The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [300]
The pathologist and the two unnamed officers both hurried back to their places and awaited Jack, whom I could hear talking to someone in the house.
“Good luck,” murmured 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 realized 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 eight forty-seven 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 favor. 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,” Briggs went on. “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 A-one record from Swindon.”
“Basingstoke,” corrected Mary.
“Sorry. Basingstoke.”
“No offense 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 three 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 both 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 anymore,” 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