Jasper Fforde: The Well of Lost Plots

'I don't know.'

'Are you sure you're from the Outland?' he asked suspiciously, adding 'Then tell me this: why is there no singular for scampi ?

'I'm not sure.'

'You're not from the Outland,' said Unnamed Police Officer #1 sadly. 'You should be ashamed of yourself, lying and raising our hopes like that!'

'Very well,' I replied, covering my eyes. 'I'll prove it to you. Speak to me in turn but leave off your speech designators.'

'Okay,' said Unnamed Police Officer #1, 'who is this talking?'

'And who is this?' added Dr Singh.

'I said leave off your speech designators. Try again.'

'It's harder than you think,' sighed Unnamed Police Officer #1. 'Okay, here goes.'

There was a pause.

'Which one of us is talking now?'

'And who am I?'

'Mrs Singh first, Unnamed Police Officer #1 second. Was I correct?'

'Amazing!' murmured Mrs Singh. 'How do you do that?'

'I can recognise your voices. I have a sense of smell, too.'

'No kidding? Do you know anyone in publishing?'

'None who would help. My husband is, or was, an author, but his contacts wouldn't know me from Eve at present. I'm a SpecOps officer; I don't have much to do with contemporary fiction.'

'SpecOps?' queried UPO #2. 'What's that?'

'We're going to be scrapped, you know,' interrupted Briggs, 'unless we can get a publisher.'

'We could be broken down into letters,' added UPO #1 in a hushed tone, 'cast into the Text Sea; and I have a wife and two kids — or at least, in my backstory I do.'

'I can't help you,' I told them, I'm not even—'

'Places, please!' yelled Briggs so suddenly I jumped.

The pathologist and the two unnamed officers hurried back to their places and awaited Jack, who I could hear talking to someone in the house.

'Good luck,' hissed Briggs from the side of his mouth as he motioned me to sit on a low wall. 'I'll prompt you if you dry.'

'Thanks.'

DCI Briggs was sitting on a low wall with a plainclothes policewoman who busied herself taking notes and did not look up. Briggs stood as Jack entered and looked at his watch in an unsubtle way. Jack answered the unasked question in the defensive, which he soon realised was a mistake

'I'm sorry, sir, I came here as quick as I could.'

Briggs grunted and waved a hand in the direction of the corpse.

'It looks like he died from gunshot wounds,' he said grimly, 'discovered dead at 8.47 this morning.'

'Anything else I need to know?' asked Spratt.

'A couple of points. First, the deceased is the nephew of crime boss Angel DeFablio, so I wanted someone good with the press in case the media decide to have a bonanza. Second, I'm giving you this job as a favour. You're not exactly first seed with the seventh floor at the moment. There are some people who want to see you take a fall — and I don't want that to happen.'

'Is there a third point?'

'No one else is available.'

'I preferred it when there were only two.'

'Listen, Jack,' went on Briggs, 'you're a good officer if a little , sprung loaded at times and I want you on my team without any mishaps.'

'Is this where I say thank you?'

'You do. Mop it up nice and neat and give me an initial report as soon as you can. Okay?'

Briggs nodded in the direction of the young lady who had been waiting patiently.

'Jack, I want you to meet Thurs — I mean, DS Mary Jones.'

'Hello,' said Jack.

'Pleased to meet you, sir,' said the young woman.

'And you. Who are you working with?'

'Next — I mean Jones is your new Detective Sergeant,' said Briggs beginning to sweat for some inexplicable reason. 'Transferred with an Al record from Swindon.'

'Basingstoke,' corrected Mary.

'Sorry. Basingstoke .'

'No offence to DS Jones, sir, but I was hoping for Butcher, Spooner or—'

'Not possible, Jack,' said Briggs in the tone of voice that made arguing useless. 'Well, I'm off. I'll leave you here with, er—'

'Jones.'

'Yes, Jones, so you can get acquainted. Remember: I need that report as soon as possible. Got it?'

Jack did indeed get it and Briggs departed.

He shivered in the cold and looked at the young DS again.

'Mary Jones, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What have you found out so far?'

She dug in her pocket for a notebook, couldn't find it so counted the points off on her fingers instead.

'Deceased's name is Sonny DeFablio.'

There was a pause. Jack didn't say anything so Jones, now slightly startled, continued as though he had.

'Time of death? Too early to tell. Probably 3 a.m. last night, give or take an hour. We'll know more when we get the corpse. Gun? We'll know when…'

'… Jack, are you okay?'

He had sat down wearily and was staring at the ground, head in hands.

I looked around but Dr Singh, her assistants and the unnamed officers were busily getting on with their parts, unwilling, it seemed, to get embroiled — or perhaps they were just embarrassed.

'I can't do this any more,' muttered Jack.

'Sir,' I persisted, trying to ad-lib, 'do you want to see the body or can we remove it?'

'What's the use?' sobbed the crushed protagonist. 'No one is reading us; it doesn't matter.'

I placed my hand on his shoulder.

'I've tried to make it more interesting,' he sobbed, 'but nothing seems to work. My wife won't speak to me, my job's on the line, drugs are flooding into Reading, and if I don't make the narrative even remotely readable then we all get demolished and there's nothing left at all except an empty hole on the bookshelf and the memory of a might-have-been in the head of the author.'

'Your wife only left you because all loner maverick detectives have domestic problems,' I explained. 'I'm sure she loves you really.'

'No, no, she doesn't,' he sobbed again. 'All is lost. Don't you see? It's customary for detectives to drive unusual cars and I had a wonderful 1924 Delage-Talbot Supersport. The idea was stolen and replaced with that dreadful Austin Allegro. If any scenes get deleted, we'll really be stuffed.'

He looked up at me.

'What's your name?'

'Thursday Next.'

He perked up suddenly.

'Thursday Next? The Outlander Jurisfiction agent apprenticed to Miss Havisham Thursday Next?'

I nodded. News travels fast in the Well.

An excited gleam came into his eye.

'I read about you in The Word . Tell me, would you have any way of finding out when the Book Inspectorate are due to read our story? I've lined up seven three-dimensional B-2 freelancers to come in and give the book a bit of an edge — just for an hour or so. With their help we might be able to hang on to it; all I need to know is the when .'

'I'm sorry, Mr Spratt.' I sighed. 'I'm new to all this; what exactly is the Council of Genres?'

'They look after fictional legislature,' he replied. 'Dramatic conventions, mainly. A representative from every genre sits on the council — it is they who decide the conventions of storytelling and it is they — through the Book Inspectorate — who decide whether an unpublished book is to be kept — or demolished.'

'Oh,' I replied, realising that the BookWorld was governed by almost as many rules and regulations as my own, 'then I can't help you.'