The case of the missing books by Ian Sansom

in law and logic: in the absence of any evidence, you just affirm the consequent.'
    'Sorry, you've lost me.'
    'Aye,' said Mr Devine. 'He does that all the time.'
    'If I intended to kill you,' said George, smiling menacingly, illustrating her brother's point from the top of the table, 'I would have had a weapon. I did have a weapon. Therefore…'
    'That's it,' said Brownie.
    'Oh right, I see,' said Israel.
    'Ach, Ted's yer man,' said Mr Devine. 'No doubt. He's the face for it.'
    'Granda!' said Brownie.
    'Well, young people today,' said Mr Devine, returning to one of his favourite themes, 'sure they're all the same.'
    'What?' said Israel.
    'Come on now, Granda,' said Brownie. 'Ted's in his sixties.'
    'Well, he's that young I can still remember him in short trousers,' said Mr Devine, conclusively. 'Mr Armstrong, chicken?'
    'Thanks,' said Israel, absentmindedly. 'I…'
    Israel looked at the glistening crispy bird that the old man was in the process of dismembering–the deep brown crackling skin wisping off, with the revelation of pure white flesh underneath, and the rich, full smell of fat and onions.
    'Erm.'
    He hesitated and fiddled with his glasses.
    Chicken was the thing he missed most as a vegetarian, although admittedly he did also miss salami quite a lot, and pastrami, and salt beef, and sausages, and Cornish pasties, and meatballs, charcuterie, that sort of thing. A Friday night chicken, though, you really couldn't beat that: his mother used to do this thing with tomatoes and paprika, and admittedly she tended to use paprika as a condiment rather than as a spice, a culinary shorthand, a way of getting from A to Z, from meat to meatball and chicken to pot by the quickest possible route, but it was so good…Her boiled chicken also, that was good, with matzo balls and a nice side-order of gherkins. And chicken liver pâté. But that was all a long time ago, in his far-off, golden, meat-eating childhood and Israel had been vegetarian now for almost his whole adult life, and when he'd moved in with Gloria a few years ago they'd tended to eat a lot of chick peas–she was vegetarian too. There'd always been a hell of a lot of falafel and omelettes in his relationship with Gloria.
    'Breast? Leg? Thigh?' asked Mr Devine.
    Israel's eyes were glazed and he was busy remembering a lovely, thick, greasy turkey schnitzel he'd eaten once as a child on holiday in Israel with his parents, visiting his mother's uncle; that was the best thing about Israel, actually, the schnitzel, as far as Israel was concerned. He'd spent six months on a kibbutz when he'd first left college, and it had not been a great success–a lot of heavy metal and Russians were what he remembered, and the endless washing of dishes.
    'Is it free-range?' he asked Mr Devine.
    He thought perhaps he might be able to get away with free-range. He reckoned eating free-range was probably about the closest you could get to being a vegetarian; although obviously that might take a bit of explaining to the animals.
    'Free-range?' asked Mr Devine.
    'You know. Like, running around free in the countryside?'
    Mr Devine simply raised an eyebrow.
    Brownie and George were looking quietly amused.
    'What?' asked Israel, noticing the silence and their smiles. 'What's the matter?'
    'Nothing,' said George.
    'What's so funny about free-range?'
    Brownie just shook his head, stifling a laugh.
    'All I'm asking is has it had a good life?'
    'A good life?' asked Mr Devine, clearly bemused.
    'It's a chicken, Armstrong,' said George.
    'Yes, but…'
    'Chickens don't have feelings. I hate to be the first to break it to you.'
    'Ah, yes, but the question is, can they suffer?' said Brownie.
    'Exactly,' said Israel.
    'Well, he didn't seem to be suffering this morning when I took him from the yard,' said Mr Devine.
    'What? Hold on. He's…one of yours?'
    'Of course he's one of ours,' said George. 'This is a farm, Armstrong.'
    'Yes. I know it's a bloody—'
    'Mr Armstrong!'
    'Sorry. Blinking. Whatever. I