There were the usual comings and goings in the farmhouse: Mr Devine hauling coal and food around; Brownie up and down with books; George in and out in her dungarees. Israel remained in the kitchen, dreaming fondly of his old life.

'Aye, right, you're there,' said Mr Devine, bringing in a bundle of small sticks, which he'd spent most of the afternoon chopping out in the yard: the distant echoing sound of axe on wood had given Israel a terrible headache. 'Parcel for you.'

'For me, really? Thanks.'

Mr Devine handed over the package.

The only post Israel had received since arriving in Tumdrum had been a few circulars that his mother had forwarded to him-credit card offers and requests for charity donations.

He prodded his glasses and looked at the package. It was a Jiffy bag. He recognised Gloria's writing on the package. He ripped it open.

There was no note from Gloria. Her PA had probably sent it.

Inside the Jiffy bag was another Jiffy bag: the inner Jiffy had been posted to their London address.

Israel tore it open.

Inside the inner Jiffy was the map of Tumdrum and District that he'd been waiting for from Amazon.co.uk, which he'd ordered what now seemed like a lifetime ago in Zelda's.

Well, frankly, it wasn't the most exciting item he'd ever been sent in the post-his GCSE results, they'd been pretty good, and there was that time Gloria had ordered something on the Internet from Agent Provocateur, which was pretty good also, but still, this was something, it was a package, it was better than nothing, and he glanced absentmindedly at the seller's invoice.

And then he checked the postmark.

And then he looked again at the map.

And he couldn't believe it: the invoice was from someone calling themselves North Coast Books. And the postmark was Tumdrum. And the map had the tell-tale purple sticker on it: it was the old Tumdrum Library copy. It took him a moment, but then it all fell into place, there was a clunk and a click and the Eagle had landed, and it was all he could do to stop himself from shouting Eureka!

Receiving the map in the post was as good as receiving a written statement or a letter containing a confession; it wrapped it all up and gave it all away. The mystery was as good as solved.

All he needed to do now was to explain to someone this amazing breakthrough in his admittedly rather ad-hoc investigation. Brownie had gone out, otherwise he'd have been good to talk to, and Israel knew better by now than to try to talk about anything to George or Mr Devine and there weren't that many other people he could talk to; it was getting on for teatime, after which time traditionally in Tumdrum everyone battened down the hatches and prepared to repel boarders, but because of the import of his discovery, because he believed that finally he'd cracked it, and because he had absolutely no one else he could share the news with, he decided to take the liberty of going to see Ted, not something he would usually have considered under any circumstances. Israel had not been in the habit of making social calls since he'd arrived in Tumdrum-he had no one to make social calls upon-and Ted would not have been his choice of confidant, but he didn't have time now for mere niceties and pussyfooting around: he was hot on the trail of his man, and his ticket out of here and home. All he needed was a little support and back-up.

Israel had passed Ted's house a few times on some of the service runs. It was a neat little bungalow on the coast, at the foot of a sheer cliff, and it would have had fantastic views across to the sea if the main coast road didn't run right in front of it, inches from the door, so the magnificent view was obscured by the constant stream of traffic, carrying people and goods and food and drink up and round and back again, to and from the north coast, and so Ted's view in fact consisted mostly of the word 'Guinness' flashing by, again and again, and of the shining silver and red of thousands of nearly new cars, with the appropriate and accompanying sound of BBC Radio Ulster faintly to be heard above the hum of slightly worn tyre on tarmac.

Israel pulled the van over onto the weed and gravel forecourt cut into the cliff, and got out, and knocked and rang at the door. There was the distinct sound of growling: Ted had a dog. He might have guessed.

Israel's usual approach with dogs, as with small children, was to ignore them in the sure and certain hope that they'd soon get bored and go away. Israel hadn't grown up with dogs, had never had a dog, and he did not like them. He was more of a cat person.

'Ted! Ted!' he called, ignoring the barking dog, as Ted opened up.

'Israel,' replied Ted. He was wearing a pinny covered with flour and had a rolling pin in his hand, and there was a little Jack Russell at his heels.

'Are you cooking?' said Israel.

'No, I'm creosoting my fences.'

'Ted, I've done it.'

'Sorry to hear that.'

'What?'

'You've crashed the van again?'

'No! No. No. I've found the books.'

'The library books?'

'Yes, the library books. Of course the library books.'

'Aye, well, congratulations.'

'So.'

'So?' said Ted, who was not as excited as Israel might have hoped.

'So, let me come in and I'll tell you all about it.'

'Right.' Ted folded his arms across his chest, blocking Israel's way into the house and getting flour all over his arms in the process.

'Ted?'

Ted frowned-and when Ted frowned the deep frown lines ran all the way from behind the top of one ear, multiplying as they went, and all the way across to the other. They weren't so much frowns in fact as the folds on a complex origami forehead.

'All right. But don't be making a habit of making house calls. OK? It's not good for the dog. It makes him nervous. It's all right, Muhammad, he's a friend.'

'Muhammad? Your dog's called Muhammad?'

'That's right.'

'Oh. OK. After the Prophet Muhammad?'

'No. After the boxer.'

Ted turned to go inside, and Muhammad the Jack Russell terrier allowed Israel to enter.

The house was pretty much what you'd expect from a man of modest means in his sixties living by himself with a small Jack Russell called Muhammad on a windswept coast several miles from the nearest town: it was clean and it was practical and it made a good effort to appear cheerful, even though the overall and unintended effect was profoundly saddening, a consequence not only of the stench and scuffs of small dog but also of the clear and apparent lack of a woman's touch. There was a rich, thick, meaty smell, with just a hint of urine, coming from the kitchen, a smell that may have been mould, or it may have been food. There were old green oil cans containing peat by the front door, and a fire in the grate. The living room had its orangey 1950s sofa and a wood-effect Formica coffee table, and a plain pine dresser set with a few pieces of crockery. There was one door through to the bedroom and another straight out back into the spartan kitchen, which was empty save for an old sink, and a cupboard, and a narrow table, and a cream-coloured Rayburn. The dog basket with its vivid red blanket sat proud by the back door.

'Lovely house, Ted,' said Israel, standing awkwardly in the living room.

'All right, Israel, sit down if you're staying and get on with it. I'm cooking.'

'Thanks.' Israel noticed pastry draped over dishes in the kitchen. 'OK.'

'What's that with your nose?' said Ted.

'Ah yes, that's part of what I'm about to tell you.'

'You gone arse over heels agin?'

'No. Or yes. But anyway, I know where the books are.'

'Good. Where are they?'

'At P. J. Bullimore's.'

'Bullimore's?' Ted raised an eyebrow.

'Yes. Do you know him?'

'Course I know him. He's the big antiquey place round by the First and Last.'