“What, Mr. Armstrong?”

“I’m a perfectly…normal…red-blooded heterosexual, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I see,” said Friel.

“I was…just upset…”

“I see. And you’d often go to your friend the Reverend Roberts if you’re ‘upset,’ would you?”

“No, not really. I just…He’s a friend. You can ask him.”

“Oh, we will be asking him, Mr. Armstrong, don’t you worry about that.”

Israel could feel all the early warning signs of a migraine coming on.

“And before you visited the Reverend Roberts, Mr. Armstrong. Can I ask where you were before that?”

“Before that? Erm. I was at the Devines’. You can ask them as well.”

“Good. Thank you. We will.”

“And before that I was-”

“OK, thank you. That’s enough for the moment. You certainly seem to have your alibi all worked out.”

“Alibi! What do you mean, alibi? It’s not an alibi! It’s the truth. An alibi is when you…try and prove that you didn’t do something-”

“That’s right,” said Friel.

“So it’s not an alibi,” said Israel.

“We’ll be the judge of that, shall we, Mr. Armstrong?”

At which, he got up and started to walk toward the door.

“Hang on,” said Israel. “Where are you going?”

“I have no further questions for you at the moment, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Well, you can’t just leave, having suggested I’ve concocted some sort of alibi for something I don’t know I’m supposed to have done.”

“I just want to make sure we all lay our cards on the table, Mr. Armstrong. If you cooperate with us I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of things very quickly and easily.”

“Yes. Right,” said Israel, unconvinced. “You don’t seriously think I’ve got anything to do with this girl’s disappearance, do you?”

“Actually, to be honest, Mr. Armstrong, on this occasion…” And Friel paused for what seemed like an eternity. “No, I don’t think you have anything to do with the disappearance.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Israel.

“But we do have to ask, you understand.”

“Yes, of course.”

“No stone unturned.”

“Absolutely.”

“But,” said Friel, at the door.

“There’s a but?”

“There’s always a but, Mr. Armstrong. I don’t think you had anything personally to do with her disappearance-not really your style, is it?”

“My style?”

“Violence. Kidnapping.”

“What? She’s been kidnapped?”

“We’re keeping our lines of inquiry open at this time,” said Friel, looking Israel up and down. “But not your style.”

“Of course it’s not my style! I’m a librarian! I’m a paci-fist! I-”

“I’m sure, Mr. Armstrong. It’s just I have a wee hunch that tells me that you might be able to tell us something about the disappearance.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Israel.

“Nothing at all?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Fine. If you want to stick with that story.” He turned his back again, as if to leave.

“It’s not a story! It’s the truth!” said Israel.

“The whole truth and nothing but the truth?” said Friel.

“Yes. And I’d swear it on the Bible, if we had a…Bible in here.”

“Have you got a Bible in here?” said Friel.

“Well, we’ve got a reference copy.” Israel made to get up and retrieve the Bible from its shelf. “That’d do, wouldn’t it-”

“I’m joking, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Oh.”

“There’s no need for swearing on Bibles at the moment, thank you. Plenty of time for that later.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” said Israel.

“Hmm,” said Friel.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“The ‘hmm.’”

“It’s just putting all the pieces together, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Like a puzzle,” said Israel.

“If you like. And there’s just one other piece of the puzzle you might be able to help us with.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Why don’t you tell us about the Unshelved, Mr. Armstrong.”

“The Unshelved?”

“Yes.”

“What do the Unshelved have to do with anything?”

“Why don’t you leave the questions to me, Mr. Armstrong. That’s my job.”

“Right. Fine.”

“So? The Unshelved.”

“Yeah. Do you want me to show you?”

“That might be good, yes.”

Israel went over to the issue counter behind the driver’s seat. He reached down underneath and started pulling out the current Unshelved, laying them on the counter. A Clockwork Orange. The Anarchist Cookbook. As I Lay Dying. Asking About Sex and Growing Up. Brave New World. Bridge to Terabithia. Carrie. Catch-22. The Chocolate War. The Handmaid’s Tale. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Slaughterhouse-Five. And a book called What’s Happening to My Body?

“The Unshelved,” he said, when he’d piled them all up.

“That’s it?”

“That’s what’s currently not on loan.”

“And what are they exactly?”

“Well, the Unshelved are books that the Mobile Library Steering Committee believes-in its wisdom-to be unsuitable for young people to read.”

“I see. So they’re kept under the counter?”

“That’s right.”

“Actually under the counter,” said Friel, peering under.

“Yes. So that no one can see them. In case they might corrupt innocent minds.”

“But nonetheless you allow young people to read them.”

“Yes, well, if they ask.”

“And is that library policy, or is that just your own personal decision?”

“Well, there’s no real policy as such. It’s a slightly gray area. It’s sort of left to our discretion.”

“I see. And your discretion, Mr. Armstrong?”

“What?”

“Allows you to lend the books to anyone?”

“Well. Yes. I suppose.”

“Not very discreet, then, your discretion?”

“Well. I just…I think everyone should be allowed to read these books. Look.” He picked up Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You’d have no problem issuing that book to a child?”

“Children don’t tend to want to borrow Graham Greene, on the whole. But young teenagers, I suppose. I’d have no problem with that really.”

“I see. And these books contain descriptions of violence and sex?”

“Some of them. But they’re mostly about what all books are about.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t know. What all books are about: the glory and…misery of being human.”

Friel wrote down what Israel had said, looking rather doubtful.

“So you have no problem with lending young people that sort of material?”

“What sort of material?”

“This sort of material: the Unshelved.”

“Well, some of it, maybe, but not really. It’s all different.”

“But you just said all books were about the same thing.”

“Well, yes, they are and they aren’t.”

“Some of them more disturbing than others perhaps?”

“Of course.”

“And the more disturbing material, you’re happy to lend out?”

“Well, look, they’re all on MySpace and file-sharing and YouTube, and goodness knows what. So what’s the problem with them borrowing a Nabokov?”

“Is that a book?”

“That’s an author.”

“I see.”

“Hmm,” said Friel. “And how are you spelling that?”

Israel spelled it. Friel wrote it down and ominously closed his notebook.

“Is that it, then?” said Israel. “You’ve finished with our cozy little chat?”

“Yes. I think so,” said Friel.

“Good,” said Israel, relieved.

“I just need you now to accompany me to the station, Mr. Armstrong.”

“What? You said-”

“I’d just like you to clarify a few points for us. On the record.”

“Oh no. No. I’m not-”

“It’s not really a request, Mr. Armstrong.”

“No. Please. I thought you said that I didn’t have to come to the station. Don’t make me-”

“I’m not going to make you do anything, Mr. Armstrong. I believe in the force of argument. But, alas, my colleagues”- and here Friel nodded toward the other policemen gathered outside the van-“tend to believe in the argument of force.”

“Oh god.”

“Good. You can drive the van to the station. I hardly think you’re going to make a dash for freedom, are you?”