ahead.’
Israel peeked inside. He stroked the smooth steel shelves.
‘They’re empty too then.’
‘Aye.’
‘But they should be full?’
‘Aye.’
‘Gosh,’ said Israel. He always sounded more English in a crisis. ‘So how much money would have been in there?’
The caretaker did not reply.
‘How much in these?’ repeated Israel, remembering not to add ‘my good man’ and sound too Lord Peter Wimsey.
‘A lot.’ The caretaker was ashen-faced.
‘OK. And how much exactly is a lot?’
‘Ach…’ The caretaker huffed. ‘Difficult to say. You know, Bank Holiday. There might have been farmers in yesterday, might ha’ sold a heifer, and that’d be the money for a new dining suite, so.’
‘Right. I see. So…how much, do you think? Thousands?’
‘Tens of thousands.’
‘Good grief. That much?’
‘Could have been. Busy time of year. These uns take about £100,000 apiece I think.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Aye.’
‘Gosh. Well…’
Israel looked around the room.
‘I just cannae understand it,’ said the caretaker. ‘All the security. CCTV and alarms and all.’
‘The doors look fine,’ said Israel. ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone broke in.’
‘I can’t find Mr Dixon anywhere,’ said the caretaker.
‘Well, maybe he’s just—’
‘He’s always in his office by now. He arrives half six, parks up down below.’
‘Is that his car out front?’ said Israel.
‘The Mercedes, aye,’ said the caretaker.
‘Nice car,’ said Israel. ‘Maybe he’s just gone to the toilet, or—’
‘Mr Dixon doesnae go to the toilet at this time,’ said the caretaker.
‘Right.’
‘He doesnae go till eight o’clock.’
‘Erm. OK. Gone for a stroll then maybe?’
‘He doesnae go for a stroll.’
‘Well, maybe he’s just popped out. You know, to get a paper or—’
‘He wouldnae.’
‘Well. OK. So…’
‘I think something’s happened.’
‘Well, yes, I’d say that’s certainly a—’
‘Kidnap, d’ye think?’ said the caretaker.
‘Well, I wouldn’t…I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical…There’s not a note or anything, is there?’
‘I couldnae see one.’
‘Could someone have smuggled him out, past all the security?’
‘I don’t rightly know.’
‘D’you mind if I…’ Israel indicated the office.
‘Go on ahead there.’
‘You should ring the police.’
‘I’ve rung ‘em already. They’ll be here any minute.’
Israel took the opportunity to take a quick look around Mr Dixon’s messed-up office, which looked out over the front of the department store.
The office was beige. But it went beyond the average beige: it was a profound beige; its beigeness was total and complete. The furniture in the room – pale cream store cupboards and filing cabinets – was all fitted flush to the walls, and the walls were cream, the carpet was beige, and the table and chairs were a pale, pale pine; if you squinted, it would almost have been as though everything had been erased from the room, as if everything had disappeared. It wasn’t just neat and functional – it went beyond that: it was a room that seemed to have vanished.
While the caretaker hovered nervously by the door, shifting from foot to foot in a state of profound agitation, Israel absentmindedly picked up some of the files and paperwork from the floor and put a couple of the chairs back upright; he did like things tidy.
The only real distinguishing feature in the room were the few framed photographs on one wall, showing the various Messrs Dixon and Pickering through the ages, standing outside the store, their arms folded, at first unsmiling, black and white men in bowler hats, and then, later, more recently, grinning, bare-headed men in full colour, as though the whole world and the weather had been warming up and cheering up over the past hundred years. The photograph of the current Mr Dixon showed a man of almost negligible features – a face that would not stand out in a crowd. From all his research into the history of Dixon and Pickering’s, Israel knew only this about Mr Dixon: he’d inherited the business from his father, who’d taken it on from his own father, the founder; he wore dark suits and white shirts; and he took his responsibilities seriously. Widely respected in the community, upright and upstanding, Mr Dixon was someone to whom nothing interesting had ever happened. His office was beige: his life was bland.
The phone rang. Instinctively, Israel reached across the desk and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Michael? Is that you?’
‘No. I’m afraid, I’m…’
The phone went dead.
‘Who was that?’ asked the caretaker. ‘The police?’
‘I don’t know. It was a woman. What’s Mr Dixon’s first name?’
‘Mr Dixon he is to us here just.’
‘Right.’
Israel and the caretaker stood silently for a moment and there was the distinct sound of Prince’s ‘1999’ being played slowly and purposefully on classical guitar: the muzak that played throughout the store was piped in here too.
He was trying to think straight.
‘Right. Right. Erm…God. First. Right. Would you mind turning the music off?’
‘What?’
‘Can you turn the music off?’
‘What’s the point of that?’
‘Because! I can’t think. I need to…’
‘But Mr Dixon likes it on in the morning.’
‘But Mr Dixon isn’t here and I’ve got his blood all over my hands!’
The caretaker went to turn off the music.
Israel had never been at the scene of an actual crime before, unless you counted the time he’d sneaked with some friends into a screening of a Star Wars film in Whiteley’s while another friend distracted the attention of the usherette, or the time he’d taken an extra exercise book from the school supplies cupboard. But that was different. This was your actual true crime.
And he suddenly realised that he was in very big trouble.
‘Right, don’t move,’ said a voice behind Israel. ‘Stand where you are. Hands raised above your head.’
It was Sergeant Friel.
‘Ah, thank God, Sergeant,’ said Israel, turning around, not raising his hands.
‘Raise