'Yes! That's him!'

'And what, they're all there, are they, the books?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'You think so?'

'Yes.'

'You haven't actually seen them there then?'

'No. Not yet. But I know they're there.'

'Oh, aye. Because the wee fairies told you, or you have X-ray eyes, or you just have a feeling in your water?'

'No. Of course not. But I've got this.'

Israel took the padded envelope from his duffle coat pocket.

'Oh, that seals it then.'

'Yes! Ted, this is the smoking gun.'

Ted laughed, and started to move off towards the kitchen.

'Sorry, Israel. Time and pastry wait for no man. Lovely chatting to you. See you on Monday…'

'Hold on. Look, let me explain.'

Israel followed Ted out into the kitchen.

And this was the source of the smells.

'Mmm,' said Israel. 'What are you making?'

'Pies.'

'How do you do that?'

'What?'

'How do you make pies?'

'You don't know how to make a pie?'

'No.'

'You just get your pastry and you-'

'How do you make the pastry though?'

'Ach, for flip's sake, Israel,' said Ted, rolling out a circle of pastry. 'Do you know nothing?'

'Well…we eat out a lot in London.'

'Aye.'

'But my mum's a good cook.'

'Is she now?'

'Yes. She does a lovely vegetarian lasagne.'

'I'm sure.' Ted brushed the thin pastry.

'What are you doing there?'

'I'm brushing the pastry.'

'Ah, yes, I remember my mum doing that.'

'Good.' Ted then placed the thin pastry on top of a dish of steaming meat and took a knife, trimmed off the pastry from around the pie dish, and then took a fork and began sealing the edges. Israel was watching closely.

'There's a word for you, you know,' said Ted, washing his hands at the sink.

'Is there?'

'Yes. Bloody annoying.'

'That's two words.'

'Bloodyannoying,' said Ted.

Ted went into the living room and then returned.

'Here. Take this.'

'What is it?'

'What's it look like? It's a cookbook. That'll tell you how to make pastry.'

'Delia Smith's How to Cook, Book One?'

'You can borrow it.'

'Are you sure?'

'If it saves you asking me stupid questions about how to make pastry, I'm sure.'

'Well, thanks. Anyway. Ted, this is the key to the crime,' said Israel, brandishing the envelope.

'It's a key now, is it?'

'Metaphorically.'

'Aye, Ah'm sure.'

'It's the envelope in which I received the map-'

'That tells you where to find the buried treasure?'

'Yes. No! I'm serious. A map of the local area.'

'OK,' said Ted, carefully placing the pie inside the Rayburn. 'Someone sent you a map in the post? Why?'

'Because I needed to find my way around, for the service runs.'

'Right.'

'So I found one on the Internet.'

'Sure you could have got one out of the library.'

'But all the library books have been stolen!'

'Aye. True.'

'So I had to find one. So I sent off for it, and it was delivered to my home address in London. Forwarded to me here.'

'Fine.'

'And. Look…at this.'

He showed Ted the postmark on the envelope. It was red, and thin and smudged, like a lipstick trace, but you could still read it.

'It's Tumdrum,' said Ted.

'Exactly.'

'So?'

'Well, look at this.'

Israel then produced from the envelope the map-a perfectly ordinary green and cream-coloured Ordnance Survey map. It had a small purple reference label in the top right-hand corner.

'It's the library copy.'

'Precisely!'

'So, what, the person who sent you this map had it from the library?'

'Right. They must have stolen it.'

'Not necessarily,' said Ted.

'Probably.'

'Aye, well, maybe.'

'And then they're selling the stolen books on the Internet.'

'Hmm,' said Ted.

'Which means if we find the person who sent me this we'll find the person who's stolen the books.'

'Right, well,' said Ted thoughtfully, 'fair play to you, big fella. It beats your other auld nonsense. D'you get an invoice or anything with your map?'

'Yes. Here. North Coast Books. But it doesn't say who they are or where they're based.'

'Nope.' Ted studied the invoice. 'So what makes you think it's Bullimore?'

'Well, it has to be him. He's the only person locally who trades in books, isn't he?'

'Aye, but. Just because he trades in books doesn't mean he trades in stolen books.'

'No. True. But last night he tried to run me down in his car.'

'What?'

'I'm serious.'

'Aye.'

'I am. He was trying to kill me.'

'Ach, Israel, wise up…'

'He was! He's running a scam to get Pearce Pyper to part with all his books. When I was there yesterday, he was there, under-pricing all these priceless books of Pearce's-James Joyce, and Eliot and-'

'Aye, right, I get the picture.'

'And then when I pointed this out to him, he left, and then he tried to run me down, and I jumped into a tree…'

'You what?'

'I fell into a tree, down the lane by the big red barn. And broke my nose.' Israel pointed at his nose. 'See?'

'Aye, I see your nose all right-wee bit wonky but. But I'm not sure I see how all the rest fits together.'

'It does, it does! It's a dead cert, Ted. Bullimore's our man. Trust me.'

Ted considered this last appeal with huge and intense wrinkling of his forehead.

'Aye. Well, if you're right-and I'm not saying you're right, mind-what are you going to do? Just go in there and say hello, you've stolen the library books, and I wonder if you couldn't hand them over please, thank you very much.'

'No. Of course not.'

'So. You're going to the police then?'

'No. We can't go to the police.'

'Because?'

'Because this is my case.'

'Oh, right. Jim Rockford you are now then, are ye?'

'We're going to break in.'

'Hold on. You said "we"?'

'Yes. We. Me and you, we'll break in and find the books.'

'No way, José.'

'Come on, Ted.'

'No.'

'Oh, come on, this is it. We get the books back, and then I'm out of here. I'm a free man again. I'm gone.'

'Aye, to prison.'

'No. I'm serious.'

'I'm serious. No can do.'

'Why?'

'Because you're talking about breaking in somewhere. It's wrong.'

'It's not wrong. It's the lesser of two evils.'

'Aye, it's wrong.'

'It's not wrong. We're breaking in for the greater good. Like you hid the mobile library.'

'That was different.'

'Why?'

'Because.'

'What?'

'We were protecting the mobile. It's not the same at all. And anyway, what if it's not him?'

'Well…Then we would have made a mistake.'

'Quite a mistake.'

'Yes, but.'

'No, I'm sorry, you're on your own, Israel.'

'Oh no, Ted. Not again, Ted. Please.'

'No.'

'Please.'

'No. I said no, and I mean no. There is nothing on God's green earth that is going to persuade me to become engaged in any ne…'

'Ne?' said Israel.

'Ne…' Ted was struggling.

'Negative?' offered Israel.

'No!' said Ted. 'Ne…'

'Farious?'

'Exactly. Nefarious business. I've kept my nose clean these past few years, I'm hardly going to start getting in trouble now.'

'Ted!'

'No!'

'Well, what am I supposed to do?'

'I don't know. That's up to you. I've got my pies here.'

'Ted.'

'No! I mean no! Muhammad'll see you out. Muhammad!'

The Jack Russell led Israel to the door.

'And you want to get a doctor to look at your nose,' shouted Ted from the kitchen. 'Get it straightened out proper.'

'Right,' said Israel. 'Thanks a lot.'

'Or yous'll end up like me,' said Ted, with a sigh.