Read The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery for Free Online

Marrakech.
    “Who’s the visitor?” said Israel, squeezing between car coats.
    “A Very Important Person,” said Minnie.
    “Who?” said Ted.
    “Nelson Mandela?” said Israel.
    “Och!” said Minnie.
    “The Berlin State Philharmonic?”
    “What?” said Minnie.
    “You know you’ve got Pearce outside busking?”
    “Ach, he’s harmless, bless him,” said Minnie.
    “He’s away in the head,” said Ted, demonstrating what he considered to be a state of away-in-the-headness by rolling his eyes and lolling his tongue.
    “He’s not well,” said Minnie.
    “It’s the Haltzeimer’s,” said Ted.
    “The what?” said Israel.
    “Have you lost weight, pet?” said Minnie, glancing behind her.
    “Just a bit,” said Israel.
    “He’s depressed,” said Ted.
    “I am not depressed,” said Israel.
    “Split up with his girlfriend back in London,” said Ted.
    “Oh dear,” said Minnie. “And you’ve grown a beard as well,” she added.
    “Adding insult to injury,” said Ted.
    “Top-up of coffee when you’ve a minute,” said a man in the traditional Zelda’s getup of car coat, plus a suit and a tie, and a zip-up pullover, with a Racing Post propped before him, as Minnie bustled by.
    “Make that two,” said his similarly attired companion.
    “And I’ll take another date and wheaten scone,” piped up another identically clad man at another table.
    “And me!”
    “Cinnamon scone, and a large cappuccino?” called someone else.
    “Och, all right,” said Minnie, squeezing past women whose calorie intake had clearly exceeded recommended daily amounts for some years, and men whose red, flushed faces suggested that an occasional tipple had become a rather more regular routine. “Give me a wee minute here, will ye?”
    Zelda’s was not the Kit Kat Club.
    “So who’s the VIP?” said Ted. “Not the fat boy off the radio? He gets everywhere.”
    “Stephen Nolan?” said Israel. “Oh god, no. Not him.”
    “Stop it,” said Ted, pointing a finger at Israel. Ted insisted on the highest standards of nonblaspheming. “I like him.”
    “No,” said Minnie. “Maurice Morris.”
    “Oh god, not him, the f—” began Israel.
    “I said, no language!” said Minnie. “He’s getting worse,” she said to Ted.
    “I’ve warned you,” said Ted to Israel. “Ye bad-mannered bastard.”
    “Come on, now,” said Minnie. “Let me squeeze you in the wee huxter here, and I’ll see if I can’t bring Maurice over for a wee chat. I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”
    “No!” said Israel.
    “I’ll be back in a minute for your orders,” said Minnie, bustling away.
    “Maurice Morris,” said Ted. “Well, well, well. The Man with the Plan.”
    Maurice Morris, the Man with the Plan: Independent Unionist candidate for Tumdrum and District, out on the stump, one of Northern Ireland’s most popular politicians, admired by all and loved by many, until he’d fallen from favor and had been defeated—crushed, humiliated—by the Democratic Unionists at the last election, not because of any policy or political crisis, but because of the small complicating matter of his affair with one of his constituency workers, and the accompanying slight whiff of financial impropriety, which never came to more than a whiff but whichwas more than enough for the good people of Tumdrum, the scone and coffee crowd, who could smell a rat when they saw one and who had turned their car-coated backs to him and set their po-faces against him. It had taken Maurice years to patch things up and make himself anew, and only now was he seeking to regain his seat, which is why he was here in Zelda’s, the very heartland of Tumdrum, busy working the crowd, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, receding hair swept boldly back from his vast lined but deeply un-troubled forehead, looking every thickset square inch the comeback politician. In his campaign literature Maurice liked to draw attention to his confidence-inspiring six-foot-five-inch frame