The Case of the Missing Books. Ian Sansom
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Название: The Case of the Missing Books
Автор: Ian Sansom
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780007395491
isbn:
‘Good. Sit down.’
‘Here,’ said the old man, passing Israel his glasses, which had been fixed with masking tape.
‘Thanks,’ said Israel politely, putting them back on. ‘How do they look?’ he asked Brownie.
‘Fine,’ said Brownie hesitantly.
‘They feel a bit…’
‘Let’s eat,’ said Brownie.
Israel adjusted his wonky glasses as best he could.
The plate of food in front of Israel was of such extraordinary, all-encompassing shapes and sizes that it could have fed about a dozen deeply curious meat-eating men – although a vegetarian, alas, might have struggled to find much to interest and sustain him.
‘Knock it into you,’ said the old man, pouring out mugs of tea.
‘Mmm,’ said Brownie, tucking in. ‘Thanks, Granda.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Israel. ‘This looks…lovely.’
Brownie was already eating.
‘Grace!’ said the old man.
‘Sorry, Granda.’
‘May the Lord Bless This Food to Us.’
‘Amen,’ said Brownie.
‘Amen,’ said Israel.
The two Irishmen tucked in.
‘Erm. Could you just give me a guide here?’
‘Mmm,’ said Brownie, his mouth full. ‘Yes, sorry. Pork chop.’
‘Right.’
‘Sausages.’
‘Yep.’
‘Bacon. Black pudding.’
‘While pudding,’ added the old man.
Israel had forgotten to mention that he was a vegetarian: maybe now was not the time.
‘And that’s potato bread,’ said Brownie, pointing out a cardboardy squarey thing.
‘Ah, right,’ said Israel, delighted – something he could eat. ‘Yes, I know potato bread. Lovely. My father’d call it boxty.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He was Irish, my dad.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow,’ said Brownie, in between mouthfuls. ‘So it’s like coming home for you really?’
‘Erm. Yes. Kind of. I never made it over with him when he was alive—’
‘Ah,’ said the old man, as if this explained something. ‘Boxty, is it? The auld Free State,’ he said, to himself.
‘And this,’ continued Brownie, ‘is soda bread.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Israel, his fork poised over a hard, pointy, blackened, fat-soaked triangle.
‘And where would your late father have hung his hat on a Sunday, if you wouldn’t mind me asking?’ said the old man, with an apparent lick of the lips.
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