“Hello? Mrs. Morris?”

“Hi,” said Mrs. Morris, raising her sunglasses momentarily, as if she were expecting him. She squinted. The room-which was an enormous, exquisite jumble of paints and canvases and sofas and easels, and which seemed simultaneously both bare and plush-was filled with harsh natural light.

Mrs. Morris remained one of Maurice’s greatest assets, not least because she herself happened to be one of the best-looking women in Northern Ireland, or at least one of the best-looking women over fifty-five in Northern Ireland, and certainly the best-looking woman over fifty-five who was a politician’s wife in Northern Ireland, where there was a surprising amount of competition, politician wife-wise; in Northern Ireland ambitious men still preferred to marry women who would look good and keep home for them; the career woman was only just emerging.

This morning, Mrs. Morris was wearing a white paint-splattered shirt. Her dark shoulder-length hair was tucked behind her ears, and her fingernails were painted a purply red, like bruises at her fingertips. Israel noticed that she was probably wearing perfume-he’d almost forgotten what it smelled like, perfume-and in his excitement a terrible shiver ran through him, like ripples of shot silk or fingers through water. She didn’t bother getting up.

“Sorry, am I disturbing you?” said Israel.

Mrs. Morris flipped her sunglasses back down.

“Not at all.”

“Are you…painting?” asked Israel, looking around at the empty canvases, and the shelves lined with paint.

“Preparing to paint,” said Mrs. Morris, continuing to smoke.

“Right.”

“As I have been for almost twenty years.”

“Lovely music,” said Israel. The music seemed to be being piped in from recessed speakers around the room.

“Sigur Rós,” said Mrs. Morris.

“I’ve not heard of him.”

“It’s a them,” said Mrs. Morris. “A beat combo. From Iceland. With an accent.”

“It’s very nice music.”

“The title is a parenthesis.”

“Sorry?”

“The title of this piece of music is a parenthesis. It has no title.”

“Right. Well, it’s a very nice studio you have here,” said Israel.

“Isn’t it,” agreed Mrs. Morris.

“Wonderful views.”

“Yes. The full gamut,” agreed Mrs. Morris. “Summer, autumn, winter, and spring.”

She drew contemplatively on her cigarette, as though trying to overcome some terrible deep discomfort.

“You’re an artist, then?” said Israel.

“I was going to be an artist,” she said. “But I wasn’t allowed to go to college. I had to go to work.”

“Right.”

“Cheltenham, I would have gone to,” said Mrs. Morris. “If I’d had the chance.”

“You could still go to art college,” said Israel.

“Ha!” said Mrs. Morris. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand what art college is all about.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Practical anatomy,” said Mrs. Morris.

“Sorry?”

“Sex and drugs and rock and roll.”

“Right.”

“Although you’re not supposed to talk about that, obviously. If you’re a politician’s wife.”

“No. I guess that would be-”

“I used to go to dances at the art college in Belfast.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was. Tea, we used to call it,” she said. “Would you like to try some tea?”

“No, thanks,” said Israel.

“That’s what we used to say, if there was any weed or hash.”

“Oh, right. Yes.”

“And then when I was eighteen I hitchhiked down to Cork with my boyfriend from the art college. And we took the ferry to France, and my boyfriend, he imported forty kilos of kif from Morocco. Made a fortune. Went back a few months later to try to do a similar deal, was thrown in jail in Tunisia.”

“God.”

“Six months later I met Morris.”

“Right.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Right.”

Mrs. Morris sat up slightly on the sun lounger, as though awaking from a dream.

“Anyway, how can I help you, young man?”

“Sorry. I should have introduced myself. My name’s Israel Armstrong.”

“And you are?”

“A librarian.”

“The librarian?”

“Well, in Tumdrum, yes.”

“The mobile librarian?”

“Yes.”

Israel expected the usual wary response.

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Morris, raising her sunglasses again. Her blue eyes bored into him. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Maurice doesn’t like you at all.”

“Right.”

“He thinks you’re a corrupting influence.”

“I see.”

“Like Mellors.”

“Well…”

“In Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”

“Yes, I know…”

“So, Mellors, how can I help you?”

Israel felt a little uncomfortable about the tone of the conversation. He could hear the incoming waves outside smashing up against the shore.

“I was just…I’m interested in helping find your daughter?

“Are you now? And why is that, Mellors?”

“I’d rather you called me Israel, actually.”

“Would you, Israel?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, I’m going to call you Mellors anyway.”

“Right.”

“Until you tell me what’s your interest in my daughter.”

“The police seem to be under the impression that my lending her books from the Unshelved in the library may have influenced her decision to run away.”

“I see. Like The Catcher in the Rye and the man who shot John Lennon?”

“That sort of a thing, yes. So I’m rather interested in finding out where she is.”

“I see.”

“You seem remarkably relaxed, erm, Mrs. Morris, for someone whose daughter has gone missing, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I’m rather delighted she’s gone, to be honest,” said Mrs. Morris.

“Really?”

“It’s an adventure, isn’t it? What chance for escape and adventure does she have, living here?”

“Why would she want to get away from here?”

Mrs. Morris laughed.

“You’re not from round here, are you, Mr. Armstrong?”

“No, I’m not. I’m from London.”

“Well then, why do you think she’d want to get away from here?”

“Erm…”

“Or are you one of these people who thinks this is a great wee country and won’t have a word said against it?”

“No, I…”

“I have a sister in Dubai. She’s not been back here for twenty years, and I can’t say I blame her.”

“So you think Lyndsay’s just run off on an adventure?”

“Seems most likely, doesn’t it? Why? Do you have a theory, Mellors?”

“No. I…”

“If I was her I’d run away.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And where would you go?”

“Me? Marrakech, of course!” Mrs. Morris laughed a deep, throaty laugh that echoed the sound of the waves. “Although we also have a little place down in the Mournes, Slievenaman. We used to go there sometimes when Lyndsay was little.”

“Slievenaman?”

“That’s right. Wonderful quality of light. She’s probably in London, though, isn’t she? I hope so. Experiencing the world. That’s what life’s about, isn’t it, Mellors?”

“Yes.”

“Seizing an opportunity when it presents itself to you?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps you’d like to join me for some coffee-or some tea?-before you go?”

“Actually, no…I…Should be getting on.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Morris, sinking back into her sun lounger. “You run along there.”

“Well, thanks.”

Mrs. Morris did not reply. She seemed lost again to the light, and the sound of the waves.

And Israel, if he wasn’t mistaken, had a lead.