What We're Writing--Debs Does Geography

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Having been tortured all week by visions of glorious Cornwall, Venice, and Scotland, I thought I'd take you to...rainy London on a dark November evening. (What was I thinking when I chose this setting??) Instead of looking at gorgeous photos of Scottish moors, I've been pouring over Google Maps.

I have an ongoing "discussion" with my wonderful editor about including descriptions of how my characters get from one place to another in my scenes. She says "Cut it out with the sat-nav!" (Although a little less politely than that!) But I like to feel the location, to know how places relate to each other, to sense the transition between them. In this little snippet from Kincaid/James #19, Kincaid is going from Holborn Police Station in Bloomsbury, central London, to Westbourne Grove/Notting Hill.  And we get a glimpse of a new character, Detective Constable Lucy McGillivray (the hardest name to type, ever...)

“Where are you from, Constable?” Kincaid asked McGillivray as the car sped north and then west through the wet streets.

“Perthshire, sir.” She pronounced it “Pairth-shire,” with a roll of the first R.  But we moved here when I was fifteen, so I’ve considered myself a Londoner for a good while now. I did my training here as well.”

“Have you had much experience with death notifications?”

“I did my share in uniform, sir, accidents and sudden deaths, but this will be my first in a murder case.”

“Well, much the same, I’m afraid, except that we have to ask questions afterwards.” Kincaid had never become inured to it, and he lapsed into silence, the acrid coffee he’d drunk at the station churning in his gut now. There was, he thought, no worse task than breaking the news to a parent of the death of a child.

His mind wandered back over the details of the evening. Had Sasha Johnson, junior doctor, simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? But his gut told him no. Random attacks were usually more frenzied, and this had seemed calculated in its ferocity. One blow. Who had the expertise for that? Or had the killer merely been lucky?

He shook himself back to the present. They were entering the Harrow Road now. Soon they would reach the eastern fringes of Notting Hill. The road was lined with a comfortable mix of shops and flats, most of the buildings only three stories high. When they turned left into Elgin Road, he pulled up a map on his mobile phone and asked the driver to slow. Leaning forwards, he said, “It looks like it’s across from the Union Tavern. See if you can pull into Woodfield Road, and we’ll cross back over.” There were double yellows either side of Elgin Road, so no place for the car to stop directly in front of the Johnsons’ building. He was glad the rain had let up a bit.

Although he knew the area relatively well, he was still surprised when he caught his first glimpse of the flats where Sasha Johnson’s parents lived. The three-story block fit snugly into the angle where the road met the Grand Union Canal. The arrow-shaped roof sat atop the building like an over-sized white cap, the triangle’s apex pointing at the pub across the road. The walls of the structure were curved to fit into the angle as well, and the rear of the building was an odd bulbous shape. 

“What a strange building,” said McGillivray. “The rooms will be awkward. Nice views of the canal, though.”

The Grand Union Canal curved gently through this part of London, passing Kensal Green Cemetery and the northern edge of Notting Hill, until it reached this part of Westbourne Grove, where it flirted with the Westway before becoming the Regent’s Canal. The fortunate inhabitants of the flats with canal views would look out at colorful narrowboats moored below.

When their driver had indeed found a place to stop the car in Woodfield Road, Kincaid asked him to wait as he and McGillivray got out. The pub was still open, so it had not yet gone eleven. Kincaid hoped that the Johnsons would be up. Light spilled from the pub, and a glimpse in the windows revealed a cheerful interior, the tables still packed with diners and drinkers. He and Gemma had brought the children here back in the summer, for a Sunday lunch on the pub’s long terrace overlooking the canal. 

No one but the most inveterate smokers would be sitting out there tonight, he thought as he turned up his collar against the persistent drizzle.

Followed by McGillivray, Kincaid crossed the road on a break in the traffic and opened the wrought-iron gate set into the wall surrounding the flats. The tiny courtyard was neat, with a few potted shrubs and a couple of chained bicycles. The building’s main door was well lit and, after searching for the flat number in the labeled buttons, he pressed the buzzer.

 

 The building is real, as is the pub, the very welcoming Union Tavern, which I discovered quite by accident on one of my rambles through London last November. I'd started walking east from Portobello Road as it grew dark, and I wandered happily for a couple of hours. But eventually I realized that I was damp and cold and hungry--and that I had no idea where I was. When I saw the pub in the distance I was so relieved. (London pubs are ports in the storm--with bathrooms.) Then I realized I had been walking adjacent to the canal, and when I saw this wonderful building I knew it had to go in the book somewhere.

Now, even though I can't travel, and am missing what I thought would be my last research/writing trip for this book, I'm loving being there in my my imagination. With maps.

So, REDS and readers, do you like following along with the locations in a book? And do you prefer real maps to GPS? (I LOVE maps, although I was certainly thankful for the GPS that led me to the Union Tavern!)