“What?”
“Good. If you follow my vehicle, and we’ll have another car behind, just to make sure.”
So, just as he’d driven into Ballintoy Harbor last night under a cloud of despair, Israel now drove back up the winding hill, under a cloud of suspicion.
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. “Don’t be rushing off when we’ve only just said hello.”
“Sorry. I have to.” Israel went to reach round her to get into the car. Veronica pushed him back and shut the car door with her hip.
“We’re old friends, Israel, aren’t we?”
Israel hesitated.
“And I’m sure you could use a friend at the moment, couldn’t you?” she asked.
“He’s got a friend,” said Ted, who had leaned across and opened the passenger door again from the inside. “You!” he said, addressing Israel. “In!” And then, “You!” addressing Veronica. “Run along there.”
“Yeah!” laughed Veronica. “Right. In these shoes? Come on, Israel,” she said, with authoritative boldness. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“No, thanks,” said Israel. “I don’t drink at lunchtimes.”
“Oh, go on.”
“Into the cab,” said Ted. “Now!”
“Come on,” she said. “You can catch up with Lurch later.”
“In!” said Ted.
“Come on, Israel. Please.” She fixed him with her pale, piercing blue eyes. “Give a girl a break.”
Israel stood and looked at her. He’d always liked her. He liked her because she talked like she was in a film starring Peter Lorre and Edward G. Robinson. And he liked her because she always talked as if the world were in jeopardy and she could alone could somehow sort things out.
“‘Give a girl a break,’” he repeated.
“Yeah. Go on.”
“You!” shouted Ted. “In! Now!”
Israel hesitated. Fatally.
“Ted. I’ll be fine,” he said.
“You’ll be flippin’ eaten alive, ye eejit! Now!”
“Come on, then. I’ll buy you lunch,” said Veronica.
He certainly did need a friend.
“Come on, I think I can help you,” said Veronica. Her voice had always had a slightly breathless quality. And her wide blue eyes-enhanced by colored contact lenses?-and her open, trusting face, and the determined jut of the chin.
“Nice raincoat,” said Israel.
“You auld flatterer!” she said. “Now, are you going to let me buy you lunch, or not?”
“All right,” said Israel, his defenses having been quickly broken down.
“Come on, let’s go,” she said. And she took Israel by the hand and started walking briskly and triumphantly away from Ted’s cab.
“Hey!” said Ted, emerging from the cab. “What are ye doin’?”
“I’m just going to get some lunch here, Ted. OK?” said Israel, shouting back. “I’ll see you later.”
Ted shook his head.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he bellowed.
Veronica glanced behind her and smiled.
“Bye-bye now!” she called. “Don’t wait up!”
“Where are we going then?” said Israel.
“There’s a little bistro I know.”
“A bistro?” said Israel.
“Yes.”
“In Rathkeltair?”
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. Why? Do you have a problem with bistros?”
“No, I have no problem with bistros whatsoever.”
“Good.”
The bistro was just off Main Street, so it was called, naturally, Off Main Street, in case you forgot. Rathkeltair, as a town, was just a cut above Tumdrum, and so the Main Street in Rathkeltair was not merely different in degree to the Main Street of Tumdrum, it was different in kind. And Off Main Street was correspondingly a cut above anything off Main Street in Tumdrum: the menus, for example, weren’t laminated. Israel couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a nonlaminate menu. It was like holding the Torah scrolls. Off Main Street was decorated in a kind of cheap Ikea fantasy of a cosmopolitan loft apartment. There was a lot of exposed brick-work and abstract art. Huge wineglasses. Café-style chairs. Dim lighting. Slightly noirish film score-type music just a little too loud, as though you were in Berlin or The Bourne Ultimatum.
With Gloria, back home in London, Israel used to eat out at least once a week, in cheap Italians or Indians or Chinese restaurants round by where they lived, or Israel would go up and meet Gloria in town and they’d find somewhere different and new and exciting. There was this vegetarian restaurant they liked up round by Old Street, where they served saffron lasagna with pistachio and ginger, and it was all scrubbed wooden tables and body-pierced Australian waitresses. That was a great restaurant. He’d never really enjoyed eating out since he’d been living in Tumdrum: a meal out in Tumdrum invariably came with a side order of chips or champ, and the local chefs and restaurateurs seemed long ago to have abandoned any idea of flavor or texture or indeed portion control, and gone flat-out for bulk. In comparison to eating out in Tumdrum, dining out in Rathkeltair was like walking into a 3-D Michelin restaurant guide. This lunchtime there were half a dozen people already seated, men in suits mostly, and middle-aged women in makeup. Civil servants, probably. On flextime. But they might as well have been Cary Grant and Lauren Bacall as far as Israel was concerned.