The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery by Ian Sansom

Author:Ian Sansom
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Mystery & Detective, Humorous, Librarians, Fiction - Mystery, Detective, General, Fiction - General, Jewish, Suspense, Humorous fiction, Missing persons, Fiction, English Mystery & Suspense Fiction
ISBN: 9780061452017
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2010-07-14T21:00:00+00:00

13

“I’ll tell ye what, ye don’t want to be making a habit of this,” said Ted as Israel emerged from Rathkeltair police station into the rain some hours later.

“I have no intention of making a habit of this, Ted, believe me.”

“Getting caught up with police investigitations. It looks bad.”

“I know it looks bad.”

“Bad,” repeated Ted.

“Yes, I know. I haven’t got anything to do with it, though, you know.”

“Aye, well. I know that, ye eejit.”

“Thank you.”

“Not even ye’d be stupit enough to—”

“Yes, all right, thank you, Ted. I appreciate your support.”

“Trouble is, try telling them that.”

“Who?

“Come under the umbrella here,” said Ted. “Quick.”

Israel obediently leaned down under the umbrella—a vast golfing-type umbrella advertising Maurice Morris’s financial consultancy.

“We need to get you away, son.”

“Why?” said Israel as he huddled under the umbrella with Ted, striding away from the station.

“The media,” said Ted.

“Why are they here?” said Israel.

“What? Young girl goes missing? Librarian being questioned? Wise up, Israel! Why do you think? You need to lie low.”

“Oh god.”

“And save yer prayers. Round the corner and we’re into the home stretch. I’ve the taxi parked just there.”

They walked quickly down Rathkeltair’s notoriously cracked pavements—subject of more than one minor injury claim against the council. The air around them smelled of rain and cat piss and potatoes; somehow Rathkeltair always smelled of potatoes. Rathkeltair was the kind of place that smelled as though someone had always just cooked dinner.

As they rounded the corner there was the ominous sound of running behind them.

“Israel! Israel!” came a voice.

“Ye’ve got company,” said Ted. “Come on. Don’t stop. Don’t turn around. And don’t show ’em yer face.”

They started walking even quicker, and whoever it was started walking quicker also. In heels.

“Israel, wait, wait!”

“I think I know who it is,” Israel to Ted.

“I don’t care who it is.”

“I think it’s Veronica.”

“What?” said Ted.

“Veronica Byrd.”

“Ach. The wee hasky bitch from the Impartial Recorder? I might have guessed.”

Veronica caught them as they reached the cab. She was wearing a red raincoat that looked as though it had recently been poured from a sauce bottle; her blonde hair was swept back into a bun, held in place by a shining tortoiseshell comb; and she wore shoes that would surely have made any kind of reporting difficult.

“Hello, Israel,” she said as Ted lowered the umbrella and went round to open the driver’s side.

“Hello,” said Israel rather shyly.

“I knew it was you!” she said.

“How?”

“Your cords,” she said.

“Ah,” said Israel. “Betrayed by the cords.”

“Indeed,” she said, cocking her head slightly. “So?” she said.

“So?” said Israel.

“Come on,” said Ted, who had opened up the passenger car door.

“How did you get mixed up in this one, Israel?” She spoke in a tone of good-natured reproach, and when she spoke, you noticed her cheekbones—or, at least, Israel noticed her cheekbones. They were reproachful cheekbones.

“Well, I’m not really mixed up in it, to be honest. Whatever this is.”

“Come on!” said Ted. “In.”

“Look, it’s nice to see you, Veronica, but I have to—”

“No, no,” she said, standing in front of the open door.

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