The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery Read online

  * * *

  The Book Stops Here

  A Mobile Library Mystery

  Ian Sansom

  * * *

  For the Group

  Contents

  1

  'I resign,' said Israel.

  2

  'Sorry, Linda,' he said when they arrived. It was his…

  3

  The meeting had ended, as was traditional at Mobile Library…

  4

  He was packing! Israel Armstrong was packing up and getting…

  5

  They very nearly missed the ferry.

  6

  Israel vomited continually and consistently for most of the journey…

  7

  Israel's mother was not a good cook. It was a…

  8

  For a long time he couldn't get to sleep. First…

  9

  Stolen cars in London are of course ten a penny…

  10

  Israel was glad that he'd managed to persuade his mother…

  11

  The address they'd been given was just by Wandsworth Bridge.

  12

  Gloria still hadn't phoned. Or texted. Or indeed turned up…

  13

  'This is madness,' said Ted.

  14

  When Israel and Ted arrived back at the site the…

  15

  Britain's premier—and only—convention of mobile librarians, organised by the Chartered…

  16

  The police decided that under the circumstances Israel and Ted…

  17

  They were driving back through England in silence.

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by Ian Sansom

  Credits

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  'I resign,' said Israel.

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'I do,' said Israel.

  'Good,' said Ted.

  'I've made up my mind. I'm resigning,' said Israel. 'Today.'

  'Right you are,' said Ted.

  'I've absolutely had enough.'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'Of the whole thing. This place! The—'

  'People,' said Ted.

  'Exactly!' said Israel. 'The people! Exactly! The people, they drive me—'

  'Crazy,' said Ted.

  'Exactly! You took the words right out of my mouth.'

  'Aye, well, you might've mentioned it before,' said Ted.

  'Well, this is it. I'm up to—'

  'High dough,' said Ted.

  'What?' said Israel.

  'You're up to high dough with it.'

  'No,' said Israel. 'No. I don't even know what it means, up to high dough with it. What the hell's that supposed to mean?'

  'It's an expression.'

  'Ah, right yes. It would be. Anyway, I'm up to…here with it.'

  'Good.'

  'I'm going to hand in my resignation to Linda.'

  'Excellent,' said Ted.

  'Before the meeting today.'

  'First class,' said Ted.

  'Before she has a chance to trick me out of it again.'

  'Away you go then.'

  'I am so gone already. I am out of here. I tell you, you are not going to see me for dust. I'm moving on.'

  'Mmm.'

  'I'm going! Look!'

  'Ach, well, it's been a pleasure, sure. We're all going to miss you.'

  'Yes,' said Israel.

  'Good,' said Ted.

  'So,' said Israel.

  'You've time for a wee cup of coffee at Zelda's first, mind? For auld time's sake?'

  'No!' said Israel. 'I need to strike while the—'

  'And a wee scone, but?'

  Israel looked at his watch.

  'Meeting's not till three,' said Ted.

  'What day is it?' said Israel.

  'Wednesday.'

  'What's the scone on Wednesdays?'

  'Date and almond,' said Ted, consulting his mental daily-special scone timetable.

  Israel huffed. 'All right,' he said. 'But then we need to get there early. I am definitely, definitely resigning.'

  They'd had this conversation before, around about midweek, and once a week, for several months now, Israel Armstrong BA (Hons) and Ted Carson—the Starsky and Hutch, the Morse and Lewis, the Thomson and Thompson, the Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the Dante and Virgil, the Cagney and Lacey, the Deleuze and Guattari, the Mork and Mindy of the mobile library world.

  Israel had been living in Tumdrum for long enough—more than six months!—to find the routine not just getting to him, but actually having got to him; the self-same rainy days which slowly and silently became weeks and then months, and which seemed gradually to be slowing, and slowing, and slowing, almost but not quite to a complete and utter stop, so that it felt to Israel as though he'd been stuck in Tumdrum on the mobile library not just for months, but for years, indeed for decades almost. He never should have taken the job here in the first place; it was an act of desperation. He felt trapped; stuck; in complete and utter stasis. He felt incapacitated. He felt like he was in a never-ending episode of 24 or a play by Samuel Beckett.

  'This is like Krapp's Last Tape,' he told Ted, once they were settled in Zelda's and Minnie was bringing them coffee.

  'Is it?' said Ted.

  'Are ye being rude about my coffee?' said Minnie.

  'No,' said Israel. 'I'm just talking about a play.'

  'Ooh!' said Minnie.

  'Beckett?' said Israel.

  'Beckett?' said Minnie. 'He was a Portora boy, wasn't he?'

  'What?' said Israel.

  'In Enniskillen there,' said Minnie. 'The school, sure. That's where he went to school, wasn't it?'

  'I don't know,' said Israel. 'Samuel Beckett?'

  'Sure he did,' said Minnie. 'What was that play he did?'

  'Waiting for Godot?' said Israel.

  'Was it?' said Minnie. 'It wasn't Educating Rita?'

  'Riverdance,' said Ted. 'Most popular Irish show of all time.'

  'That's not a play,' said Israel wearily.

  'Aye, you're a theatre critic now, are ye?'

  'Och,' said Minnie. 'And who was the other fella?'

  'What?' said Israel.

  'That went to school there, at Portora?'

  'No, you've got me,' said Israel. 'No idea.'

  'Ach, sure ye know. The homosexualist.'

  'You've lost me, Minnie, sorry.'

  'Wrote the plays. "A handbag!" That one.'

  'Oscar Wilde?'

  'He's yer man!' said Minnie. 'He was another Portora boy, wasn't he, Ted?'

  Ted was busy emptying the third of his traditional three sachets of sugar into his coffee. 'Aye.'

  'Zelda's nephew went there,' said Minnie. 'The one in Fermanagh there.'

  'Right,' said Israel. 'Anyway…'

  'I'll check with her.'

  'Fine,' said Israel.

  'And your scones are just coming,' said Minnie.

  'That's grand,' said Ted, producing a pack of cigarettes.

  'Uh-uh,' said Minnie, wagging her finger. 'We've gone no smoking.'

  'Ye have not?' said Ted.

  'We have indeed.'

  'Since when?'

  'The weekend, just.'

  'Ach,' said Ted. 'That's the political correctness.'

  'I know,' said Minnie. 'It's what people want though, these days.'

  'You'll lose custom, but.'

  'Aye.'

  'Nanny state,' said Ted, obediently putting away his cigarettes and lighter.

  'Smoking kills,' said Israel.<
br />
  'Aye, and so do a lot of other things,' said Ted darkly.

  'It is a shame, really,' said Minnie. 'Sure, everybody used to smoke.'

  Israel stared at the yellowing walls of the café as Ted and Minnie reminisced about the great smokers of the past: Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Bette Davis, Winston Churchill, Fidel Castro.

  'Beagles,' said Israel.

  'What?' said Minnie.

  'And Sherlock Holmes,' added Israel.

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'Was he not a druggie?' said Minnie.

  'Sam Spade,' said Israel.

  'Never heard of him,' said Minnie.

  Sometimes Israel wished he was a gentleman detective, far away from here, with a cocaine and morphine habit, and a slightly less intelligent confidant to admire his genius. Or, like Sam Spade, the blond Satan, pounding the hard streets of San Francisco, entangling with knock-out redheads and outwitting the Fat Man. Instead, here he was in Zelda's, listening to Ted and Minnie and looking up at old Christian Aid and Trócaire posters, and the dog-eared notices for the Citizens Advice Bureau, and the wilting pot plants, and the lone long-broken computer in the corner with the Blu-Tacked sign above it proclaiming the café Tumdrum's Internet hot spot, THE FIRST AND STILL THE BEST, and the big laminated sign over by the door featuring a man sitting slumped with his head in his hands, advertising the Samaritans: 'Suicidal? Depressed?'

  Well, actually…

  He sipped at his coffee and took a couple of Nurofen. The coffee was as bad as ever. All coffee in Tumdrum came weak, and milky, and lukewarm, as though having recently passed through someone else or a cow. Maybe he should take up smoking, late in life, as an act of flamboyance and rebellion: a smoke was a smoke, after all, but with a coffee you couldn't always be sure. The coffee in Tumdrum was more like slurry run-off. He missed proper coffee, Israel—a nice espresso at Bar Italia just off Old Compton Street, that was one of the things he missed about London, and the coffee at Grodzinski's, round the corner from his mum's. He missed his friends, also, of course; and his books; and the cinema; a nice slice of lemon drizzle cake in the café at the Curzon Soho; and the theatre; and the galleries; and the restaurants; it was the little things; nothing much; just all the thriving cultural activities of one of the world's great capital cities.

  'Just remind me,' he said to Ted, once Minnie had gone off for the scones. 'Why do we come here?'

  'It's the only place there is,' said Ted.

  'Yes,' said Israel, amazed. 'I know, but…it's, like…' He took another sip of his coffee. 'They don't even serve proper coffee.'

  'I think the machine's broken,' said Ted.

  'The machine's always broken.'

  'Mmm.'

  'It's that sort of chicory stuff, isn't it?' said Israel, licking his lips, trying to figure out what it was, the unpleasant burnt taste and the feral, sicky smell, like something someone had just brought up. 'That's what it is. I think it's that…what do you call it?'

  'What?'

  'Ersatz coffee.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Ted. 'I had a cappuccino once in Belfast.'

  'What?'

  'They have coffee bars down there everywhere now. It's like the Continent.'

  'Oh God,' said Israel.

  'What?' said Ted.

  'No,' said Israel, shaking his head. 'No.'

  'No what?'

  'No. Just no. It's no good, I can't drink this,' said Israel, putting aside his coffee.

  He was thinking now about Gloria: whenever he started thinking about London his thoughts turned quickly to Gloria.

  Gloria was the Eros in Israel's Piccadilly Circus, the Serpentine in his Hyde Park, the St Paul's in his City, the Brick Lane of his East End…her dark hair cascading down over her shoulders, her piercing brown eyes, his hand in hers, their bodies entwined…

  'Scones!' said Minnie, interrupting Israel before the point of no return and placing a couple of enormous steaming chunks of hot scone down on the plastic gingham-look tablecloth.

  'I was wrong,' she said.

  'Sorry?' said Israel. 'Wrong? About what?'

  'It's not Zelda's nephew at Portora.'

  'Right.'

  'It's her other nephew.'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'Zelda's other brother's boy—Niall, the fella who's the computer whiz?'

  'Right,' said Israel.

  What? Who? Niall? The nephew? The other nephew? Why on earth did people in Tumdrum go on like characters in Russian novels, insisting on talking about their friends and family members as if you'd known them for years, when of course you hadn't, you had no idea who the hell they were talking about, unless you'd lived here your whole life, which Israel hadn't. Did Israel speak to people in Tumdrum endlessly and incessantly about his family and friends? Did he ever mention his sisters, or his cousins, including the successful ones, or his mother's neighbours Mr and Mrs Krimholz, or the butcher, the baker and the candlestick makers of his own lovely little patch of north London? No, he did not. People in Tumdrum seemed to assume that the mere fact of living there instantly made you a local, as though you absorbed local knowledge of complex hereditary diseases and bloodlines by osmosis. I mean, how was he supposed to keep up with the progress of your mother's sister's urinary tract infection when he'd never even met your mother? It was a physical impossibility: he'd have had to be telepathic, and a qualified medical practitioner, and, also, he'd have to care, and he didn't. He was not bothered. Am I bothered? Est-ce que je suis bovvered? Israel slathered a piece of scone with butter.

  'Was that the fella who used to go out with Zelda's cousin's husband's sister?' said Ted.

  'Ugh!' said Israel.

  'What?' said Ted.

  'That's yer man,' said Minnie.

  'Who?' said Israel. 'Who? Who are you talking about now?'

  'You know,' said Minnie. 'The big fella. They used to live down there at Lough Island Reevy, in Down.'

  'Hello?' said Israel. 'Excuse me! I don't know what you're talking about. Some of us were not born around here you know.'

  'No, pet,' said Minnie pityingly, moving off to another table. 'Never mind.'

  'God,' said Israel.

  'Don't,' said Ted, wagging a finger.

  'What?'

  'You know what.'

  'Oh God.'

  'I'll not tell ye again,' said Ted, who was a very vehement anti-blasphemer, unless he was doing the blaspheming.

  'Sorry,' said Israel. 'I'm going to have to bite the bullet, though,' he continued, picking up his scone, trying to decide where to start.

  'Uh-huh,' said Ted, who'd already started on his own. 'She's a fair junt of scone, but, isn't she? And nice and warm.'

  'No, I mean with the job. I'm definitely going to resign.'

  'Mmm.'

  'Even if it means going back to working in the Bargain Bookstore.'

  'Good man ye are.'

  'In Thurrock.'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'In Essex,' said Israel, convincing himself. 'I still have plenty of friends there.'

  'Mmm.'

  'A man has to have his self-respect,' said Israel.

  'Or what does he have?' said Ted, finishing a mouthful.

  'Exactly!' said Israel. 'Take this morning.'

  'Why?' said Ted.

  'Because,' said Israel.

  'It wasnae a bad morning,' said Ted.

  'Wasn't bad!' said Israel, using the scone gavel-like on the table; the crust did not give. 'You see! That's it!'

  'What's it?'

  'That's the problem.'

  'Is it? The scone?'

  'No! This morning wasn't bad, you said?'

  'Aye.'

  'Wasn't bad?'

  'Aye.'

  'Wasn't bad?'

  'Yer right.'

  'No, it wasn't bad! It was terrible!'

  'Ach,' said Ted, picking a date out of his scone.

  'You're just inured to it, Ted.'

  'Ee-what?'

  'Inured. It's…Anyway, I'm
young and you're…'

  'What?'

  'Older.'

  'Aye.'

  'And look at us! We're nothing more than errand boys!'

  'I don't know about that,' said Ted.

  'I've got a degree from Oxford you know,' said Israel.

  'Uh-huh,' said Ted, picking at his scone. 'Oxford Brookes, wasn't it you said?'

  'Which is in Oxford,' said Israel. 'I don't know if you've been there?'

  'Can't say I have,' said Ted. 'No.'

  'No!' said Israel triumphantly. 'Well then. I am a highly educated librarian. I shouldn't be—we shouldn't be—just doing errands for people.'

  'We're not just doing errands for people.'

  'Yes, we are!'

  'We're a service,' said Ted.

  'A library service,' said Israel. 'A library service. Not a Tesco home delivery service! Picking up people's groceries is not the kind of service I had in mind when I got into this job,' said Israel. 'It's ridiculous.'

  'It's not ridiculous.'

  'It is!' said Israel. 'Honestly. This morning…'

  First stop of the day, up round the coast, and first in, a man in his seventies, not one of their regulars.

  'D'ye have the Impartial Recorder?'

  'Sorry?' said Israel.

  'The paper? D'ye have the paper?'

  'No. No. I'm afraid not.'

  'The Tele then?'

  'No. Sorry. We don't have any papers.'

  'You don't sell any papers?'

  'No. Sorry.'

  'You sell books then?'

  'No, no, we don't sell books either.'

  'D'ye not?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  'We're a library.'

  'Ach, aye. Second-hand books then.'

  'Erm…Well, yes. Sort of, I suppose.'

  'By the yard, or by the pound?'

  'Sorry?'

  'I saw a thing about it on the telly once. Books by the yard. Or the dozen. I don't know. I can't rightly remember.'

  'Right. Well, we don't actually sell books here at all. You have to join a library. Like you do a video shop or…something. I need to see a utility bill, something with your name and address on it, and then I can—'

  'I'd not be showing you that, indeed; that'd be under the Freedom of Information Act, wouldn't it? I don't know who ye are. Are ye the police?'

  'No. I'm not the police.'

  'You could be anybody.'

  'Yes, true. I could, of course, be…anybody. I am in fact the librarian, though. Here. In the…mobile library. Where we…are.'

  'You're a funny-lookin' librarian.'