Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery by Ian Sansom Page A

asked England, booming clearly now without feedback or echo. The congregation nodded silent assent. 'OK. Good. Good. Now'–the reverend waved a hand towards heaven but addressed the congregation–'Brothers and sisters'–and Israel felt a little shudder go through the congregation at that; he guessed they weren't accustomed to being addressed as such–'Brothers and sisters,' repeated the reverend, unrepentant, 'I want you to imagine that you were there on that morning. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine that you were Mary, going to the tomb? Can you imagine what that might have been like for a young woman going to see her Lord? The man she had seen crucified and died, just days–not even days, just hours–earlier. And now there she is in the dark we are told–which is a wonderful image. In the dark, both literally and metaphorically.'
    Israel glanced around him nervously. The congregation was rapt. He was sitting towards the back: he bent down and removed his bicycle clips.
    Israel had not been able to persuade George to let him have the use of the car in order to conduct his investigation into the theft of the money from Dixon and Pickering's and Mr Dixon's mysterious disappearance, but George had very generously allowed him to use Brownie's old bike, a Raleigh Elswick Hopper with Sturmey Archer three-speed gears, and a wicker basket up front. So at least he had a means of transport to be able to set about clearing his name, though he had no idea, frankly, exactly how a man might set out to do that; not usually by bike, he guessed.
    His first decision was to go to church. He'd promised the Reverend Roberts months ago that he'd be there for the Easter morning service, and he felt he couldn't let him down, even under his current peculiar circumstances; also, to be honest, he was half hoping that in church he might receive some kind of divine guidance; it certainly couldn't be worse than stewing in his own considerable juices at the Devines', looking for an insight into how to solve a complex criminal investigation through the pages of Sue Grafton, Ian Rankin and George P. Pelecanos.
    Israel hadn't ridden a bike since he was about ten years old and when he got on, he fell right off; there was either something wrong with the bicycle, or riding a bicycle is not like riding a bicycle: you do forget. He could remember his very first bike as a child: it was a candy-floss pink with multicoloured streamers attached to the handlebars and it had a squidgy purple seat; it had been handed down from one of his sisters. Israel had had to put up with a lot of hand-me-downs when he was young, which meant he'd become accustomed to girls' tastes in most things, including bicycles, and books, toys and music; Gloria thought that too many Bunty annuals and Madonna albums had maybe held Israel back in his career development and in his self-image and that he should perhaps go and get some counselling. According to Gloria, any man with a too developed fondness for Anne Tyler and Barbara Trapido should really be trying to beef himself up in other areas; Gloria was very feminine herself, but she also did kung-fu. Israel had never really been the macho type: there was a little park near their house when they were growing up and his sisters would race round, doing laps on their bikes, and he was always happy in his given role as timekeeper; indeed, sometimes, looking back, he felt as if he was merely the observer of his own childhood rather than a full participant, like having off-peak membership at the gym.
    'What about the brakes?' he'd said to George, pulling at the brakes on the bike that she'd grudgingly wheeled out of an outbuilding.
    'Wee turn, she'll be right,' said George.
    'I can't ride this,' he said.
    'She's in need of some attention,' agreed George.
    'Some attention? This bike doesn't need attention. This bike needs—'
    'A wee bit of TLC.'
    'Therapy,' said Israel. 'This bike has had a total nervous breakdown.'
    It had ordinary