Israel piled the books onto the bed, erecting a kind of wall or a tower that might protect him from marauders, or the evil eye, or any remaining sneaky chickens, and then he changed into his holey pyjamas, and his jumper, and an extra pair of socks, and he prodded his glasses and snuggled down under the duvet-this was more like home now-and reached for the first book on the top of his pile…

A loud tap rattled the door.

'Hello?' he said, a little scared.

'Only me,' said Brownie from outside.

'Oh, right. Come in,' said Israel. 'God, you gave me a fright. I'm not used to receiving visitors.'

'Sorry,' said Brownie, entering. When he saw Israel in bed in his pyjamas he started walking straight back out again.

'No, it's fine,' said Israel. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine o'clock. It felt like midnight. 'Come in. Have a…' He jumped down out of bed. There were no seats to offer. 'Ah.'

'No. It's OK,' said Brownie. 'I won't stay. I just brought you…' and he reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small, half-full bottle of Bushmills whiskey.

'For me? Really?' said Israel.

Brownie handed over the bottle. 'I felt a wee bit sorry for you back there, you know, with the wine and all, and I thought you might like a…you know, a nightcap.'

'Well, thank you, that's very kind. Do you want to-'

'No, you're all right. I've got all this reading to do for an essay on epistemology for when I get back to college.'

'Right. Sounds like fun.'

'It is, actually.'

'Good. Well, good luck with it.' Israel raised the bottle of Bushmills aloft, admiring the golden liquid. 'Is this yours, then?'

'Aye,' said Brownie, ashamed. 'Just occasionally me and George have a wee swally, you know.'

'A whatty?'

'A wee dram just.'

'Right.'

'You won't mention it to Granda will you?'

'No. Of course not, no.'

'Because he's dead against the drink.'

'Yes. I noticed. Well. It can be our secret, eh?'

'Aye. Well,' said Brownie. 'Any inspiration yet about finding the books?'

'God. No. Not so far,' said Israel.

'Two-pipe problem?'

'At the very least.'

'Actually, I've been thinking about what I said at the dinner table,' said Brownie.

'Have you?'

'About affirming the consequent.'

'Ah, right, yes. That was very interesting.'

'I forgot about Occam's razor.'

'You did?' said Israel, sounding surprised. 'I mean, you did,' he then said, not wishing to appear as if he didn't know what Brownie was talking about. 'Yes, of course. And, er, what is it, Occam's razor-just to remind me?'

'"Entities should not be multiplied beyond what is necessary."'

'Ah, yes. That's it-took the words right out of my mouth. Which means what in my case, do you think?'

'Kiss.'

'Sorry?'

'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'

'Right.'

'You should really be starting your investigation not with Ted but with Norman Canning.'

'My "investigation", yes. Norman Who?'

'The ex-librarian,' offered Brownie.

'Yes. Of course.'

'They sacked him,' said Brownie. 'When they closed the library.'

'Oh.'

'So he'd be your prime suspect, I would have thought.'

'Prime suspect? Yes. Would he?'

'Well, he'd have motive and opportunity.'

'Right. Always useful. And…what's he like, this…?'

'Norman? He's…Well, we used to call him Canning the c-'

'All right. Yes, I can imagine.'

'I don't know if he'd be that pleased to see you.'

'Oh, I'm sure I can use the old Armstrong charm.'

'Right,' said Brownie. 'Your first case.'

For a moment, the way Brownie was talking made everything seem much more exciting than it actually was: looked at from Brownie's perspective Israel's life was almost like the kind of life you read about in novels. He could quite see himself as a Sam Spade-type character, actually: chisel-jawed, wry, laconic, solving crimes. Maybe he'd found his métier after all. Maybe that's where his true genius lay. He'd have to tell his mum.

'Occam's razor,' he said dreamily. 'Sword of Truth. Many Hands Make Light Work. Miss Marple. Lord Peter Wimsey.'

'Sorry?' said Brownie.

'Nothing,' said Israel, snapping back from his reverie, and searching around for a glass for the whiskey. 'Just thinking. Anyway. Ah. Here we are.'

'Well, goodnight then,' said Brownie.

'Yes. What did you say his name was? The librarian?'

'Norman. Norman Canning. He lives up round Ballymuckery.'

'Righto. And where's that exactly?'

'D'you know the old Stonebridge Road?'

'No.'

'Ah. Have you got a map at all?'

'No. 'Fraid not.'

'Ah. It's a bit tricky to explain.'

'Well, I'm sure I'll find it. Thanks for the-'

'Lead?'

'The whiskey. Do you want to-'

'No, you can keep it.'

'Are you sure?'

'Aye, you work away there.'

'Thanks. That's great. Well, I'll maybe speak to the, er…'

'Suspect?'

'"Suspect." Yes. The suspect. Indeedy. Tomorrow. Thanks again, Brownie. Goodnight.'

Israel poured himself a glass of whiskey and reached again for the first book on the top of his pile and he took a pencil and wrote on the inside cover of the book the word 'Suspects' and wrote down Ted's name and then the name Norman Canning. He was definitely getting the hang of this business.

8

It was no good. He was driving round and round in circles. All the roads from Tumdrum seemed to lead back to Tumdrum.

'I wonder,' he asked, pleasantly and smartly, having pulled the mobile haphazardly over to the side of the road back in the town and wound down the window and stuck out his head. 'Can you help me, sir? I'm looking for Ballymuckery?'

This was the fourth time now that he'd had to ask for directions, which was not a very detectivey kind of thing to have to do, and no one seemed to be able to help him, or indeed to be able to understand his accent, or to have any ability whatsoever in the simple explaining of how to get from A to B, or from Tumdrum to anywhere else. The first person he'd asked had told him he'd need to drive to Ballygullable first and then to go on from there, so he was now asking everyone for Ballygullable.

'Ballygullable?' Israel asked, hopefully.

'Come agin?' asked his latest possible help-meet, a man with a lively little dog and an accent so thick it sounded as though it had been freshly cut from a wheaten loaf and slathered on both sides with home-churned butter.

'Can you-' began Israel, his own voice suddenly sounding rather thin and undernourished in comparison

'Packy! Down!' commanded the man, which silenced Israel, but seemed to have no effect on the dog. 'Down! Or I'll give you a guid dressin'. That's a fierce cold, isnae it?' he continued, addressing Israel now, presumably, rather than the dog.

'Yes. It is. A fierce cold. Absolutely. Quite,' agreed Israel, prodding his glasses; the masking tape was unravelling.

'Now, son, whereareyoufor?' continued the man, leaning right in through the window: up close Israel could see that the gentleman had yellowy teeth with gold fillings, and skin as pale as a new potato-apart from the burst red veins and the flush on the cheeks-and that there were hairs growing from his nose, and not from inside his nose, but actually on his nose, and there was the distinctive smell of many years of cigarettes and pints, even at this early hour of the morning.

'Erm. Ballymuckery? It's just past Ballygullable, apparently.'

'Right you are,' said the old man, laughing a hollow, dry laugh-a real Old Holborn and blended whiskey kind of a laugh. 'And whereareyoufrom?'

'I'm not from round here,' said Israel rather weakly.

'Aye,' laughed the man. 'Well I knew that. Ballygullable! You nim-no.'