'So,' said Israel, embarrassed, turning towards Veronica, who was taking a long sip of her whiskey.

'So?'

'Erm. How do you two…?'

'Oh, Georgina?' said Veronica, smoothing down her skirt. 'She was head girl when I was at school.'

'Really?'

'And I was deputy head girl.'

'Uh-huh.'

'We were sworn enemies, actually. Competed over everything: you know, homework, netball, swimming, boyfriends,' said Veronica, with some bitterness. 'She was an all-rounder. Straight As in her exams. She was going to go to university.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'But?' said Israel.

'But?'

'I detected a but there?'

'Oh you did, did you?'

'Yes.'

'You'd make a very good journalist, Mr Armstrong.'

Israel blushed. And Veronica moved a little closer towards him on the bed.

'It's all the Beckett and Pinter,' said Israel nervously.

'Sorry?'

'Samuel Beckett? Harold Pinter? Lot of pregnant pauses, silences, stuff like that. You know.'

'Oh.'

'I did them at university.'

'OK. Good. Well done.'

'So your "but"?' persisted Israel.

'My butt, Mr Armstrong?' said Veronica, shifting ever so slightly closer.

'Yes, your, er, not your…ahem. Your…'

'Oh yes, my "but",' said Veronica, laughing. 'But-as I was saying-then George's parents died.'

'Oh dear.'

'It was the toy-shop bomb.'

'The what?'

'In 1986 they put a bomb in the litter bin outside the toy shop on Main Street.'

'Who? The IRA?'

'Of course.'

'In Tumdrum?'

'Yes. Her parents were going to buy a christening present for her little brother.'

'Brownie?'

'Is that his name? I don't remember his name.'

'Yes. Brian his proper name is, but people call him Brownie.'

'Ah, right, yes, that's him.'

'God.'

'He survived, anyway. His pram was blown across the road by the blast. Both parents killed instantly.'

'That's terrible.'

'Yes. It was. But that was a long time ago. Things like that don't happen here now.'

'Right,' said Israel, sounding unconvinced.

Veronica took another long sip of her drink.

'So what happened to George?' asked Israel.

'She left school and came to look after the farm with her grandfather, and to bring up her little brother.'

'I see.'

'Is he still around, Brian, the brother?' asked Veronica.

'Brownie? Yes. Yes, he is.'

'He must be, what…?'

'He's probably late teens, early twenties. He's at university.'

'Inherited the brains then. And what about the grandfather?'

'Yes. He's still around too.'

'Huh,' said Veronica. 'So, how are you finding it, being stuck out here with them? Would it not put you in mind of the Addams family or something?'

'Well, it's-'

'Or the Simpsons?'

'It's not so bad.'

'Or Psycho.'

'Yes, well, thanks.'

Veronica finished her drink.

'Anyway,' she said, patting the bed, 'let's get back to the subject in hand, shall we?'

'Which,' gulped Israel, 'was?'

'The missing library books?'

'Ah, well. Yes, I really can't say anything about that. You'll have to ask Linda Wei.'

'Linda?' laughed Veronica, reaching into her handbag and taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

'Yes.'

'What about if you spoke to me, strictly'-and she leaned a little closer to Israel here, as she lit the cigarette-'off the record,' and she spoke the words 'strictly off the record' as if they already were strictly off the record and slipping between silk sheets.

She exhaled.

Israel coughed.

'No. I…' Israel wriggled away towards the end of the bed, where a brass knob prevented him from going any further. 'Would you mind if you didn't…'

'What?'

'Erm. Smoke?'

Veronica laughed. 'Why?'

'I'm a bit, er…' He coughed again. 'And it's very bad for you, you know.'

'You're very funny, d'you know that?' said Veronica.

'Am I?'

'I think you know you are.'

Israel blushed. 'Yes. Well, I'm sure Linda will be able to help you out. And…'

Israel went to open the door.

'Lovely to have met you,' he said. 'I need to…'

'Help muck out the pigs?'

'Something like that.'

'Well, I can take a hint, Mr Armstrong. It's a shame. I thought we were going to get along so well.'

'Thank you.'

'Here's my card. In case you decide you want to…talk.'

Now, Israel could not deny that Veronica Byrd was a woman of considerable persuasive charms, and the pleasure was really all his, but all he could think about was that Linda Wei was going to kill him if she found out that the local paper knew about the missing library books: she'd blame him, without a doubt. The only people who knew about the missing books, apart from him and Linda, were Ted and Norman Canning, neither of whom was likely to have gone to the paper if they were guilty of stealing the books.

Israel could not work out at all how Veronica had found out about the missing books. He certainly hadn't told anyone else about them, except of course for George, and Brownie and Mr Devine…

Oh, no.

He thought he could have trusted them. Surely he could have trusted them. He didn't have anyone else to trust.

He hurried to the farmhouse, looking for George. There was no one there, but then coming out he spotted her in a field-it was a late winter's afternoon and the sun was shining, and he could see her from way off, her red hair-and he trudged and trudged and trudged his way up to her in the mud, his brown brogues squelching beneath him, calling her name.

'George! George!'

George ignored him. She was holding a wooden post in one hand and a mallet in another, and she was scowling.

'George!'

'How's your lady friend?'

'What?'

'Your lady friend?'

'She's not my lady friend.'

'She looked pretty friendly to me.' George stood up straight, brushed her red hair out of her eyes and fixed Israel with a stare.

'Well, it was…Business. Anyway, I've got a-'

'That's what you call it on the mainland, is it? Business?'

'No, it is not. Listen, I've got a bone to pick with you.'

'Aye, right, well.' George looked away. 'Sure, it's your business anyway, whatever it is. Now while you're here, you can make yourself useful.'

'No, hang on.'

'We need to strain these wires.'

'What? Why? No. I need to talk to you about-'

'Fine, you can talk and work, can you? Or that beyond you?'

'No. Of course it's not beyond me.'

'Good. Because we're stock-proofing the field.'

'What?'

'Stock-proofing. Stop the pigs getting away. We had a turshie out last week.'

'Right. What?'

'Never mind.'

'Wasn't it stock-proofed before?'

'It was. But we're having to sell off parts.'

'Of the field?'

'Aye.'

'Why?'

'Why d'you think we're selling the field?'

'I don't know. For money?'

'Aye, well done: it's certainly not for the sake of my health, is it?'

'No.'

'Same reason we took you in,' she said, looking at him disdainfully. 'We're not doing it out of goodwill.'

'No. Clearly.'

She handed Israel a wooden post. 'Here. Hold this. Have you sorted out anywhere else to stay yet?'

'No, I've not had the chance.'

'Unfortunately,' said George.

'Yes. Well. My feelings exactly. Anyway, George, I-'

'You just let me know when you do.'

'Believe me, you'll be the first to know. But-'

'Good. Hold it. There. There.' She placed her hands firmly on his, steadying them.

'What are you-'

'Just hold it straight. I need to mallet it in. I need it straight.'

'OK.'

'Straight! Holy Jinkers! What are you, stupit? Straight!'

She pounded the mallet onto the post, Israel gripping tight all the while, his whole body shuddering.

The post stayed upright.