Thinking about his recipes and smelling the curry, his appetite was now well and truly whetted: he felt like Winnie the Pooh faced with a honeypot. He found himself helplessly eyeing up the breakfast things set on the kitchen table.

“So,” Ted was saying, “I take it you’ve sorted this trouble with the Morris girl, then?”

“Not exactly,” said Israel distractedly.

“No?” said Ted. “It was on the news earlier.”

“Was it?”

“Aye. A twenty-nine-year-old man is helping police with their inquiries, apparently.”

“That’d be me,” said Israel, wrenching his thoughts and his gaze away from breakfast. “Do they have to tell people your age?”

“And how are the police inquiries going?” said Ted.

“I have no idea,” said Israel. “I’m sort of working on the case myself now.”

“Working on the case yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Aye, right, Columbo,” said Ted. “That woman put you up to it, did she?”

“What woman?”

“Flashy Annie, yer journalist?”

“No,” said Israel.

“I’ll bet she did,” said Ted. “Sticking her…bits in where they don’t belong. No good’ll come of it, if you ask me.”

“Ah, well, funnily enough,” said Israel, “I was going to ask you, actually.”

“No!” said Ted.

“Hold on, I haven’t-”

“The answer’s no,” said Ted.

“I haven’t asked you yet!”

“Well, whatever you’re asking, the answer’s no,” said Ted.

“What, you’re not going to help me out?”

“Correct.”

“Why not?”

“You want a list of reasons?”

“Well, no, but-”

“First of all, it’s not my problem. Second of all, it’s not yours. And third of all-”

“Yeah, all right,” said Israel. “That’s plenty of reasons, thanks.”

“-the girl’ll turn up soon enough anyway. She’ll be raking about with her mates somewhere.”

“Right. Well,” said Israel. “I’ll just go it alone then.”

“With yer fancy woman.”

“She is not my fancy woman.”

“Well, if she’s not, ye’ve a funny way of showin’ it. Anyway,” said Ted conclusively, “if ye just tidy up my breakfast things there and I’ll-”

“Actually, Ted,” said Israel, nodding coyly toward the breakfast things.

“What now?”

“I wonder if I might perhaps prevail upon you for a slice of bread?”

“What?”

“A slice of bread?”

“My bread?”

“Erm. Yes.”

“From my table?” said Ted.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just-”

“Have ye not had any breakfast?”

“No, actually.”

“Ye should always have breakfast.”

“My toaster’s broken.”

“And you can’t fix your own toaster?”

“No.”

“What sort of an idiot can’t fix his own toaster?”

“Erm…”

“Aye, well, answered me own question there, didn’t I. All right, ye help yerself to a slice.”

“Really?”

“Aye. But ye’ll not be making a habit of this, mind.”

“What?”

“Eating your breakfast at another man’s table.”

“No.”

“It’s not natural. You’ll have to give that plate a wee rench in the sink there.”

“Sorry?”

“The plate, a wee rench in the sink?”

Israel gave the plate a wee rench in the sink, while Ted ceremoniously removed his apron and put on his black leather car coat and his cap, and sat down at the kitchen table waiting for Israel to eat.

It was good bread.

“Mmm,” said Israel, midmouthful. “Ted?”

“What?”

“Do you happen to know the man who owns the Venice Fish Bar?”

“Ach, big Gerry Blair? Surely. You know him.”

“No,” said Israel. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you do. He’d the franchise on a load of fish and chip places. Sold ’em up, so he did, and he has just the Venice Fish Bar now. He’s retired.”

“What sort of car does he drive?”

“What sort of car does he drive?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea.”

“Mercedes?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“And how old is he?”

“I don’t know. Fifty?”

“What does he look like?”

“You’d know him if ye saw him. He’s a couple of bay pacers he trains down at the beach sometimes. Has a tan. Looks a wee bit like yer man…what’s he called?”

“I don’t know.”

“Actor.”

“Who?”

“He’s in all sorts.”

“Brad Pitt?”

“No!” said Ted. “Dark hair.”

“Johnny Depp?”

“No! Does coffee adverts.”

“George Clooney?”

“That’s him,” said Ted. “With a wonky nose, but. Few pounds heavier. Big Gerry Blair. You know him.”

“No, I don’t think so. What’s he like?”

“He’s all right. A bit full of the smell of himself.”

“How do you know him?”

“I’ve played golf with him a couple of times.”

“I didn’t have you down as a golfing man,” said Israel, polishing off the slice of bread.

“Well,” said Ted. “You know what they say. When in-”

“Rome?” said Israel.

“Portstewart,” said Ted.

Israel reached for another slice of Ted’s wheaten bread. Ted scowled.

“May I?” said Israel.

“Ach, right,” said Ted. “Don’t ye stint yerself, eh? Ye want to be eating a proper breakfast, mind.”

“Yes,” said Israel. “You said.” It was delicious bread. “The Venice Fish Bar man, is he married?”

“Gerry? That he is.”

“I see.”

“Why? What are ye fishing around for?” said Ted.

“Nothing.”

“You’re finagling around for something.”

“Just,” said Israel. “The Morris girl works at the Venice Fish Bar at weekends, and one of the people she works with kind of implied that she and the boss were…close.”

“Right. And what did they mean by ‘close’?”

“Close,” said Israel.

“Aye, well, there’s close and then there’s close. What did they mean by ‘close’?”

“Intimate.”

“Intumate?” said Ted.

“Intimate,” corrected Israel.

“Exactly,” said Ted. “And how old’s the Morris girl?”

“Fourteen.”

“For goodness’ sake! They’re implicating that Gerry’d…”

“I don’t know,” said Israel. “It’s not…impossible, is it.”

“Who was it telling you about this?”

“It was a Romanian girl who works in the Venice Fish Bar.”

“Ah, well, there you are, then.”

“What do you mean, ‘there you are’?”

“Romanians. They’re like the Poles, aren’t they?”

“What?”

“Shifty bunch. Trying to cause trouble.”

“I don’t think they were trying to cause trouble.”

“What, accusing a well-respected member of the community, and a member of the golf club, of some kind of…relationship with this young girl? You want to ask yourself why they’re telling you that.”

“I think they were just trying to be helpful.”

“Aye, right. Helpful! Ye need yer brains tested, boy! This is Tumdrum! It’s not Sodom and blinkin’ Gomorrah! I’ll tell ye what’d be helpful: what’d be helpful would be if ye talked to her actual boyfriend, rather than listening to tittle-tattle about some imaginary intumacy-”

“Intimacy,” said Israel.

“Exactly, with some imaginary boyfriend.”

“Why? Who’s her actual boyfriend?”

“Colin.”

“Colin who?”

“Colin Wilson? Sammy Wilson’s boy.”

“No, sorry, I don’t-”

“Ach, Israel. He’s one of these computer nerds. Always at that place on High Street.”

“How do you know he’s her boyfriend?”

“Well, if ye listened to the young ones on the library for a change, ye’d get to know quite a few things. They split up, though, I think.”

“Do you think the police will have talked to him?”

“Mebbe. If they’ve got the inside information.” Ted tapped the side of his nose.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“You didn’t ask. I doubt he’s anything to do with it, mind. He’s a wee squirt. No hair on his balls.”

“And where was it you said he hangs around?”

“At the game place on High Street.”

“Game On!?”

“That’s it.”

By which point Israel had got up and was by the kitchen door.

“Come on, then!” he said.

“Come on where?” said Ted.

“Let’s go.”

“Ye’ve not finished your piece of wheaten,” said Ted. “Ye’re not going to waste it, are ye?”