The Woman Who Died a Lot

The Hotel Bellvue was squeezed disagreeably between the M4, the Swindon tannery and the city’s main electrical substation, hence the name it was popularly known by: the Substation. It was the last place one would book a room, even if hygiene weren’t an issue, and it seemed to exist only to give other hotels a benchmark for failure. Indeed, the Substation had managed to wrestle Clip-Joint magazine’s coveted Five-Bedbug rating from its only competitor in the southeast: the equally grimy Bastardos, in Reading.

Josh Candle,

Ten Places Not to Visit in Wessex

“Good morning,” said Duffy as I walked into the office. “Did the car find you okay?”

“Eventually.”

“If you want a different pickup address, we’d appreciate it if you would give us more notice. It helps the Special Library Services to ensure that your route is safe.”

“I understand,” I said, “and I’m sorry. I was called to the Substation Hotel this morning. It was . . . um . . . family business.”

I wasn’t going to tell him we’d discovered Krantz—or what remained of him.

“Mrs. Duffy and I spent our honeymoon there. The hum and crackle of the electrical substation was . . . restful.”

“It sounds very romantic.”

“When we want to rekindle that flame,” continued Duffy, “we leave an orbital sander running in the basement. Hums just like a five-hundred-KVA transformer. If we want to hear the crackle of morning dew on the insulators, we have Gizmo play with a cellophane wrapper.”

“I’m so hoping Gizmo is a dog.”

“A pug.”

“Duffy?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Do people usually attack the chief librarian as he or she is driven in?”

I was alluding to an incident when someone fired two shots at our vehicle as we pulled off the Magic Roundabout. The vehicle was bulletproofed, but even so.

“Usually, ma’am. The 720 percent increase in library loans caused by the government’s New Book Duty has caused a three-day delay on library-book availability. When the citizens can’t get the books they want, they often vent their fury at the person in charge.”

This was, sadly, all too true—and not just about simple loans. Only a month previously, an all-new 007 book was written by that author with a beard whose name I can never remember. James Bond Fundamentalists argued that this was “a grave and heinous affront to the oeuvre” and warned that if the library stocked it, they would sit outside in silent protest, stroking white cats and thinking fiendish thoughts. And if that had no effect, they would riot. They did, and two people, six cats and three Diana Rigg impersonators lost their lives.

“Do you want to see the Goliath representative first, or shall I make him wait for an hour to show your utter contempt for him and his company?”

This would be Lupton Cornball, whom I had met yesterday at the Finis.

“I’ll see him first.”

The phone rang. I reached out, but Duffy beat me to it. “Hello?” he said. “Office of the chief librarian.” He listened for a moment than looked at me. “I’ll ask.”

He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Detective Smalls wants to talk to you. She’s on the way up.”

“Smalls? Okay, her first, then Goliath. Oh, and I’d like to talk to Councilor Bunty Fairweather. She’s in charge of fiscal planning and smite-avoidance policy. They’ve an alternative Anti-Smite plan cooking, and I want to find out what it is.”

“She’s your two-o’clock. Shall I push her up to your eleven-thirty?”

“Is that straight after Goliath?” I asked, glancing at the clock. “No, Mrs. Jolly Hilly, the insane Enid Blyton fundamentalist is after Goliath. Bunty is after them.”

“Do I have to talk to insane people?”

“You’re a librarian now. I’m afraid it’s mandatory.”

“Hmm. Okay, Smalls first, then Goliath, then Hilly, then Bunty.”

Duffy nodded, made a note on his clipboard and opened the door to admit Phoebe. I smiled agreeably. I didn’t much care for her, but we needed to get along.

“Detective Smalls,” I said, rising to welcome her.

“Chief Librarian Next,” she replied, shaking my hand. I gestured her to the sofas.

“That’s a bit of a mouthful,” I said. “Better call me Thursday.”

“Then you must call me Phoebe. You’ve recovered well from the attack at the Lobsterhood yesterday.”

“I got lucky. One of the hinges from the trapdoor embedded itself into an Aeschylus only inches above my head. Coffee?”

“Thank you.”

Duffy took the cue and moved silently to the coffee machine while Phoebe looked around her.

“This is very plush.”