The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [299]
“Detective Sergeant Mary,” I told him obediently. “Transferred here from Basingstoke.”
“You don’t have to worry about all that yet.” He smiled. “The story is with Jack at the moment—he’s meeting Officer Tibbit on the street outside. My name’s DCI Briggs and I’m your friendly yet long-suffering boss in this little caper. Crusty and prone to outbursts of temper yet secretly supportive, I will have to suspend Jack at least once before the story is over.”
“How do you do?” I spluttered.
“Excellent!” said Briggs, shaking my hand gratefully. “Mary told me you’re with Jurisfiction. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Any news about when the Council of Genres Book Inspectorate will be in?” asked Briggs. “It would be a help to know. You’ve heard about the demolition order, I take it?”
“Council of Genres?” I echoed, trying not to make my ignorance show. “I’m sorry. I’ve not spent that much time in the BookWorld.”
“An Outlander?” replied Briggs, eyes wide in wonderment. “Here, in Caversham Heights?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“Tell me, what do waves look like when they crash on the shore?”
“Who’s an Outlander?” echoed the pathologist, a middle-aged Indian woman who suddenly leapt to her feet and stared at me intently. “You?”
“Y-es,” I admitted.
“I’m Dr. Singh,” explained the pathologist, shaking my hand vigorously. “I’m matter-of-fact, apparently without humor, like cats and people who like cats, don’t suffer fools, yet on occasion I do exhibit a certain warmth. Tell me, do you think I’m anything like a real pathologist?”
“Of course,” I answered, trying to think of her brief appearances in the book.
“You see,” she went on with a slightly melancholic air, “I’ve never seen a real pathologist and I’m really not sure what I’m meant to do.”
“You’re doing fine,” I assured her.
“What about me?” asked Briggs. “Do you think I need to develop more as a character? Am I like all those real people you rub shoulders with, or am I a bit one-dimensional?”
“Well—”
“I knew it!” he cried unhappily. “It’s the hair, isn’t it? Do you think it should be shorter? Longer? What about having a bizarre character trait? I’ve been learning the trombone—that would be unusual, yes?”
“Someone said there was an Outlander in the book!” interrupted a uniformed officer, one of a pair who had just walked into the yard. “I’m Unnamed Police Officer No. 1; this is my colleague, Unnamed Police Officer No. 2. Can I ask a question about the Outland?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the point of alphabet soup?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure you’re from the Outland?” he asked suspiciously. “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 No. 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 No. 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 No. 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 No. 1 second. Was I correct?”
“Amazing!” murmured Mrs. Singh. “How do you do that?”
“I can recognize 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 No. 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 words,” added UPO No. 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!