“I don’t know,” said Israel.

“You do, you do. It’s the Kings of Leon! I love the Kings of Leon.”

Israel felt very much his almost-thirty.

“I saw them at Glastonbury,” said Veronica. “They were fantastic!” She looked Israel in the eye.

“Can I be honest with you, Israel, as a friend?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I need this story,” she said.

“What story?”

“The Lyndsay Morris story.”

“The Lyndsay Morris story? It’s hardly a story, is it? She’s a young girl who’s-”

“Everything’s a story, Israel.”

“Right. Well.”

“And I need your help.”

“Well, I don’t know how I can help, but of course if I can-”

“I need to know everything the police told you.”

“They didn’t tell me anything, really,” said Israel, swirling the wine around in his glass. “Anyway, how have you been? What have you been up to?”

“No, Israel. Concentrate.”

“I am concentrating.” He was concentrating for that moment on her pretty face and her lips.

“I need this story,” she was saying. “I really need this story.”

She suddenly reached down under the table. Israel wondered what was happening. She pulled her handbag up onto her lap. There was a book poking out the top.

“What are you reading?” said Israel.

She pulled out a copy of The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.

“Oh,” he said, involuntarily.

“What?”

“Paulo Coelho.” He pronounced it “Co-el-you.”

“Is that how you pronounce it?”

“I think so.”

“I love Paulo Coelho.” She pronounced it “Coal-Ho.” “Have you read any?”

“God, no. It’s shit.”

“It’s not shit, actually, Israel. You just don’t like it.”

“Well, there are objective critical standards.”

“Yeah, sure, if they’re yours.”

“Not just if they’re mine. Lots of people think Paulo Coelho is shit.”

“Look.” Veronica pointed the book out to him. “It says on the back here that the book has been translated into sixty-four languages and sold twenty million copies worldwide.”

“That still doesn’t mean it’s not shit. Hitler was pretty popular too.”

Veronica tutted.

“Israel! Anyway. I was going to show you this. Here.” She pulled a newspaper from her bag, flicked through, and pointed to a page. It was a copy of last week’s Impartial Recorder.

“What?” said Israel. He read the headline. “‘Solar Heating Firm Wins Prestigious Award.’ So?”

“What’s the byline?”

“‘By Our Reporter.’”

“That’s me.”

“Uh-huh,” said Israel, not understanding.

“What about that one?” She pointed to another story.

“‘Local Dairy Export Farm Praised for Its Marketing.’”

“Guess who?”

“You?”

“Correct.”

Israel flicked through the rest of the paper-the birth of a very large pig, a school recycling art project, and twelve jobs saved at the local meat-wrapping plant.

“So?”

“Israel. I am twenty-eight years old. I have been working on this newspaper for almost ten years. I have no intention of working on this paper for the next ten years. I need this story.”

“Well, you’re a journalist, can’t you-”

“I need this big story.”

“Right. Well, can’t you just sort of write it up, or whatever you usually do?”

“I don’t have any source or any inside information.”

“Ah.”

“Which is where you come in. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a source.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“So what do you say?”

“No, sorry. I don’t really see how I can-”

“Israel,” she said, putting her hand out and placing it on his. He noticed her nails. She had soft hands. “I don’t believe for one moment that you’re involved in this.”

“Good.”

“And it’s as a friend that I’m asking you to help me with this.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I value our friendship very much, Israel.”

“So do I,” said Israel. “But there’s really nothing to tell.”

“Israel.” She picked up her glass of wine and took a small sip. “I really think you should help me.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She took another, longer sip of wine. “There’s no easy way to put this. If you don’t, Israel, I’m going to have to report it in the paper anyway.”

“Report what?”

“Well, I don’t know. Something like, ‘A thirtysomething English man has been helping police with their inquiries.’”

“I’m not thirtysomething!”

“I thought you were.”

“Why does everyone think I’m thirty already?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not thirty…until next week.”

“Sorry.”

“But why would you write that?”

“Why not? It’s within legal limits. And the Impartial Recorder is a journal of record.”

“The Impartial Recorder?”

“Yes, actually.”

“But there’d be a witch hunt. People would think I had something to do with her disappearance. They’d send out a lynch mob.”

“I doubt it,” said Veronica. “Not a lynch mob as such. People might start asking questions, though, I suppose. You know what they’re like round here. ‘There’s no smoke without fire,’ they might say.”

“Exactly!”

“People will assume that just because you’ve been interviewed and it’s been reported in the paper, that you must have something to do with it.”

“But I don’t.”

“Of course not. And certainly none of us want to see an innocent man in court.”

“I’m not going to court!” said Israel.

“No, you’re not. That’s exactly what we want to avoid happening, Israel. Which is why I want to help you.”

“I thought you said it was me helping you?”

“We’d be helping each other,” said Veronica.

“That’s blackmail,” said Israel.

“Don’t be silly! That’s not blackmail, Israel. It’s how business works. It’s just a suggestion as to how we might come to an arrangement to our mutual benefit.”

“No,” said Israel, “sorry.”

“I’m sure if you help me, there are lots of ways I could help you.”

She looked Israel up and down.

“Erm.” Israel looked shyly away. And then he looked less shyly back at her. He had rather missed female company.

“Well,” he said.

“I don’t mean like that, Israel,” said Veronica.

“Oh. Sorry. I just thought you…”

“Israel. This is not like the last time.”

“When?” said Israel innocently.

“When Mr. Dixon disappeared. That was different.”

“Why?” said Israel.

“Well, he was a silly old fool. This is a young girl who’s gone missing.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“So,” she said, leaning forward. “Just to be clear. What happened between us before-”

“Yes?”

“Was a terrible mistake.”

“Ah,” said Israel. “Yes.”

“So long as you’re clear about that.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She straightened out her skirt and took a sip of her wine. “Look at us!” she said, laughing.

“Yes!” said Israel sadly. “Look at us.”

“Like old friends!”

Israel thought about Gloria again.

“So, do we have a deal.”

“Do I have a choice?” said Israel.

“Not really,” said Veronica. “No.”

“Well then.”

She put out her hand.

“So we’re in business?”

“I suppose,” said Israel.

“Good.” She took a napkin and a pen.

“You can’t write on the napkin!”

“At these prices, Israel, I can write on the walls.”

Veronica started making shapes and doodles on the napkin.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m mind mapping.”

“You’re what?”

“Mind mapping? Tony Buzan. It’s a good way of problem solving.”

“Like brainstorming?”

“Kind of. What we need to do is build up a complete picture of Lyndsay’s friends, her social circle. We need to think laterally.”

“We should try to get Ted on board,” said Israel.

“On board?”

“With the mission,” said Israel.

“Yeah, well, I’ll leave that to you. Good luck with that. We’ll need to talk to her parents, of course.”

“I can’t do that,” said Israel.

“Why not?”

“Well, we’ve had a little bit of a history, me and Maurice Morris.”

“Fine. I’ll do him. You can do the mother. What else do we know about Lyndsay?”