“She borrowed books from the library.”

“Apart from that.”

“She was at school.”

“What else? Clubs? Hobbies?”

“No idea.”

“She worked sometimes at weekends in the fish and chip shop at the bottom of High Street in Tumdrum.”

“The Venice Fish Bar?” said Israel.

“That’s the one.”

“Why is it called the Venice Fish Bar? I’ve always wondered.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did she work there?”

“I’m guessing her father wanted to teach her the value of hard work. You know what wealthy parents are like. Listen, if you’re going back to Tumdrum, why don’t you check that out, and I’ll look into any other hobbies or interests that might be a lead?”

Veronica’s phone rang. Her phone had the theme tune to Mission: Impossible.

She answered it, naturally.

Israel smiled at her understandingly.

She held the phone away from her mouth for a moment.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just need to take this.”

“Sure,” said Israel.

She got up and strode out of the restaurant. Israel watched her go.

A few moments later the waiter appeared with their lunch.

Israel sat and waited. And waited.

He poured himself another glass of Riesling.

And then another. It was good.

He ate his vegetarian lasagna.

It was OK.

He ordered dessert.

Key lime pie.

It was OK.

And coffee.

When Veronica eventually walked back in she was looking thrilled. And unapologetic.

“Have you eaten?” she said.

“Yes,” said Israel. “Sorry.”

“No, no, that’s all right. Listen, I’ve managed to set up an interview with Maurice Morris.”

“Great.”

“Now. So I need to dash-would you mind settling up?”

“Erm…Yeah. But…”

“Thanks, Israel.” She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll be in touch, OK?”

“You’ll be in touch,” repeated Israel. “Right.”

“You’re going to the fish and chip shop.”

“OK.”

“Anytime today would be good. We need to stay on top of this.”

“Right.”

“You can report back later.”

“OK.”

“Ciao!” said Veronica, sashaying out the door.

“Bye,” said Israel.

“The bill, sir?” said the waiter.

“I suppose,” said Israel.

“Your treat?”

“Clearly.”

14

That evening Israel stood in the queue at the Venice Fish Bar, his vegetarian lasagna lying heavily in his stomach. The rain had kept on all afternoon: it was turning into one of those classic Tumdrum long, damp days. Fortunately, the Riesling kept him warm.

It was a long queue but a small shop, and as he waited outside in the rain, his duffle coat hood pulled up tight around him, Israel looked in through the window. Even from outside you could tell that it wasn’t exactly what you’d call spotless. The tiled floor was cracked in places, and the brown-spotted pale yellow walls looked as though they might have once been white, and there was an old TV mounted on a shelf up high in the corner, the volume turned up so loud that you could hear it outside, even in the rain; it was a repeat of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Israel stood staring blankly as Sarah Michelle Gellar raced around, skimpily, warding off evil. He only wished he was Anthony Head as Giles the Watcher. Buffy was probably one of the things that had made him want to become a librarian in the first place. That, and the fact that he was a mournful, withdrawn, unhappy individual who preferred books to people.

Through the window he studied blurrily the big plastic signboard above the counter. The Venice Fish Bar was the kind of fish and chip shop where fish and chips were just the beginning, the prelude to a big concerto grosso of battered fish and fast foods. As well as fish and chips it did burgers, pizzas, kebabs, and curries. Basically, if it was bad for you, the Venice Fish Bar did it: if you could batter crack cocaine, or just deep-fry salt and sell it, then the Venice Fish Bar would have done it. This was not Off Main Street.

He watched the women inside, serving. They wore red baseball caps and red polo shirts, and they were all pale white, discolored by the exposure to spitting fat, and they looked bored almost to the point of self-destruction, as though they had become their baseball caps and red polo shirts, mere chip shop automatons, like machines assembling food, moving slowly from the counter to the cash register, and from the deep fat fryers to the griddles. It was not a happy sight. Israel felt depressed just watching it.

He made it in through the door as a couple were making their way out.

“Smell that,” said the man, opening up a grease-stained brown bag with an incongruous image of a gondola crudely printed on it, the grease seeping through like flood water. The woman with him obediently sniffed the contents.

“Mmm,” she said.

“Beautiful that is,” said the man. “Hawaiian burger.”

The fumes were like those from a particularly fruity air freshener, like a meat-based fruity air freshener. Fructified manure. Israel quietly gagged, huffed, puffed out his cheeks, and queasily waited his turn.

Finally, there was just one more person in the queue in front of him, a woman with hair so shiny and so straight it had the appearance of man-made fibers. She ordered a cod supper and a Coke.

“No Coke, only Pepsi,” said the baseball cap behind the counter. But the straight-haired woman was wearing headphones, so she couldn’t hear.

“No Coke, only Pepsi,” repeated the baseball cap.

Israel tapped the straight-haired woman in front of him on the shoulder, and she turned round, her hair swaying, her face stony. A face that may have been eighteen. Or may have been thirty. A fast-food-preserved face; a face that had temporarily postponed the consequences.

“What?” she said.

Israel motioned for her to remove her earphones.

“Sorry,” he said, pointing to the woman behind the counter. “Just, the lady was saying there’s no Coke, only Pepsi.”

“Pepsi’ll do,” said the straight-haired woman, putting her earphones back in and turning her back on Israel.

When the woman handed over the Pepsi it was a liter bottle. The woman staggered out.

Just to his right a man and a woman sat in a booth with their daughter, who was perhaps four or five years old. She was lying down on the wooden bench.

“Get up,” said the man. The girl got up quickly and proceeded to nibble at the plastic clamshell of chicken nuggets set before her.

“Can I eat it on the way home, Mummy?”

“No,” said the man.

“Your daddy says no,” said the woman. “Eat it now.”

“But, Mummy, I want to save it for home.”

“No. Your daddy says you can’t. Eat it now.”

“Daddy…”

“Shut up and eat it or you’ll get a slap round the head,” said the man.

Israel concentrated again on the menu board.

“Who’s next?” said the baseball-becapped young woman behind the counter.

“Oh, I think I am. Erm,” said Israel.

He gazed up.

“Yes?”

“Erm…”

“Yes?”

“Just a portion of chips, er, please,” said Israel.

“Regular or large?”

“Regular, please.”

“That all?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“That’s one pound seventy, please,” she said.

Israel handed over the money.

The young woman walked over to a brightly lit metal container full of chips and with one hand scooped a metal shovelful into one of the plastic clamshell containers. And then she walked back and handed over the chips.

“Thank you,” said Israel.

“Who’s next?” said the woman.

A man behind Israel started jostling to get past him. But Israel stood his ground at the counter, spreading his arms slightly to prevent the man coming forward.

“Erm. Actually, I wanted to ask you about Lyndsay Morris?” he said.

The young girl looked at him.

“Are you the police?”