The Woman Who Died a Lot

“The first, I hope.”

“Good,” said Colonel Wexler, visibly pleased. “The previous chief librarian refused to sanction dawn raids to retrieve overdue books. But that will change under you, yes?”

“I’ll be giving it all due consideration,” I said, meaning that I’d do no such thing.

“That’s a start,” she said. “I’d also like you to review the rules regarding spine bending and turning over the corners of pages. If we let simple things like that slide without punishment, we could open the floodgates to poor reading etiquette and a downward spiral to the collapse of civilization.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Will you memo your ideas to me?” She said she would, and we shook hands again and moved off. “She’s certifiably insane, isn’t she?” I asked once we were out of earshot.

“I’m afraid so,” replied Duffy, “but loyal to a fault. She and the rest of the SLS would die protecting any book in the library— with the possible exception of those bloody awful Emperor Zhark novels and anything written by Daphne Farquitt.”

“That’s good to know.”

We walked into the main fiction lending floor. It was light and airy, and there were racks and racks of books and very little computer space, which I liked the look of. The second floor was more of the same but was for nonfiction and general interest.

“This is where we relax,” said Duffy as we toured the luxurious staff recreation room, complete with Ping-Pong table, a Zen meditation room for chilling out and a Michelin-starred chef to make lunch.

“Nice recreation room,” I said with a nod. “The only thing missing is a string quartet.”

“They’re here on Monday mornings, to ease in the workweek. Let me show you to your office.”

We took the elevator to the fourteenth floor and walked across the swirly-patterned carpet to my office. The room was large and square in plan, with a ceiling that sloped down from the windows. Two sides of the office were glazed and were on the corner of the building, where they faced the glassy towers of Swindon’s financial district and would thus afford me a spectacular view of the smiting, should it come to pass. Another wall was covered by a bookcase and three videoconferencing screens, in front of which were two sofas and a coffee table for more informal meetings. The final wall contained two doors. One led into Duffy’s office and the assistants, the other to the waiting room. The office was large, modern and very corporate. In an instant I didn’t feel as if I belonged here. Dingy basements smelling of photocopier toner and old coffee suited me better. “This is your desk,” said Duffy.

In a bit of a daze, I sat down on a plush armchair and looked around. I was parked behind a desk that seemed like an acre of finely polished walnut. There was a large internal phone with a separate button for every library in Wessex, and next to this was a single old-fashioned red telephone without a dial—just a single button with NP etched onto it.

“That’s the emergency hotline to Nancy at the World League of Librarians,” explained Duffy. “She’ll be on the first tube from Seattle if you call her. But make sure it’s a real emergency,” he added. “If Nancy is dragged all this way for nothing, you’ll be in big trouble.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Do you want a light day or a heavy day tomorrow?”

“Better make it a light one.”

“Very well.” He pressed the intercom button and leaned down to speak. “Geraldine, would you bring in the light schedule, please?”

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” I said as we waited for Geraldine.

“What’s that?” said Duffy.

“I’m going change the name of the library service. All that ‘Fatso’s all-You-Can-Eat’ stuff is nonsense.”

Duffy raised an eyebrow. “That’s what the last chief librarian said. He didn’t like Fatso’s and told them he was going to do a compulsory sponsorship buyback.”

“How did he get on?”

“The engine was still running when they found his car on the Lambourn Downs. His wallet and cell phone were on the passenger seat. Under the wiper there was a discount voucher from Fatso’s for kids to eat free, but that might have been a coincidence. Of the chief librarian, no trace. I should forget that idea. If you want something controversial to do on your first week out, then announce biometric data for library cards. Identity theft is a big issue with people eager to take out more than six books at one time.”

“How about we up it to seven?”

Duffy gave a polite cough. Clearly I had a lot to learn about libraries.

An assistant of not more than twenty and dressed in a bottle green suit entered the room and walked nervously up to the desk. “This is Geraldine,” said Duffy, “the assistant’s assistant to the assistant personal assistant of my own personal assistant’s assistant.”

“Hello, Geraldine.”

“Hello, Chief Librarian,” she said nervously. “Have you really killed seven people?”

“I tend to try to dwell on the people I’ve saved,” I replied.

“Oh,” she said, obviously intrigued by the notion of an ex–Literary Detective running the library service. “Of course.”