart.
‘You know, I think he’s done himself in,’ said Honky, a man for whom the glass seemed always–metaphorically and literally–half empty. ‘Pint anyone?’
‘Why would he do himself in?’ said Tonky.
‘Just because,’ said Honky, getting up for the bar.
‘I think we need to look at this logically,’ said Big Red again.
‘Aye,’ said Tonky. ‘People don’t just kill themselves for no good reason.’
‘There were always those rumours, mind,’ said a Sammy.
‘What rumours?’ said Israel.
‘That he was, you know…’
‘What?’
‘A kiddie fiddler,’ called Honky from the bar. ‘Pints?’
‘Aye!’ came a collective response.
‘Ach,’ said Ted. ‘Lot of nonsense. That was because he did the children’s parties, just.’
‘Right,’ said Israel. ‘Erm, I wouldn’t mind some crisps, actually…Tonky?’
‘Honky,’ said Honky. ‘Tayto cheese and onion?’
‘Please. I’ll have two packets actually, if that’s…’
‘Aye. Lads?’
‘Aye,’ came the further call.
Israel hadn’t eaten a proper meal since…Saturday? It had been all crisps and sandwiches. He thought he’d maybe lost a few pounds. He was on the fugitive diet, but he couldn’t recommend it. A stomach staple would be easier.
‘I think he’s just taken hisself off,’ said Wesley, who spoke as though he’d recently eaten a large mixed grill which, being a butcher, he probably had.
‘Why would he take hisself off?’ said Ted.
‘To get away.’
‘To get away from what though?’
‘People do, don’t they? Just throw up the head and…’
‘Aye,’ agreed a Sammy. ‘What about that fella Stephen, what do you call him, a few years back? Mate of yours, Ted?’
‘Who?’
‘Stephen Crawford?’ said another Sammy.
‘Aye. Him. Played for Tumdrum Young Men. He disappeared, didn’t he?’
‘Ach, no. That was different,’ said Ted. ‘Sure, he just went down to work at Ballylumford.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Tonky. ‘That’s not the same thing at all. He just left town.’
‘As good as disappearing,’ said One Brow.
‘But what about Trevor Mann’s sister?’ said Barney.
‘Maureen?’
‘Aye.’
‘She ran off to join the Dagenham Girl Pipers,’ said Barney.
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘That was years ago,’ said Ted. ‘We’re not comparing like with like here.’
‘We need to look at this logically,’ said Big Red.
Israel attempted to bring the conversation to order. ‘Why would he have gone off though?’
‘Another woman?’ suggested a Billy.
‘No. He’s got Mrs Dixon, hasn’t he?’ said Barney, smoothing down his comb-over.
‘Exactly,’ said One Brow.
There was general laughter.
‘She’s not bad, for her age, but,’ said Barney regretfully. He looked like the kind of man who might feel the lack of female company.
‘A man’s needs are manifold,’ said Honky.
‘Meaning?’ said Ted.
‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ said Honky.
‘You think he’s run off with another woman? And faked his own kidnapping?’ said Ted.
‘I saw that on The Bill once.’
‘Aye, but this is not The Bill, is it, Honky? This is Tumdrum.’
‘Truth can be stranger than fiction, Ted.’
‘Most likely he’s away with one of the shop girls,’ said a Sammy.
‘Mr Dixon?’
‘Any of them missing?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
‘What about wee Davey?’
‘The caretaker.’
‘Nah.’
‘He’s a wee skite, but,’ said Barney.
‘If he stole a pup on the Saturday, he’d have it sold back to you the Sunday,’ said Jimmy Savage elliptically.
‘He’s hardly up to this, though, is he?’
‘People are never what they seem.’
‘I think we’ve got to think about this logically,’ said Big Red.
‘Right,’ said Ted. ‘Why would a man disappear?’
‘Woman.’
‘Mid-life crisis.’
‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ said Israel.
‘Why not?’ said Ted.
‘I don’t know, just…’
‘What would make you disappear then?’
‘I wouldn’t disappear,’ said Israel.
‘Well, what are you doing here then?’
‘I haven’t disappeared. I’m…working.’
‘Well, maybe Mr Dixon fancied a career change.’
‘Mr Dixon? A businessman?’ said One Brow.
‘Sure, we’d all jump at the chance, wouldn’t we?’ said Honky. ‘To just go…’
There was an enthusiastic nodding of heads around the table.
‘Eight years to retirement,’ said One Brow. ‘And counting every day.’
‘Ray’s ready for you, Ted,’ called a barman.
‘Lads,’ said Ted, excusing himself and getting up.
Israel sat on, finishing off his second packet of crisps.
‘Come on then, you big galoot.’
‘What?’
‘Get up. Come on. Don’t hang about.’
Israel swallowed the rest of the crisps and followed Ted, ducking down under the back bar.
‘Ted?’
‘We’re going to see Ray,’ said Ted, making his way down a short, dark, piss-stinking corridor, past crates and bottles.
‘Who’s Ray?’
‘Ray.’
‘Right. Well, why are we going to see Ray?’
‘He’s connected.’
‘To?’
‘The people who might’ve lifted Mr Dixon.’ Ted knocked at a door at the end of the corridor.
‘Jesus! What?’
‘Sshh. He knows people who know people.’
‘Oh, my God.’
The door was unlocked and opened by a vast man in a vast leather car-coat.
‘Ray,’ said Ted.
‘Hello, Ray,’ said Israel.
‘That’s not Ray,’ said Ted.
‘Oh. Sorry.’
The vast man did not respond.
Ray was presumably the man seated at the table on the far side of the room. He was wearing sunglasses. Which seemed unnecessary: the room was not sunny. In fact the room had no windows. But the lack of light looked as though it might not have bothered Ray: he had a pale, weak face, cracked and streaky with burst blood vessels. He did not say hello. There was no shaking of hands with Ray.
‘So, Ted.’
‘Ray. Appreciate you coming.’
‘OK.’
Ted slipped Ray an envelope of cash.
‘I won’t count it, Ted.’
‘No, it’s all there.’
‘Ted, what are you doing?’ said Israel.
‘Ray’s been acting on our behalf.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve had words,’ said Ray.
‘What do you mean you’ve had words?’ said Israel.
‘He’s not been kidnapped.’
‘No?’ said Ted. ‘I didn’t think so.’
‘Not by any of ours.’
‘What do you mean “ours”?’ said Israel.
‘Shut up, Israel.’
‘Our lot,’ said Ray.
‘Which is?’
‘Half of one, and half a dozen of the other,’ said Ray, tapping the side of his nose with his finger.
‘So?’ said Ted.
‘We think there’s a woman involved.’
‘Ah!’ said Ted. ‘I thought so.’
‘And the Dixon boy might be worth talking to.’
‘The boy?’ said Israel. ‘Do they have a son?’
‘Aye. Course.’
‘He wasn’t there today though, at the police press conference.’
‘He wouldn’t be,’ said Ray.
‘Why?’
‘He’s away down in Belfast,’ said Ray.
‘He’d have been on the radio,’ said Ted.
‘Why?’
‘He’s a programme.’
‘What sort of programme?’
‘Phone-in jobby.’
‘So,’ said Ray.
‘Appreciate it, Ray.’
‘Not a problem, Ted.’
‘That’s us sorted then. Let’s go.’
Ted and Israel made their way back into the corridor.
‘Who the hell was he?’
‘I said, he’s someone who knows people.’
‘Well, what sort of people?’
‘People who know people.’
‘Who know people who know people? What is it, infinite regress? What are we talking about?’
‘Just.’
‘And you were paying money for that sort of information?’
‘Aye.’
‘So where did you get that from?’
‘It’s creative accounting. End of the tax year. It’s a couple of leads there, well worth it. We’ll check out the son tomorrow.’
In the back room some of the men were drifting away.
‘Sorry, lads,’ said Big Red. ‘Need an early night.’
‘How’s your father?’ said a Billy.
‘And your mother still working?’ said a Sammy.
Which made them laugh.
‘All right, fellas.’
‘Night.’
‘Safe home.’
More drink was provided for the remaining brains trust.
‘I don’t know how you drink that stuff,’ said Israel, as Ted tucked into another Guinness.
‘What?’
‘It’s disgusting. It’s like drinking fermented dog juice.’
‘Cheers,’ said Ted.
‘Cheers,’ said Israel, rubbing his stomach and belching. He was on lager. ‘I thought you were off the drink anyway?’
‘Sometimes I’m off; sometimes I’m on.’
‘Right.’
‘Tonight I’m on.’
It had been a long couple of days, and it turned into an even longer night.
There was a political discussion going on.
Israel decided to keep out of it. His grasp of Northern Irish politics was sketchy, to say the least. He had some idea there’d been a civil war or something similar. The most political he’d ever been was at university, when he briefly joined the Jewish Socialist Society, which he’d only joined because he was, notionally, Jewish, and notionally a socialist. He never went to any of the meetings.
He couldn’t remember much of what happened during the rest of the evening, though he did vaguely recall one of the Billys telling him about a cousin of his who was a pastor who operated out of a mission hall in north Belfast and who was caught with two Russian grenades and a pipe bomb on the outskirts of Dungannon, and then another Billy starting in with the old argument that ‘Sure, this was a great wee country until all the immigrants started coming in,’ and another similar conversation with another Billy which began with the statement, ‘At least you knew where you were with the Troubles,’ and went downhill from there.
Bruce Springsteen had just kicked in on the jukebox with ‘Born in the USA’ when Elder appeared at the bar.
‘Turn that fucking music off and get out, you cunts!’
Only Ted and Israel were left. Israel was at that drooling, many’s-the-slip stage in his drinking, where everything you lift to your mouth does not necessarily reach its destination.
‘I am large,’ he said to Ted. ‘I contain multitudes.’
‘Aye, right,’ said Ted.
‘No sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.’
‘Why don’t you join a gym or something?’ said Ted.
‘Because,’ pomped Israel, ‘I don’t believe…’–and he was struggling then–‘I don’t believe the body should…’
‘Once a…’ began Ted, sighing.
‘Catholic?’ said Israel.
‘No, thanks,’ said Ted. ‘I’ve eaten already. Don’t worry about it. You’re just getting old.’
‘I’m not getting old.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m not even thirty.’
‘Aye, well, you’re getting there. Anyway, I’m away here.’
‘Right,’ said Israel. ‘I’ll just get my…’
‘You’re not coming with me.’
‘What?’
‘You’re a flippin’ liability, son. I don’t want the police dragging me into this far—’
‘Far out?’
‘Rago of nonsense.’
‘Right. So where am I staying? I can’t go back to the farm. They’ll be…’
‘You’re staying here.’
‘Where?’
‘Here, the First and Last.’
‘Do they have rooms?’
‘This is the room.’
‘I can’t sleep here.’
‘You’ll be safe here. I’ll pick you up at eight, all right?’
‘Hold on, Ted!’
But by the time he got to the door Ted had gone, locking the door behind him.
It gave a new meaning to the phrase ‘lock-in’.