The Case of the Missing Books. Ian Sansom

      ‘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.