For years, Israel had been unable to afford to buy new books-which is why he worked in a bookshop, and one of the reasons he'd trained as a librarian in the first place: the prospect of free, or at least free access to books.

First of all he tried www.abebooks.com.

Nothing, and anyway he'd have to wait too long for the shipping from America.

Then he thought he'd try amazon.co.uk, the marketplace: lots more individuals selling books. He found what he was looking for straight away.

Ordnance

Survey. One-Inch Tourist Map

.

Good,

some edge repair. Soft cover

.

National

grid seventh series, 1959. Printed on paper

.

Covers

good. Ex-library

.

It was a little more expensive than he'd been planning to pay, but it all went on the credit card anyway and he needed the map, so he hit 'Buy with 1-Click' and the map was his.

Now, if he said it himself, that was showing initiative.

10

The chicken coop was beginning to feel suspiciously like home. There were books everywhere; and unwashed dirty mugs from the farmhouse littered every surface; and clothes piled on the bed; and a slightly chickeny, not entirely unpleasant smell of sweat and damp, as if a little pot of stock were simmering on some not too far distant stove.

Israel splashed some cold water on his face from the wash-jug and bowl and poured himself a large glass of whiskey and lay down to contemplate another day's successful amateur sleuthing. He had a growing list of suspects. He had a map on the way. And he was starting to find the whiskey almost as effective as a couple of Nurofen.

And then there was a knock on the door.

He got up, took a fortifying sip of his drink, and went and opened the door, expecting Brownie.

It was not Brownie.

It was a woman, around about his age, and, Israel had to admit, she looked more like his kind of person than a lot of the people he'd been meeting recently: she was wearing clothes that had definitely crossed the border from practical to stylish, and she looked intelligent, and thrusting, as though she was maybe on the way to drinks after work, rather than, say, as though drinking was her work. Her hair was dark; her lipstick was red; her overcoat was unbuttoned; and she looked like she meant business. She could easily have passed in north London.

'Mmm,' she said, taking a last quick draw on a cigarette and stubbing it out underfoot; and Israel reckoned he was probably the most politically correct person in about a hundred-mile radius at this very moment but even he couldn't help noticing her legs.

'Hello?' he said shyly.

'Mr Armstrong?'

'Yes.'

'Hi. I'm Veronica Byrd,' said Veronica Byrd, straightening up underneath her tailored overcoat and putting on a wide smile and forming the words carefully in her mouth.

'Hello, Veronica Byrd,' said Israel, his brow furrowing.

'I'm from the Impartial Recorder.'

'I see,' said Israel, in a way that suggested that he didn't see at all.

'We're the local newspaper.'

'Oh, right. I, er, I'm more of a Guardian sort of person myself.'

'Uh-huh. Good. Well, I was hoping'-she paused momentarily-'I could ask you a few questions?'

She was straining slightly forwards now, standing up on tiptoe, looking over Israel's shoulder into the room.

'Look,' said Israel, manoeuvring himself to block her view, 'if it's about the school gateposts, it was an accident, and no one was hurt.'

'The school gateposts?' said Veronica, still trying to look round him.

'It's not about the school gateposts?'

'No. I don't think so,' said Veronica Byrd disinterestedly. 'Although it sounds fascinating. Maybe you want to tell me all about it?'

'No. Thanks.'

Veronica looked at him and raised an eyebrow. 'Sure?'

'Yes. Thanks. Right. Well.'

Veronica continued staring at him. 'Have you been in a fight?'

'No. Why?'

'It's just, your eye.'

'Accident.'

'Oh. So.'

Veronica's gaze did not waver.

'Do you want to come in?' asked Israel, finally giving way, although really there was no need; Veronica was already across the threshold.

'Well well,' said Veronica, staring round, clearly unimpressed, 'this is home?'

Despite his attempts at home improvements-the scattering of clothes and books, the strategic placement of empty mugs-the place still looked exactly like what in fact it was: a home for chickens, with perhaps an untidy weekend guest who'd overstayed his welcome. A chicken coop, after all, is a chicken coop, no matter how many books and old clothes you leave scattered around. And Israel himself of course by this stage in his stay looked like a hobo who'd been riding trains: his corduroy jacket suit the only thing of his own remaining in an outfit in which he increasingly resembled the Unabomber. He needed some new trousers. And shirts. And shoes.

'It's temporary. Sorry,' he said, embarrassed, 'I can't offer you a seat or anything.'

'It's OK.' Veronica perched herself on the edge of the bed, pushing aside Israel's pile of books to make more room for herself. 'You like reading, huh? Isn't that a bit clichéd for a librarian?'

'Well,' said Israel, flushing. 'You could say that. Isn't it a bit clichéd for a journalist to barge in and be asking so many questions?'

'Touché!' said Veronica.

No one had said anything like 'Touché!' to Israel for quite a while. He liked it.

Veronica was sitting just inches away from Israel's bedside bottle of Bushmills and was now looking at him expectantly.

'Sorry. Can I get you a…?' Israel said, indicating the bottle.

'Sure.'

'Erm…' Israel searched around for another glass but there was no other glass, so he poured his own whiskey into a mug, and wiped out the glass with one of Brownie's spare T-shirts-The Thrills. Then he topped up the clean glass with whiskey and gave that to Veronica.

'You certainly know how to treat a girl, Mr Armstrong.'

'Ha, ha,' laughed Israel nervously, hovering at the side of the bed. 'So. How can I help you?'

'It's all right, you can sit down,' said Veronica, patting the bed beside her. 'I don't bite.'

'Right. Ha, ha.' Israel perched himself on the edge of the bed, as far away as possible.

'Actually,' said Veronica, removing a reporter's spiral-bound notepad and a pencil from her handbag, 'it's about the missing books.'

Israel coughed nervously. How did she know about the missing books?

'The missing books?'

'Yes. The library books? Is it true that over ten thousand books have gone missing from-'

'Fifteen thousand, actually.'

'Really?'

'No! No. That's just the stock, of the library. I believe. Look. Sorry. I really don't think I'm the best person to help you with this. I'm only-'

'The librarian?'

'Yes. But, I've only just-'

At that moment there was another knock at the door, thank goodness, and Israel was about to get up and answer it when the door flew open. It was George.

'George!' said Israel, leaping up from the bed, his voice slightly hoarse with relief and fear and excitement. 'Lovely to-'

'Armstrong,' said George, taking in the scene.

'Come in,' said Israel, taking off his glasses, and then putting them back on again. 'I was just-'

'No. Thank you. I didn't realise you were entertaining.'

'Ha, ha!' laughed Israel, blushing. 'I'm not entertaining. This is Veronica Byrd, from the local paper. She's just popped in to-'

'Georgina,' said Veronica.

'Veronica,' nodded George.

'Do you two know each other?'

'Yes,' said Veronica.

'From a long time ago,' added George. 'I'll leave you two to it then.'

'George, no, it's fine…'

But George had already gone, shutting the door loudly behind her.