The Guardian of Whitechapel

Chapter 1: Knit One, Purl OneHuw Stackpoole’s house, which now belonged to DI Simon Stark and his husband, DI Ralph Golding, basked in the morning sunshine. It had a nice view on the Thames that perpetually flowed towards the sea, carrying in its wake the debris and detritus of the city. After inheriting the house, Simon had spent a considerable amount of time and money to clean and renovate it. The result was that today, seven years after its previous owner’s unfortunate demise, it looked less like the abode of a messy old man and more like a cover story from Vogue Living. Simon liked it neat, spacious, elegant, and in tune with the flowing energy forces. Everything had its place in the house, from the green tea in the cellar to the herb spiral in the garden. And yet Ralph couldn’t find the bread. He was the first one downstairs, because Simon’s morning routine in the bathroom was quite elaborate, and he had wanted to set the breakfast table. So far, everything had been in its proper place: tea, cups, pot, kettle, jam, Marmite. Ralph, who was more chaotically inclined than his husband, found it aggravating at times to live with someone as pernickety as Simon, but he admitted freely that it had some definite upsides. One being that everything was always in its place. And yet Ralph hunted in vain for the bread. It wasn’t in the pantry, where it usually was. It wasn’t in the fridge, where it was when his daughter stayed over. And it wasn’t anywhere else, where it certainly never was anyway. How was he supposed to have his Marmite toast without bread? What came next? Tea without hot water? This was madness. “I couldn’t find the bread,” he announced grumpily when Simon came downstairs. “We may have pixies.” Simon looked at him with guilt in his eyes. He sat down at the breakfast table. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, love?” Ralph asked. “You must have had quite a midnight gobble, if you went through three packages of gluten-free bread.” “I didn’t eat it,” Simon said miserably. “Look, there was this documentary on, and afterwards I did some very thorough research, and, well, it turns out that gluten-free bread is not actually very healthy. So I threw it all away last night after you’d gone to bed.” Ralph dug a little and rediscovered his inner patience. “You chucked all our bread?” “It’s unhealthy. I can’t let us continue to eat food that’s practically poisonous.” “But the only reason we ate it in the first place was that we wanted to eat healthy. You said gluten was poison.” “And now I stand corrected. Ralph, I’m sorry. I know you love your morning toast, but look on the bright side—we can buy healthy bread later. I already printed out a list of shops in London that have organic, whole-grain breads. My research showed that sourdough with a long rest before baking is easiest to digest and most nourishing. Let me ring up the shops alphabetically, and I’ll find out where we can best buy bread that supports our health.” Ralph groaned. “I can whip us up some porridge for now,” Simon suggested, full of energy and zest that Ralph was lacking at the moment. He sighed deeply, summoned his inner Zen, and replied softly, “Porridge sounds lovely, dear.” * * * * The porridge was indeed lovely. Ralph had two helpings. He was sipping on his third cup of tea while trying to locate his favourite scarf in the designated “scarves & shawls” drawer when the doorbell rang. Ralph opened the door with one hand, balancing his cuppa in the other, not even bothering to look up from the drawer because he knew who it was. It was eight thirty in the AM and DS Kate Pollard was never late for work. “Mornin’, Kate,” he greeted her absentmindedly, still distracted by the absence of his scarf. He’d put it in the drawer yesterday. Where had it gone? Was it really pixies this time, or had Simon watched a documentary on Bluefaced Leicester wool and researched that it was dangerous to people’s health? “Where’s me scarf?” he hollered. “Morning, Sarge,” Kate mumbled. Ralph hadn’t been a sergeant for some time, but his former team still called him that, using the word more as a term of endearment than a title. “Did you chuck me scarf, love?” he called out again, then took a sip and cursed, because he’d swallowed too much tea and almost had to spit it out again. Hot! Kate simply squeezed past him, put her coat up on a free hanger marked ‘DI Pollard’, and vanished into the back room via the kitchen for, most likely, a cuppa and a biccie before work. Simon appeared at the top of the stairs like the Ghost of Hallowe’en’s Past. “Which scarf, Ralph?” he spoke with dignity and confusion. “My best one! The one you made me that looks like a stormy sea. I swear I put it in the drawer last night!” “You didn’t put it in the drawer last night.” Simon replied. “It’s still upstairs. I’ll get it.” “But I swear I—” The penny dropped, “Ooooh! Yes. I remember. Upstairs. Thanks, love.” The scarf was probably still tied to the bed post. The memory of last night brought back a hot flush of desire. The scarf had been a brilliant idea. While Simon was upstairs, Kate’s head popped around the corner. “Where’s all the biccies?” she asked irritated. Ralph sighed. “Gluten-free biscuits are unhealthy,” he explained. “Simon probably chucked them along with the bread last night.” “He chucked the bread?” “Yup.” “Is he going nuts again? And I mean that,” she added in a kind of terribly stilted stage whisper, “in the most supportive and non-judgemental way.” Simon came back downstairs with the scarf that moment. Slightly offended, he declared that he wasn’t going nuts. He proceeded to give Kate the same explanation about chemicals in conventional gluten-free pre-packed products that Ralph had already sat through during breakfast. “I’m off,” Ralph said therefore, snatching his beloved scarf out of Simon’s hand. One quick kiss later, he was out the door and proceeded to bump into DCs Anwen Flemming and Jack Heart. They exchanged good mornings, and then Ralph hopped in his car to drive himself to Whitechapel Police Station where another day as head of C-Division, Clubs and Vice, awaited him. They had a con woman in custody who had cheated no less than fifteen casinos out of almost two million pounds, a white-collar finance shark who was involved in child prostitution, and then there was the aftermath of a night club shooting from last week to deal with. It was the last day before Ralph’s and Simon’s week off. He was looking forward to a week of hanging out at home with Simon, knitting, having Saoirse and her partner Yuki over for a pre-Samhain breakfast, and no gore, no evil, no corpses to think about. Bliss was just around the corner.