The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery (14 page)

'D'ye not know a local policeman we could talk to?' said Ted.

'No,' said Israel's mother. 'We've never had anything to do with the police.'

'Ach,' said Ted, putting his head in his hands. 'I don't believe this.'

'There, there,' said Israel's mother. 'Don't worry.'

'Don't worry,' repeated Israel, trying to be helpful.

'Don't
you
be telling me not to worry!' said Ted. 'It's your flippin' fault in the first place!'

'How is it my fault?'

'I knew we should never have come over to the mainland!'

'It's not my fault!' said Israel.

'Well, whose fault is it, then?' said Ted, who was definitely returning to his usual self; the hot sweet tea was taking effect. 'I never should hae listened to yer stupit slarrying nonsense.'

'My what?' said Israel.

'It's you that brought us over for this stupit Mobile Meet and now look at what's happened!'

'Don't be blaming me for someone else stealing—'

'All right, calm down now, boys, please,' said Israel's mother. 'I'm sure it'll turn up.'

'It's a van, Mother. It's not a pair of spectacles,' said Israel.

'I am aware of that, Israel, thank you.'

'What are we going to do?' said Ted, slumping down in his seat.

'Well, first of all, I'm going to put the kettle on, and then we can make a few calls,' said Israel's mother.

'Who're we going to call?' said Ted.

'Ghostbusters?' said Israel.

'Don't be facetious, Israel,' said his mother. 'Can't you see Ted's very upset about this?'

'Sorry.'

'Good. Now,' said Israel's mother, producing a Biro and small notebook from her handbag. 'Let's make a proper list, shall we?'

Israel's mother was a great one for lists; she'd have done well in the Army Service Corps, or as an estate agent, or as a primary school teacher, preparing for a new class at the beginning of September. If something had to be done, it first had to be listed: making a list, for Israel's mother, was almost more important than doing the thing itself. Indeed, often, if you put something on a list, Israel had learned from his mother from an early age, you didn't then actually have to do it; the list effectively substituted for the thing. Israel's father had been exactly the same, except with figures. As an accountant he'd understood numbers as a principle, and on behalf of other people, and yet had somehow failed to translate this successfully into the business of making actual money for himself. Which was maybe why Israel had ended up as a librarian—he was doing what his father did with numbers, and what his mother did with lists, except with books. Those who can, do; those who can't learn classification and cataloguing.

Israel's mother was jotting down notes.

'Okay. Number one, first of all, while I'm making the tea someone's going to have and go and speak to the Krimholzes.'

'Oh no. Not the Krimholzes. Why?' said Israel.

'Because you parked the van outside their house.'

'Well, I'm not going round there,' said Israel. 'I've just been round there.'

'Yes, but you didn't think to actually speak to them, did you?'

'No.'

'Well, they might have seen something, so you need to—'

'They won't have seen anything.'

'And you know that, do you? Go on now,' said Israel's mother. 'It'll take you only two minutes.'

'Why me?' said Israel.

'Well, I'm hardly going round there, am I?' said Israel's mother.

'So what about Ted?' said Israel.

'I don't mind,' said Ted.

'No!' said Israel's mother. 'Certainly not! That's hardly fair on Ted, is it?'

'Why not?' said Israel.

'They don't know Ted from Adam.'

'Fine. So you go,' said Israel. 'They know you best.'

'No, don't be silly. I've already said I'm not going,' said Israel's mother.

'Well, I've already said I'm not going.'

'What's wrong with these people?' asked Ted.

'It's just…' began Israel's mother, as the kettle started to boil.

'Well, Mother?'

'Because…'

'She's funny about it,' Israel said to Ted.

'I am not funny about it!' said Israel's mother. 'They're just not the sort of people you want to…know your misfortune, that's all.'

'Ah,' said Ted. 'Neighbours.'

'Precisely!' said Israel's mother triumphantly. 'See! Ted understands. He's a man of the world.'

Ted blushed, there was a lull in conversation and the kettle came to boiling point.

'So, when you're gone, Israel, I'll start making some phone calls,' said Israel's mother.

'Oh no. No. I'll tell you what, I'll make the calls instead and you can—'

'No.
I
'll make the calls. You're going round to the Krimholzes.'

'No, I'm not!' said Israel. 'I've got to go anyway. I've got to go and see Gloria.'

'Oh,' said Israel's mother, brandishing a tea bag in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. 'I see. It's like that, is it? Just down to me and Ted then, is it?'

'No, mother. I haven't seen Gloria yet, and…'

'Like rats deserting a sinkin' ship,' said Ted.

'No, Ted! Come on.'

'Well,' said Israel's mother, 'someone is going to have to go to the Krimholzes. And it can't be Ted, and it's not going to be me. Which leaves…' She looked around the kitchen, forlornly.

'Mother!' said Israel.

'Don't be so babyish, Israel,' said his mother.

'I'm not being babyish.'

'Yes, you are.'

'No, I'm not.'

'You are now! Just go round and find out if they saw anything.'

'Oh God!' said Israel.

'Language,' said Ted.

'Shut up!' said Israel.

'Don't be rude to our guest,' said Israel's mother.

'I'm not being rude, he's just…agh!'

'Go on!' said his mother. 'Go!'

'Ugh!' said Israel. 'I don't want to go!'

'They'll be delighted to see you,' said Israel's mother.

'No, they won't.'

'Of course they will. Go on. We'll have some breakfast when you come back.'

'Agh!'

'Go on!'

'All right, I'm going,' said Israel. 'But only because you and Ted won't.'

'Good,' said his mother. 'Go then! We need to act quickly.'

'The van's not been kidnapped,' said Israel. 'It's only been stolen.'

'Time is of the essence though.'

'That it is,' said Ted.

'Right,' said Israel, getting up to leave. 'And while I'm hurrying round there what's Ted going to be doing exactly?'

'He's going to stay here and help me,' said Israel's mother.

Ted grinned sheepishly.

'Right,' said Israel.

'Go on then,' said his mother. 'Run along!'

This was what always happened to Israel: he always ended up in this predicament, doing the thing he didn't want to do—doing the favour, running the errand. It wasn't that he was solicitous or particularly eager to please. No. He knew why it was. He was just weak. He knew he was weak. He seemed to lack the necessary resistance to others to be a fully formed person; he lacked a sense of his own established boundaries; he wasn't so much a person as a gas or an amoeba. He couldn't say no. It was a shame. Because he didn't know his limits he was restricted in what he could achieve; because he lacked design, he lacked purpose, or vice versa. He lacked certainty. Or at least, he thought he did. He was never sure which came first, his chicken or his egg; he wasn't sure if his existence preceded his essence, if God was dead, if abortion or the European Union were good things, or what he would throw out of a balloon if the balloon was plummeting towards earth and he had to throw something out. He wished he could work any of this out, and understand himself better, and become himself. But he didn't know how.

Oh God.

He walked to the Krimholzes like a man walking to the gallows.

Mr and Mrs Krimholz's house had no front garden. They'd had it gravelled years ago, to make way for his and hers Mercedeses. Their house was detached; Israel's parents' house was semi-detached. The Armstrongs had PVC windows and guttering; the Krimholzes had replacement sashes and mock-Tudor gabling.

Israel rang at the door, and Mr Krimholz answered; he was wearing chinos and a polo shirt, his hair and moustache cut close and neat. The Krimholzes were in their seventies, but they looked as though they were in their fifties; they liked to holiday. When other people were still going to Wales, the Krimholzes were going to France; when other people started going to France they moved on to Spain; when other people started going to Spain, they moved across to Florida. They currently had a little time-share in Cape Verde. They were in the avant-garde of mass tourism.

'Israel!' said Mr Krimholz. 'Israel Armstrong!'

'Mr Krimholz,' said Israel, shaking his hand warmly, though not as warmly as Mr Krimholz shook his; Mr Krimholz's handshake was on the business side of firm.

'Israel! Israel Armstrong,' repeated Mr Krimholz, looking Israel up and down as though he were a slightly unpromising suitor or a newly delivered chest freezer. 'How are you, young man? I thought you were working away in America?' Mr Krimholz had dyed his hair black. It made him look like the proprietor of a small Italian backstreet restaurant; he had in fact run a little electrical supplies wholesaler in Wembley.

'Ireland,' said Israel.

'Ah, yes. Computers, isn't it, your mother said?'

'Er.' Israel looked down at his shoes. 'Sort of.'

'Come in, come in. Don't stand there. Come on! Sarah!' Mr Krimholz called into the house. 'We have a special visitor! Come through. Into the lounge! Come, come, come! So you're back on business?'

'Yes. I suppose.'

'Good! Business is good?'

'Well…' Israel gazed around the lounge. It had changed since the last time he was here. They'd redecorated, with a Louis XIV theme: gilt mirrors, elaborate rugs and furniture with ornamental feet. Before that, it had been Scandinavian; and before that American Colonial. The Krimholzes changed their home furnishings as often as some people changed their cars. And they changed their cars almost as often as some people changed their sheets.

'The Internet, isn't it?' Mr Krimholz was asking. 'Was that it? We've got broadband now. Mostly'—he pretended to lower his voice—'so she can go shopping without leaving the house!'

'Lionel!' said Mrs Krimholz, coming into the lounge, grinning. 'Don't listen to him! Israel!' She kissed Israel on both cheeks. Her skin was incredibly smooth. She seemed to be getting younger and slimmer.

'He's back on business,' said Mr Krimholz. 'Information superhighway.' He made a swooshing superhighway kind of movement with his hand.

'Kind of,' said Israel. 'It's a sort of conference.'

'Good!' said Mr Krimholz. 'Networking opportunity.'

'Yes.'

'Now, coffee?' said Mrs Krimholz, smiling a doll-like smile. 'And what are you doing standing? Sit down! Sit down!' She gestured towards a grand sofa with an excess of cushions.

'No,' said Israel. 'I can't…I just…It's…I'm looking for something.'

'Not money I hope!' said Mr Krimholz, chuckling. 'Israel! Investors? You're looking for investors?'

'No, no!'

'We've just reorganised all our investments, you see,' said Mrs Krimholz.

'That's fine,' said Israel. 'I'm not looking for investors.'

'Excellent financial adviser, if you're looking for one,' said Mr Krimholz, bending towards Israel and whispering, as though someone might overhear. 'Hungry, you know? He's got that—' and here, disconcertingly, Mr Krimholz barked loudly, as though a young puppy had got its teeth into a brand-new inflatable toy and was tearing it to pieces.

'Good,' said Israel, backing away slightly.

'You know Adam has his own business now?' said Mrs Krimholz.

'Really?' said Israel.

'NMR scanning.'

'Right,' said Israel, unsure whether this was the name of the company, or what the company did.

'
And
he's doing his internship at Harvard Medical School
at the same time
!' said Mrs Krimholz, as though announcing the ending of hostilities in the Middle East. 'I don't know how he does it.'

'No,' agreed Israel. 'No. I don't know how he does it either.'

'Hard work,' said Mr Krimholz sagely.

'And talent!' said Mrs Krimholz. 'Hard work and talent.'

Adam Krimholz was Israel's oldest friend. He was the kind of person who always got top marks in everything he did, and yet—and Israel had never been able to understand this—he wasn't actually that smart. Adam Krimholz was average. In fact, depending on the average, Adam Krimholz was very possibly
below
average. He was naturally a C grade sort of a student. And yet he had somehow succeeded at everything way
above
his ability, while Israel, on the other hand, Israel Armstrong, who was naturally an A grade sort of a student, seemed to have failed to succeed at a level commensurate with his talents. It was a mystery. Adam Krimholz just seemed to have the knack, whatever the knack was; Israel had no idea what the knack was. Israel's mother used to say, 'Krimholz! Knishes! K'nockers!' which roughly translated meant, 'The Krimolzes! They have the brains of dumplings, but they act like they're big shots!' You could go a long way, it seemed, with the brains of a dumpling, all the way to the top, in fact; dumpling brains were no bar to success; certainly the Krimholz children had become variously successful as surgeons, and lawyers, and parents, and marathon runners and champion this-and-thatters, and the Krimholzes' front room was a museum to them and their extraordinary dumpling-brained achievements. There were certificates and photographs everywhere. There was Adam, at his bar mitzvah, on top of a console. And there he was again, with his brothers, at various graduation ceremonies, and on tables small, round and oblong with ornamental feet. And there they all were, the dumpling brains, receiving various trophies on top of the sarcophagus-style TV cabinet. The Krimholzes were the family Forrest Gump of Finchley, though much better looking. There was a definite suggestion of family private medical care and cosmetic dentistry.

'Actually,' said Israel, utterly depressed, 'I wanted to ask you about a van. I'm looking for a—'