Katherine Black

Chapter 1

Bundled up against the cold, Grace Morrigan stepped out onto Blackheath. The wind whipped across the open space, ruffling her cap of white hair. She took a deep, cleansing breath. The day was beautiful, frosty but bright.

Once out on the heath, she raised her face to the blue sky and allowed the gusts to blow away the cobwebs. She imagined them unspooling behind her in long, silvery threads.

With one arm hooked through the handle of her trusty Kelly handbag, Grace set off towards the bookshop. The handbag, made from midnight blue crocodile skin, had belonged to her mother. She liked it because it was elegant yet sturdy and generous enough to hold whatever she needed, including on one occasion, a carefully wrapped human head. After that little adventure, the bag had to be expensively re-lined. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Live and learn.

Grace had spent most of her life in Blackheath. As she crossed the heath and entered the village, she nodded hello to familiar faces. A teacher from St Julian’s primary school stopped to ask if Grace would be donating to the book drive again. Yes, of course she would. Martha Drysdale was walking her dog, Tarquin. She waved and thanked Grace for the flowers sent to Martha’s daughter, who had just had her first baby. Always a pleasure.

Betty Danvers, coming out of the bakery, asked if Grace would be at the church’s Epiphany planning meeting that afternoon. As the two women paused to chat, Harriet Nibley pushed past them in a huff, causing Grace to grab the doorframe for support. A bolt of sciatic pain shot from hip to ankle. She turned to watch Harriet stalk up to the counter.

Yes, Grace would be at the meeting.

The bookshop was in darkness when she arrived, though it was a quarter past the official opening. She wasn’t surprised. It was only the second day of January, and he was probably still recovering from New Year’s Eve. Young people liked to celebrate the passing of time. She collected the newspapers waiting on the step, rummaged through her bag for the keys and opened the door. The bell overhead jingled out her arrival.

Deciding to unpack the newspapers, she searched for a pair of scissors to cut the string binding them together. Unable to find any, she drew a small stiletto blade from a special pocket in the lining of her handbag. It was a lovely thing. Icy silver chased with tiny golden stars, a gift from an admirer many years ago, so sharp and fine it went in like butter. Just looking at it gave Grace immense pleasure. The stiletto was one of a matching pair. She kept the second blade hidden about her person. One never knew when it might come in handy.

The bookshop had created a role for Grace in the heart of Blackheath Village. She had hired someone to manage the shop three years previously when James was first diagnosed with cancer. The new manager embraced the job wholeheartedly, creating an online presence, increasing the selection of rare editions and setting up a café in the back. After six months, Grace offered him the flat upstairs so she could step even further away from the responsibilities. It had worked out beautifully. Grace had found someone who loved the shop as much as she did and made a good friend too.

String cut, the blade disappeared as footsteps thumped down the wooden stairs from the flat. ‘Morning, Grace! Happy New Year. I weren’t expecting to see you today.’

Toad was in his thirties, lanky and lean. He had a shaved head, tattoos covering both arms, snaking up his neck and across one cheek. Grace had learned that the enormous holes in each of his earlobes, adorned with silver tunnels, were called gauges. They were not unlike the lip plates worn by some Ethiopian women. He was dressed, as always, in a black t-shirt, black jeans and black Doc Martens. He smelled of soap and laundry detergent.

‘Happy New Year.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on each cheek, then ducked back when a small, furry head poked out of the neck of Toad’s t-shirt. She smiled as she rubbed her hip. ‘Who’s this?’

He looked down as if he’d forgotten the squirrel was there. ‘This here’s Cyril. Someone brought him in yesterday. His mum…’ He covered the tiny ears with two fingertips, the nails painted black, before whispering, ‘…was hit by a car.’ Cupping the tiny animal protectively against his chest, The beginning is always today visible tattooed across the back of Toad’s hand. ‘He’ll be alright. Just needs a bit of feeding up and some TLC.’

Toad had become the village Dr Dolittle, taking in injured animals, and nursing them back to health before releasing them. He’d built hutches on the roof of the bookshop and was seen up there, night and day, tending to foxes, pigeons, squirrels, whatever animals needed him. It was this love of animals that had finally won over the villagers. At first glance, Toad was not the typical Blackheath type. As far as Grace knew, he was unmarried, had no children, didn’t drive a Landrover and didn’t own a single pair of mustard cords. Even she had been dubious when he arrived for an interview.

Toad had appeared without CV, without appointment. Simply walked in and said he heard there was a job going and he’d like to have it. Grace had made them cups of tea as they sat at a table at the rear of the shop for an impromptu interview.

‘Do you have any experience as a bookseller, Mr Toad?’ she asked.

‘It’s just Toad.’ He shook his head in answer to her question. ‘But I have experience of books.’ He took a sip of tea and scratched at the stubble on his chin before continuing. ‘You ever read Moby Dick?’ He said it as if she might not’ve heard of the novel.

Grace nodded and confirmed that she had, intrigued by this unusual man.

Toad had a far-off look in his eye as he continued. ‘That Ahab was addicted to the whale, and addiction is something I understand.’ He nodded to himself, before turning to look at Grace. ‘That book changed my life. It’s the first book I ever read by choice. Chose it out of boredom, it was the thickest book on the trolley.’

He scratched at his stubble again and sat back in the chair. ‘That was ten years ago and I ain’t stopped reading since. Working in a bookshop is what I want to do, especially one like this.’ He looked around the room. ‘Old books.’ Reaching out, he plucked one from the shelf, held it up to his nose and took a deep sniff before leafing through the yellowed pages. ‘Old books carry two stories, the ones printed inside them and the ones about them. Take this one.’ He held up the copy of Agatha Christie’s The Body in the Library. Its red cloth cover was marked and dirty, the dust jacket long gone. ‘Published in 1942, just after the war. Imagine the hands that’ve held it, the escape from reality it’s given so many. And now I’m holding it. This book connects me to all those other people. When I open it, I’m taking in the very same words they took in. Maybe there’ll be notes on some pages, a coffee stain from someone who was reading it at work or over breakfast, remnants of lives left behind on the pages.’ He looked up at Grace in wonder. ‘When you stop and think about it, books are bloody miracles.’

She hired him on the spot.

‘But I don’t think I can call you Toad,’ Grace said. ‘What’s the name on your birth certificate?’

He pressed his lips together, looked up to the heavens, then sighed. ‘Peregrine,’ he mumbled.

‘Ah.’ Grace had nodded. ‘Toad it is then.’

‘Good New Year’s Eve?’ she asked.

‘Quiet. A pigeon with a damaged wing and a fox with mange. Took ‘em both to Beresford. Not much I could do for ‘em on me own.’ Beresford was the local vet. He and Toad often worked together rehabilitating the waifs and strays that turned up at Toad’s door. ‘They’ll be back her to recuperate in a day or two, then back into the wilds of London.’ His eyes drifted down to the little squirrel in his tshirt, then back to Grace. ‘How’s the hip?’

‘Never get old,’ she said, wincing, then sighed. ‘Though I suppose it’s better than the alternative.’

Toad stepped up to sit on the stool behind the counter, stroking Cyril through the fabric of his top. ‘You can say that again. Now what can I do for you today?’

Back home, Grace warmed her still elegant hands over the radiator in her front room. Her house, a regal Georgian named Greenway, stood on a slight rise, providing a picturesque view across the heath to St Julian’s church and Blackheath Village on the other side. She could almost believe that she lived in a countryside hamlet, if not for the traffic and the glass towers of Canary Wharf on the horizon.

She looked out at the heath, with its big sky and open space. It comforted Grace. Like her home, it was a constant. On her desk were vintage postcards from the 1800s, and it was much the same. Same buildings, same green with the church perched on one side and the village crowding around the upper corner. It had all existed long before Grace and would continue long after.

This contemplation was broken by the appearance of Geoffrey Crichton and his dog, Winston, stumbling home from their morning run. Crichton lived in the modernist glass and metal monstrosity next door. Man and beast stopped, sweating and panting, on the green in front of the houses. Crichton was a commercial lawyer and local councillor. He was awkwardly doing stretches while Winston squatted to deposit a steaming pile in the frosty grass.

‘Ah, The Cretin and his Hound from Hell.’ Fletcher, Grace’s dearest friend and current housemate, had made her a cup of tea. They sipped and sighed in unison as they watched Crichton take a quick look around, then jog across the road towards his house, leaving the pile of dog mess for someone to tread in later that day. ‘What a pillock. I heard he’s got his eye on a seat in Parliament. God help us all if that ned ever has any influence on policy.’

‘Ned?’

‘A person of low-standing or poor education. Crichton barely scraped a Third.’ Fletcher sipped his tea. ‘Fascinatingly, the term “ned” is possibly an acronym of non-educated delinquent, though it seems to date from the early 19th century in Scotland…’

Grace tuned out of Fletcher’s discourse and looked across the heath to the clock on the church tower. She would give The Cretin ten minutes.

‘… some suggest it’s a contraction of ne’er-do-well, though I think it more likely that…’

‘Sorry to interrupt, Fletch. Toad is digging out some books for me. Are you going into the village today? My hip is playing up, perhaps you could collect them?’

‘Ah. Yes, I’ll see the butcher later for tonight’s beef. Happy to pop into the bookshop as well.’

Grace was careful not to smile. She knew Fletcher had taken a fancy to the new butcher, a self-assured young man named Lee. Fletcher could be touchy about it.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject. ‘I’m making a mejadra for lunch with rice, lentils and fried onions. A nice bit of stodge on a chilly day.’

‘That sounds lovely.’ She wasn’t sure her stomach agreed. Fletcher was an excellent and adventurous cook, though sometimes a little too adventurous for Grace’s digestion. Memories of his vindaloo still haunted her. ‘I’ve got the Epiphany-planning meeting this afternoon at two. I need to prepare for that, but I’ll see you for lunch.’ She carried her tea through the open double doors of the front room, across the black and white tiled entry-hall to her library, as Fletcher headed for his study.

Grace’s library was her special place. Many years before, as her collection grew and her hopes for a family diminished, she had knocked through to the upstairs bedroom where she was born and created a narrow book-lined gallery with an iron spiral staircase in the corner down below. The upper windows allowed soft, natural light to filter into the room. It gave the effect of a clerestory, which was rather appropriate since it was her preferred place of worship.

It could be a cosy space, especially in the evening with a crackling fire. Two comfy chairs with footstools were in front of the fireplace while a large cushion for the dogs migrated from sunspot to hearth. The parquet flooring was softened with colourful Turkish rugs collected on trips to Istanbul, and a glass-fronted cabinet held Grace’s collection of curiosities; unusual bits and pieces she had picked up over the years. The enormous mahogany desk that had belonged to her father, and his father before him, sat in the curve of the lower window so that she could overlook the heath as she worked.

Settling into an armchair, she turned on her heating pad, sipped her Lapsang Souchong and inhaled its bonfire aroma. The two mini-dachshunds, Bess and George, were bellies-up on their cushion revelling in the rare winter sun puddle.

Grace checked the time on the mantel clock, left her warm seat with some regret, and went to the alcove just outside the library to collect her mobile phone. Toad had made a special sign for the niche. Written in elaborate calligraphy were the words The 21st Century Stops Here. Grace requested anyone entering to leave all technology on the shelf.

Though so much of modern life was just whizz-bang wankery, complicating rather than simplifying, she was intelligent enough to understand that some technology had its benefits.

Yes, he should be in the shower by now. She opened the Abode app on her mobile. It controlled the heating, lights, appliances and alarm in Geoffrey Crichton’s state-of-the-art house. His password was ‘YesMinister89’. He used it for everything.

‘What a ned,’ she said as she switched off his combi-boiler.

Chapter 2

Daniel Fox. Daniel Neil Fox. D N Fox.

Danny Fox brushed his teeth in the cluttered bathroom of his house-share while considering his future by-line. A lowly reporter at the Lewisham Mercury, he would write for the nationals in no time, just like his dad. This was certain. It was simply a matter of breaking a big story. Today would be that day.

Fox had been asked to interview Detective Inspector Theo Clegg about his charity, Off the Streets, helping the young homeless of London. It was a soft assignment, but at least it made a change from school fetes, council meetings and book clubs. For someone known for his humanitarian work, the old guy was a salty git and obviously didn’t enjoy Fox following him around asking questions.

That made two of them.

Writing an uplifting piece about this arsehole would be no easy feat, but Fox was not a quitter. He’d done a few interviews with kids who were helped by the charity, but wanted more focus on the man himself. Through his research he found the odd piece about a case Clegg had worked and the usual stories about the work of the charity, but there was nothing personal. No hook for his article. Clegg had never married, had no children. He wasn’t even on social media.

Fox was ready to give up when he unearthed an old story about a Theodore Clegg, caretaker of some desolate tidal island. The article included a photo of the caretaker in front of an ivy-covered house. Standing beside him was a small boy with DI Clegg’s unmistakable scowl. It was the kind of soppy story the public loved: Mudlark to Detective Inspector.

Clegg would hate it.

Fox didn’t know why he bothered to do the extra work. He would submit two thousand brilliant, heart-warming words and they’d be cut down to a brief paragraph of soundbites. Pointless.

He’d finished writing the article but told his editor he needed to follow up with Clegg before finalising the piece. Access to Lewisham Station, the largest police station in Europe, would surely offer up a batch of juicy stories.

Unfortunately, this assumption proved false on his first visit. No one wanted to answer his questions. Too thirsty, he was avoided and blatantly ignored when avoidance was impossible.

Today Fox would try a new line of attack. He would be The Invisible Man. He would sit in the corner and disappear. They wouldn’t even know he was there. Then he would listen. The bathroom mirror reflected his cheeky, toothpasty grin.

Leaning forward to spit, he spotted a short, dark hair curled on the edge of the sink. Definitely not his, since every hair on his body was vibrant ginger. Grimacing and trying not to think about who or what body part the hair was from, he rinsed it quickly away and felt again that it was time to get a place of his own. Sharing a house with his mates wasn’t much fun anymore. The all-night drinking, the constant noise and filth were not conducive to journalistic brilliance. As if on cue, Trots started banging on the bathroom door.

‘Hurry it up in there, princess, or I’ll be forced to piss in your favourite mug.’

‘Keep your hair on!’ Fox shouted back, checking his reflection in the water-spotted mirror. He made one haphazard attempt with some wax to smooth the cowlick at the back of his head, knowing it was a pointless task. ‘Screw it, that’ll do,’ he mumbled before opening the door, pausing briefly to cuff Trots in the bollocks on his way out.