Mr Dixon Disappears. Ian Sansom

Sergeant Friel, half in question, half in statement, and entirely in disbelief. He then slowly stroked his moustache and added, clearly disappointed, ‘All right, boys, lower your weapons. It’s only the librarian.’

      Israel and Sergeant Friel had met on several occasions before, none of them exactly propitious: once when Israel had been mysteriously nearly run over by a speeding car when he’d first arrived in Tumdrum; again a few months later when Israel had caused an obstruction on a public highway by parking the mobile library too close to a corner; and again on a regular monthly basis, on Monday nights, when Sergeant Friel came with Mrs Friel to the mobile library to change their books. (Sergeant Friel had a taste for true crime, Israel recalled – Mrs Friel was more romantic fiction – and you might have thought he’d have liked a bit of a change, Sergeant Friel, given his line of work, though admittedly it was mostly serial killer stuff he was borrowing and in all likelihood there wasn’t too much of that in the daily life of a policeman in Tumdrum and District.) They had exchanged cross words across the issue desk on a number of occasions, Israel and the sergeant, which was shocking, really: even the PSNI were no better than anyone else at returning their books on time. Rosie was relaxed about fines, but Israel always made them pay. He was a stickler for the fines, Israel.

      And now this was role reversal.

      The beige office, which was empty just moments ago, was suddenly filled with men everywhere: police officers in police uniforms, police officers in plain clothes, police officers in white paper-suit uniforms.

      Israel didn’t know where to look, or what to say. He looked at Sergeant Friel.

      ‘I’m sorry. I can’t get my head round this.’

      ‘OK, Mr Armstrong,’ said Sergeant Friel. ‘What did you say? You can’t get your head round it?’

      ‘That’s right. I can’t get my head round it.’

      Sergeant Friel wrote something in a small black notebook.

      ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What time did you arrive here exactly, Mr Armstrong?’

      ‘Erm…’

      Sergeant Friel again wrote in his little black book.

      ‘I…’

      Sergeant Friel wrote something else.

      ‘Are you writing all this down?’ said Israel.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because because,’ said Sergeant Friel.

      ‘Because of the wonderful things he does?’ said Israel.

      Sergeant Friel took a note of this remark too.

      ‘You don’t have to write that down! That was a joke. That was—’

      Sergeant Friel cleared his throat and appeared to be about to deliver a speech.

      ‘I am keeping a contemporaneous record of our conversation, Mr Armstrong. Because we’re going to have to take you in for questioning.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You may have some vital information.’

      ‘But I was just here setting up my exhibition.’

      ‘Your what?’

      ‘My five-panel touring exhibition on the history of Dixon and Pickering’s. Downstairs…’

      ‘Ah, well.’ Sergeant Friel noted this down carefully. ‘This is a major crime scene now.’

      ‘But—’ began Israel.

      Sergeant Friel cleared his throat again and began another speech. ‘You do not have to say anything, Mr Armstrong. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. And anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

      Israel stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘What?’

      ‘Do you understand that, Mr Armstrong?’

      ‘Yes. Of course I do. No. I mean, no. I mean…What? What are you talking about? You can’t take me in for questioning. What about my exhibition? I’ve worked for months getting all that stuff together.’

      ‘That’s hardly important now, is it, Mr Armstrong?’

      ‘It may not be important to you, Sergeant, but I spent months getting those photographs laminated!’

      ‘Aye, well, that’s howsoever.’ Sergeant Friel was still scribbling in his notebook. ‘And if you could speak more slowly and clearly?’ He raised a finger. ‘And just put these on.’

      Another policeman stepped forward and dangled handcuffs in front of Israel.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Handcuffs, please,’ said Sergeant Friel.

      ‘Look, if this is because of the fines,’ said Israel.

      ‘The what?’

      ‘The library fines. You know. Because you never return your true crime books on time, and now you’re persecuting me because—’

      ‘Ach!’ said Sergeant Friel, his face reddening around his moustache. ‘This is nothing to do with library fines! This is an extremely serious matter, Mr Armstrong, and I suggest you start taking it seriously. There has been a major robbery here, and a suspected kidnapping, and you are on the scene, so we’re taking you in. It’s really quite simple. Now put these on.’

      ‘No! No.’ Israel went to turn away. ‘I am not putting on any handcuffs. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

      ‘Very well.’

      Sergeant Friel nodded at the armed police officers flanking him, who promptly stepped forward and took Israel firmly by the elbows, while Sergeant Friel took the handcuffs and slipped them on Israel, palms inward.

      ‘Hang on!’ said Israel. ‘Hang on!’

      ‘Billy!’ called Sergeant Friel, and one of the white-suited policemen who were filling the room approached Israel.

      ‘Pockets,’ said Sergeant Friel, and the white paper-suited policeman started searching Israel’s duffle coat pockets.

      ‘What!’ shouted Israel. ‘What the hell are you…! Hey! Hey!’

      He stepped back, and the two armed officers once again moved forward and took him firmly by the elbows. As the white-suited man removed the items from his pockets he gave them to another man in a white paper suit.

      ‘What the hell’s he doing?’ Israel asked of Sergeant Friel.

      ‘He’s Exhibits Officer,’ said Sergeant Friel.

      ‘He’s what?’

      As the Exhibits Officer was handed each item from Israel’s pockets he placed them with his surgically gloved fingers in little see-through plastic bags, labelling each with a pen. (The contents of Israel’s pockets, as revealed by this process were: two Pentel rollerball pens; some tissues (used); a dog-eared copy of the London Review of Books, folded in half and then into quarters, which Israel had been carrying around with him for over six months, and which he fully intended to get round to reading, eventually, if only for the Personal ads at the back; a copy of Carry On, Jeeves, which was his current between-service-points reading; a page torn out from last week’s Guardian, containing an advertisement for the position of senior information assistant at the British Library, a job Israel knew he’d never get but which he might apply for anyway; a Snickers bar, which he’d clearly forgotten about, because if he’d known he’d have eaten it already; and a cassette, sides three and four, from an eight-cassette set of Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, which had somehow become separated from the box in the library and which he’d forgotten to reshelve; his mobile phone; and lint, a lot of lint.)

      Then they