'Stalin,' said Israel.

'Sorry?' said Mr Easton, MP, leaning down over Israel.

'Stalin-you know, Soviet leader. Big moustache. He took a very keen interest in the arts.'

'Really?' said Mr Peter Easton, MP, who was already gazing around, his pin-stripes wriggling, his tie and hair stock-still, ready to move on and press more flesh.

'Yes. Used to phone Pasternak to ask him about Mandelstam.'

'Hmm. Fascinating.'

'And then he had him executed.'

'Well,' said Mr Peter Easton, MP, smiling. 'Let's hope that won't be necessary in your case, Mr Armstrong. Pleasure.' And he shook Israel's hand and was gone.

Israel wiped his hand of MP sweat and cologne on his trousers and went to help himself to some more crisps, and a couple of mushroom and mayonnaise vol-au-vents-actually, the plate was nearly done, so he took the lot-and another glass of wine, which was being dished out from big tin jugs set on a makeshift table constructed from the base of a vaulting horse and a flip-chart with its legs removed. Israel was feeling hot and uncomfortable and ever so slightly woozy, so he took a few mini-quiches also, just in case, to line his stomach: Jews, his mother always said, can hold their drink, as long as they're eating at the same time. It seemed to be working.

Then he spied Ted on the other side of the hall, done up in a suit and tie, looking as though he'd been trussed up and was ready for slaughter. He hurried over.

'Ted,' he said. 'Ted!' He'd pretty much ruled Ted out as a suspect and hoped he might be able to patch things up a bit. 'I…' He could really have done with a hand with the hunt for the missing books.

'You,' said Ted.

'Yes, me!' said Israel.

'I've nothing to say to you, young man.'

'No, don't be like that, Ted.'

'You're still in my bad books.'

'Yes. Well. Sorry. Would you like a vol-au-vent though?' said Israel, attempting both apology and pathos at the same time, and offering the plate.

'Hmm.'

'They're nice.'

'Are they vegetenarian?'

'Yeah, but not so's you'd notice.'

'Ach, all right. But don't think a volley vont means I'm forgiving and forgetting now.'

'No, of course not,' said Israel.

'Mmm,' said Ted. 'Mushroom?'

'Yes. I think so.'

'Not bad. So, I s'pose you're going to tell me, how's the auld hunt going?' asked Ted, brushing flaky pastry from his chin.

'The hunt?'

'For the books, you eejit.'

'Oh, it's coming along.'

'Aye.'

'I've got a couple of very good leads. Actually, Ted, you wouldn't think about coming back and-'

'Who, me? The criminal mastermind?'

'I don't think you're the criminal mastermind, Ted.'

'Oh, not smart enough, eh.'

'No. Ted. It's not that. I've crossed you off my list of suspects.'

'Aye, right. That's nice of you, Kojak.'

Israel leant in close. 'I'm working on a major conspiracy theory at the moment,' he said.

Ted finished chewing his vol-au-vent. 'I'm sure: still not a titter of wit about ye then. What happened to the hubcaps?'

'What?' said Israel.

'Aye, you heard me. What happened to the hubcaps? Don't think I haven't noticed. I've seen yous driving about: there's no hubcaps on the van anymores.'

'Ah, yes, that was a little mishap.'

'And I see you've her bent up and twisted round the bonnet?'

'Ah, yes, that was another little mishap.'

'Aye, right. Well, I entrusted her to you,' said Ted. 'And I'll tell you what,' he continued, leaning over close to Israel as he spoke, with vol-au-venty intensity, 'you'd better start looking after her better than you're doing at the minute, boyo. Or I'll beat the blinkin' lard out of ye. D'you understand?'

'Yes,' squeaked Israel.

With which friendly threat Ted turned his back on Israel and walked away, just as Linda Wei approached him from the other direction, took him firmly by the arm and led him off to introduce him to the redoubtable Maureen Minty.

'Hmm. Excuse me. Hello!' said Israel. 'Lovely speech.'

'Thank you,' said the mayoress, staring at Israel with her one good eye from under her firm-set hair and through a thick pair of glasses, looking for all the world like a cross between Moshe Dayan and Golda Meier.

'And that's a lovely…chain,' said Israel, trying to think of something to say to an elderly one-eyed lady mayoress he'd never met before, and pointing to her chain of office. 'Can I…touch it?' And before he knew what he was doing he was reaching out towards the lady mayoress's ample bosom.

Maureen Minty slapped his hand.

'If I was forty years younger I'd be flattered, young man. As it is, I'm appalled by your bad manners.'

'Ouch,' said Israel. 'Sorry.'

Linda led the lady mayoress away, frowning at Israel, who raised his hands in his mother's traditional Jewish 'what-have-I-done' gesture.

'He's a bold 'un, isn't he,' murmured Maureen Minty.

'Aye,' said Linda, flashing a warning stare at Israel.

'You haven't lost the old charm then, I see.'

It was Veronica, the reporter from the Impartial Recorder, and the funny thing was Israel had known she was there, in the room, from the moment he'd first arrived, even though he hadn't been able to pick her out. She seemed to have a peculiarly vivid presence, seeming to announce herself from a distance, as if subtly lit, like in a film, or like she was emitting a high-frequency sound, like a minky whale perhaps, or something similar, and it was as if he had a sixth sense, attuned to her. He'd had this feeling before. He tried to remember when: it was when he'd first met Gloria.

'You're looking very…natty,' said Veronica, with that characteristic hint of mischief and mockery in her voice.

'Natty?' said Israel. 'Natty? Gosh. No one's used the word natty since about 1950, have they?'

'Well, no one I know has worn a three-piece herringbone suit since about 1950.'

'Ah. True,' said Israel. He was wearing one of Mr Devine's old suits. It was a little tight, but it certainly made a change from Brownie's combat trousers and T-shirts, and he thought it gave him a certain Cary Grant kind of a look, actually, or maybe a Sidney Greenstreet kind of a look, if he was being absolutely honest, but drink had been taken, so there was no need to be absolutely honest. He was looking pretty good.

'Will you have your photo taken with me?' asked Veronica.

'Me?'

'Come on.'

She pulled Israel over towards a man with a huge camera and a flashgun.

'Here we are now.'

'Israel, Michael-photographer at the paper. Michael, this is Israel, our esteemed librarian.'

'Outreach Support Officer,' said Israel jokingly, although neither Veronica nor Michael seemed to see the joke. 'My little joke,' he explained.

'He's a comedian as well, then,' said Michael.

'Oh yes,' said Veronica, winking at Israel, 'he's a terrible tease. He's English.'

'Aye.'

'OK then, by himself first I think.'

And before Israel knew it, it was flash and the picture had been taken.

'Great,' said Veronica. 'Now together,' and she squeezed up close to Israel, cheek to cheek. 'Do your worst.'

Another flash.

'One for the family album. Thanks, Michael.'

'OK, Veronica,' said Michael. 'That it?'

'I think that'll do us for tonight.'

'See you tomorrow.'

'Night. What's happened to your hair,' asked Veronica, turning to Israel, fishing around in her handbag. 'Do you mind?' she asked, going to light a cigarette.

'It's your funeral. I combed it.'

'Well, I think it suits you,' she said. 'You scrub up nicely.'

Israel blushed. 'Thank you…'

'At which point'-Veronica leant closer towards him, touching his arm, blowing smoke in his direction-'you're supposed to say, "And you're looking rather lovely too."'

'Ah, right, sorry. You're looking lovely too,' said Israel, which was true, actually; Veronica was wearing a long black clinging skirt and black leather boots and a tight, buttoned-up blouson, which made her look rather as if she'd just flown in specially for the evening, like flying-ace Amelia Eckhart.