Rain lashes the mullioned glass of the terminus bookshop, blurring the rusted iron lampposts of the disused platform into grey smudges. The bell above the door chimes once, a lonely, high-pitched note that lingers in the damp air. Cora Beale places a slim hardback on the oak counter, her movements deliberate and silent. She does not offer a greeting. Instead, she pushes the book forward with a single gloved finger and turns toward the door, her coat trailing a scent of salt and wet wool.
Margaret Ainsworth reaches for the volume, her fingers brushing the faded green cloth of the spine. It is a Muriel Spark, the edges of the dust jacket softened by decades of hands. She retired to this Highland station to escape the weight of the Met’s cold cases, seeking the predictable rhythm of inventory and tea. But as she opens the front cover to check the return date, the spine cracks with a dry, protestant snap. Something is wedged in the binding.
Margaret freezes. The weight of the book shifts in her palm, uneven and heavy. Beneath the name of a previous owner, she catches the glint of graphite. The customer is already gone, a shadow vanishing into the mist beyond the tracks. Margaret tilts the book, and the hidden contents yield to gravity.
A folded square of yellowed paper begins to slip from the endpapers of the returned Spark.
