I visited some old favorites, too, places I knew I would use, like this delightful pub in Holborn just down the street from Duncan's police station.
Here's a short scene set there, early in the book.
Duncan Kincaid stretched the
paperwork kinks from his neck and took an appreciative sip of beer. The
Victorian pub in Lamb’s Conduit Street was beginning to
fill up with Friday happy hour drinkers, most of whom seemed to be refugee
staff from Great Ormond Street Hospital across the street. Kincaid himself was
on his way home from Holborn Police Station, but had agreed to meet his
detective sergeant, Doug Cullen, for a quick debriefing on an interview Doug
had taken that afternoon in Theobald’s Road. The team was tidying up a few
loose ends from a case, the knifing of an elderly Asian shop owner during the
robbery of his corner shop. The assailants had been vicious but not too
bright—balaclavas had covered their faces, but not the distinctive tattoo on
the knife-wielder’s hand, caught clearly on the shop’s CCTV. The pair had spent
the meager proceeds of the robbery on six-packs of lager bought in a shop in
the next road, this time without their masks.
It was the sort of senseless
crime that made Kincaid feel weary. Taking another sip of his pint, he glanced
at his watch. Doug was late. The young woman sitting alone at the next table
seemed to mimic him, checking her own watch, then her mobile, with a frown of
irritation. In spite of the blustery November evening, the room was warm from
the fire and she had shrugged off her fur-trimmed anorak to reveal hospital
scrubs. Their pale green color set off her dark skin and the dark twists of her
curls. A doctor, he thought, as the nursing staff were usually in uniform
rather than scrubs, and he revised his guess at her age up a few years. When
she tucked her mobile back in her bag, he looked away, aware that he’d
been staring.
The door nearest the fire
swung open, bringing a blast of cold, damp air and a flurry of brown leaves.
The young woman looked up, her face brightening, but it was Doug Cullen, his
anorak and fair hair beaded with moisture, his cheeks pink from the cold.
Oblivious to her disappointment, Doug slid into the chair opposite Kincaid and
pulled off his spattered glasses. “Bugger of
a day,” he said, wiping the lenses with a handkerchief. He nodded at Kincaid’s
glass. “Whatever you’re drinking, I could use one.”
“Bloomsbury. And my
shout,” Kincaid told him, standing. As he made his way to the crowded bar, he
saw the young woman begin to gather her things. When he turned back a few
minutes later, pints in hand, she had gone.
(Check my hyphens!! They are probably all wrong!)
I realize this is not the first time I've introduced a character in a bar! But where do people's lives interconnect? In London, it might be your local shop or market, or the tube train you take every day-- or it very well might be your local pub. And Duncan is people watching, a natural indulgence for a detective, and I suspect for most of us.
Reds and readers, do you make up stories about strangers? Have you ever had anything you've imagined turn out to be true?
