Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (7 page)

'So, you claim you have no contact with the Middle East and yet you have family there?'

'Yes. Look, what has this got to do with anything? I'm from north London. I'm just called Israel: I'm not an Israeli.'

'I see. And what's the nature of your business here in Northern Ireland?'

'I live here. You know I live here. I work here. I'm the librarian!'

'So, you're an immigrant?'

'What? Well, yes. No. No, I'm not an immigrant. I'm English. I just happen to be here. I've got a job here.'

'And your job of work here?'

'I just told you! I'm the librarian! On the mobile library. Ask Sergeant Friel there, he gets his books out from the library once a month. Do you never get books out of the library?'

Doggart/Hoggart did not look as though he got a lot of books out of the library.

There was a malevolent kind of a pause for a moment then–a pause in which Israel looked pleadingly from the downcast eyes of his solicitor to the downcast eyes of Sergeant Friel and then back again to the hard stare of Doggart/Hoggart, who raised his shoulders and rearranged himself in his chair, clearly preparing for another line of questioning.

'How many counties are there in Ireland, Mr Armstrong?'

'Sorry?'

'I said, how many counties are there in Ireland?'

'Erm…I don't know. What's this got to do with anything?'

'Can you name three Glens of Antrim?'

'What?'

'It's funny: you claim you're not an immigrant here, Mr Armstrong, and yet you don't seem to know very much about the country in which you're living.'

'I've only been here—'

'Where was the sash worn?'

'What?'

'I said, where was the sash worn?'

'I have no idea what you're talking about. What is this, twenty questions?'

'Do you speak any Israeli languages, Mr Armstrong?'

'Israeli languages? What are you talking about? What do you mean, Hebrew?'

'Arabic?'

'No, I don't speak Arabic. Or Hebrew. I know about two dozen phrases of Yiddish, and that's it.'

'Yiddish?'

'That's right.'

'What's that, a Jewish language?'

'Oh, God.'

Doggart/Hoggart then reminded Israel the interview was being tape-recorded and might be used in evidence in a court of law.

He went on, 'For the benefit of the tape, do you understand why you have been arrested, Mr Armstrong?'

Israel had had enough. He decided to give up on the conversation and returned to his earlier tactic and remained silent.

Doggart/Hoggart asked again.

And Israel remained silent.

Doggart/Hoggart said, 'If you refuse to make any comment, an inference may be drawn at court.'

This became the pattern for the rest of the interview: Israel silent, Doggart/Hoggart repeating, 'If you refuse to make any comment, an inference may be drawn at court.'

Then Sergeant Friel had a go. 'Tell me what happened, Israel.'

Israel said nothing.

'If you refuse to make any comment, an inference may be drawn at court.'

At which point Hussain had had enough. He asked permission to halt the interview to confer with his client. The interview was duly halted and Israel was taken to the cell with Hussain to confer.

'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?' said Hussain.

'I didn't do it!' said Israel. 'And I'm not going to allow them to twist what I say to make it appear as though I did.'

'You need to cooperate with the police, Mr Armstrong.'

'Yeah. Right. I know how these things work.'

'What things?'

'False accusations. Conspiracies.'

'This is not a conspiracy!'

'It is a bloody conspiracy! It's like…Princess Diana, and the…Kennedy assassination!'

'Mr Armstrong—'

'I'm a librarian! I'm not…Lee Harvey Oswald!'

'Mr Armstrong, please. No one's saying you are Lee Harvey Oswald. Whoever you are,' said Hussain, 'if you haven't done it, you have nothing to fear from speaking to the police.'

They returned to the interview room.

The interview recommenced.

'Have you had sufficient time to advise your client?' asked Sergeant Friel. Hussain said that he had. And Doggart/Hoggart started in again.

Israel still said nothing. For five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.

The interview was abandoned. The tapes were sealed. Two copies. Israel and Hussain were asked to sign the seal of one copy. Israel refused. A note was made in a notebook: 'Refused to sign.'

Israel was returned to the cell, and he buried his face in the mattress. His mind was in turmoil. Why did they keep asking him about being Jewish? Israel didn't even feel Jewish. He was just…Israel. And all that stuff about Ireland? How the hell was he supposed to know anything about Ireland? He only lived here.

Hussain reappeared.

'Good news.'

Israel looked at him.

'The DNA's going to take about a week to process.'

'So?'

'I think we can get you bail. There's no other evidence at the moment to link you to the crime.'

'Oh.'

'This is what you want?'

Israel nodded.

Hussain left and then returned half an hour later with a plain-clothes policeman. Israel was escorted back to another policeman sitting at a desk.

A debate ensued between Hussain, the desk policeman, and the plain-clothes policeman, who expressed a concern as to whether Israel should be granted bail.

'It is my belief that Mr Armstrong would fail to return, due to the seriousness of the offence.'

'My client,' said Hussain, 'has a job. He has ties to the community.'

Israel snorted. Ties to the community! He didn't have ties to this community. Shackles, maybe. But ties? Nothing apart from the bloody library. He had nothing in common with these people. He certainly didn't share a common past with them, nor did he want to. He didn't share their feelings, or their language, apparently, or common assumptions, and he definitely did not share their so-called sense of humour. Ties to the community! For goodness sake.

Hussain continued. 'He has a home.'

Israel snorted again. A home! A chicken coop! That's where he'd bloody ended up here. A chicken coop.

'He is of previous good character.'

Hussain had never met Israel before.

'Also, you have his passport.'

What? Israel didn't know they had his passport. How the hell did they get hold of his passport?

The man behind the desk wrote all this down.

'It is my belief that Mr Armstrong could be a danger to the public,' said the plain-clothes policeman. 'He could commit further offences.'

'My client is prepared to reside at his home, to sign in weekly at the station and to keep a curfew.'

There was a huddle then, and hushed talking between the plain-clothes policeman and the desk policeman, and the next thing Israel knew he was signing forms in triplicate. He glanced at the words. It was an offence, apparently, for him to fail to appear back at the police station in one week. It was an offence for which he could be fined or imprisoned or both.

Then suddenly he was in another room being kitted out in someone else's old clothes and being escorted out past the front counter with Hussain.

'Well, we've got a week,' said Hussain, walking with him down a long grey corridor.

'For what?' said Israel.

'For us to sort all this out,' said Hussain.

'It's not very long,' said Israel.

'Well, how long do you need?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, you've got a week. They'll be doing stuff at the forensic science lab. And the DNA database in Birmingham.' Hussain looked at Israel suspiciously. 'They'll also need to prove intent.'

'I didn't have anything to do with it.'

'Fine,' said Hussain. 'You'll be OK then. Here's my card. You understand the bail conditions?'

Israel nodded.

'OK. Well, let's talk tonight. I'll ring you. You can let me know what our next move is.'

Hussain's words rattled in his ear. His next move? His next move?

Israel didn't have a next move.

He had a terrible headache.

Ted had been waiting for Israel in the police station. He was working his way through a giant book of Sudoku puzzles.

'Blinking things,' he said, as Israel shuffled towards him in his borrowed clothes.

'Oh, Ted! God, am I glad to see you.'

'Aye. Well, fancied I'd run into ye–you look like somethin' shot at an' missed, mind.'

'What?'

'And fancy dress, was it?' asked Ted: Israel was dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit, with a pair of size 11 shoes.

'No.'

'You swap with Coco the Clown?'

Israel was too tired for repartee.

'Aye, well,' continued Ted, 'you look smarter than usual.'

'Thanks.'

'Not that it'd be difficult. Come on, let's get out of here.'

Ted strode quickly towards the doors, Israel following.

'They treat you right?' asked Ted, as they hurried down the ramp.

'God, Ted. No,' said Israel. 'It was awful. It was—' Israel broke off. He found his hands were shaking.

'Aye, all right, son.'

They made it across the yard to Ted's cab.

'D'you get Billy?'

'What?'

'Your brief? My cousin, Billy Biggs, he saw you right?'

'No, no. I got some young bloke called…Hussain.'

'Indian fella?'

'I don't know. No. He was from here, I think.'

'He's Indian-looking, but?'

'Well, yes, him.'

'Aye. He's from Belfast. Top of his year at Queen's apparently. Billy swears by him. So?'

'Ted.' Israel stopped walking. 'I think they're trying to frame me.'

'Frame ye?'

'Yes! They're saying I carried out the robbery and the kidnap.'

'Kidnap?'

'Mr Dixon, he's gone missing.'

'Ach.'

'They're trying to blame me for it.'

'Aye. They're just trying to rile ye.'

'Well it certainly worked. Ted, you wouldn't believe the conditions they keep you in.'

'I think I would, boy. Come on, let's go.'

They got into Ted's cab.

Israel found he was shaking so much he couldn't do up his seat belt.

'Ye all right?' asked Ted.

'I don't feel well, Ted.'

'Aye, well, you'll be all right once we're out of here.'

'It's a violation of basic human rights.'

'Ach, Israel.'

'They're framing me, Ted. I really think they are.'

'You're getting carried away now.'

'I am not getting carried away, Ted!' There was a hoarseness to Israel's voice, as though he were about to cry.

'For goodness sake, you're not going to be blubbing now, are ye?'

'No, it was just…' Israel swallowed hard and tried to compose himself.

'Look, you're getting yerself all highsterical. Just calm down.'

'But I was in prison, Ted!'

'You were in a police cell. It's no' the same thing at all.'

'But, Ted, what if they manage to pin it on me?'

'Pin it on ye?' Ted laughed. 'What are ye blathering on about now? Pin it on ye? They're not going to pin it on you, son. You're just being silly. You're too sensitive altogether.'

'Too sensitive! Ted…' Israel took a deep breath. 'They've arrested me, released me on bail for a crime I didn't commit, and you're telling me I'm too sensitive!'

'Aye, that's exactly right. Get a grip of yerself.'

They drove out of the police compound and into the streets of Rathkeltair. Israel lapsed into silence.

'Linda wants to see you,' said Ted.

'What? Now? Oh, no. Ted, no.'

'Yes.'

'I can't, Ted. Not today. I don't even know what day it is. What day is it?'

'Saturday.'

'She wants to see me on Saturday?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'I can't, Ted. I need to…Not now. Not today.'

'You'll be all right.'

'Ted. No. I'm…I'm tired.'

'Aye, well. Get the name of rising early and you can lay on till dinnertime.'

'What?'

'It's just a saying.'

'Not now, Ted, please. I need a cup of coffee or something, and something to eat.'

'Aye, right. The old prison food not to your liking, eh?'

They stopped off at the garage and picked up an egg mayonnaise sandwich and a bottle of Coke for Israel, and drove on to Tumdrum.

The food and drink cheered him disproportionately: Israel had never been so glad to eat a triangular-pack egg sandwich and drink a bottle of Coke in his whole life. And as for Tumdrum…Tumdrum! The sight of Tumdrum, with its outlying loyalist housing estates, and its little central square, and the sea down the hill at the bottom of Main Street, with the car park and the big sewage outlet pipes spoiling the view, just the sight of it, and the smell…It was…

It was wonderful.

Tumdrum! What can you say about Tumdrum?

An impartial observer–and indeed Israel himself until this morning–might perhaps have said that the best thing you could say about Tumdrum was that it wasn't actually offensive, that it was quite neat, as though a large, plain grey linen tablecloth had been lain over it and set for an afternoon tea of bread and butter but no jam, and that it was plain, plain, plain: the bus stop with its concrete shelter and seating, the big, empty flowerbeds, the war memorial featuring the proverbial unknown soldier, whose rifle and plaque had long ago turned green, the many churches and the shops; Atchinson's the Chemist, with its window display of a plastic set of cancerous lungs; Byrant's Ladies and Gents Outfitters, which offered pastel nightgowns and cardigans protected from the non-existent glare of the sun by a sheet of wrinkled orange plastic; and T.M. McGrath's, the grocer, produce displayed on a small trestle table in its window.

Tumdrum was not really the kind of place that inspired you to want to stick around for too long; it was not the kind of place that threw its arms around visitors and offered you a hundred thousand welcomes: it was more the kind of place that made you want to check the bus timetable to find out when the next bus might be leaving and you might be able to wake up from your bad dream; and not until tomorrow, by the look of it.