He sighed.
'It's not as simple as that. I have a responsibility for the seven hundred and eighty-six other characters in this book. Think of it – all those Generics sold off like post-Christmas turkeys or reduced to text. It makes me shudder just to think about it!'
'That might happen anyway, Jack. At least this way we have a fighting chance. Do your own thing. Break away from the norm.'
He sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair.
'But what about the conflicts? Isn't that the point of being a loner detective? The appalling self-destruction, the inner battles within ourselves that add spice to the proceedings and enable the story to advance more interestingly? We can't just have murder-interview-interview-second murder-conjecture-interview-conjecture-false ending-dramatic twist-resolution, can we? Where's the interest if a detective doesn't get romantically involved with someone who has something to do with the first murder? Why, I might never have to make a choice between justice and my own personal feelings ever again!'
'And what if you don't?' I persisted. 'It needn't be like that. There's more than one way to make a story interesting.'
'Okay,' he said, 'let's say I do live happily with Madeleine and the kids – what am I going to do for sub-plots? In a story like this conflict, for want of a better word, is good. Conflict is right. Conflict works.'
He gazed at me angrily, but I knew he still believed in himself – the fact that we were even having this conversation proved that.
'It doesn't have to be marital conflicts,' I told him. 'We could get a few sub-plots from the Well and sew them in – I agree the action can't always stay with you, but if we— Hello, I think we've got company.'
A pink Triumph Herald had pulled up with a middle-aged woman in it. She got out, walked straight up to Jack and slapped him hard in the face.
'How dare you!' she screamed. 'I waited three hours for you at the Sad & Single wine bar – what happened?'
'I told you, Agatha. I was with my wife.'
'Sure you were,' she spat, her voice rising. 'Don't patronise me with your pathetic little lies – who are you screwing this time? One of those little tarts down at the station?'
'It's true,' he replied in an even voice, more shocked than outraged. 'I told you last night – it's all over, Agatha.'
'Oh yes? I suppose you put him up to this?' she said, looking at me, scorn and anger in her eyes. 'You come down here on a character exchange with your Outlander airs and self-determination bullshit and think you can improve the storyline? The supreme arrogance of you people!'
She stopped for a moment and looked at the pair of us.
'You're sleeping together, aren't you?'
'No,' I told her firmly, 'and if there aren't some improvements round here soon, there won't be a book. If you want a transfer out of
here, I'm sure I can arrange something—'
'It's all so easy for you, isn't it?' she said, her face convulsing with anger and then fear as her voice rose. 'Think you can just make a few footnoterphone calls and everything will be just dandy?'
She pointed a long bony finger at me. 'Well, I'll tell you, Miss Outlander, I will not take this lying down!'
She glared at us both, marched back to her car and drove off with a squeal of tyres.
'How about that for a conflictual sub-plot?' I asked, but Jack wasn't amused.
'Let's see what else you can dream up – I'm not sure I like that one. Did you find out when the Book Inspectorate are due to read us?'
'Not yet,' I told him.
Jack looked at his watch. 'Come on, we've got the fight-rigging scene to do. You'll like this one. Mary was sometimes a little late with the "If you don't know we can't help you" line when we did the old good cop/bad cop routine, but just stay on your toes and you'll be fine.'
He seemed a lot happier having stood up to Agatha, and we walked across the road to where some rusty iron stairs led up to the gym.
Reading, Tuesday. It had been raining all night and the rain-washed streets reflected the dour sky. Mary and Jack walked up the steel steps that led to Mickey Finn's. A lugubrious gym that smelt of sweat and dreams, where hopefuls tried to spar their way out of Reading's underclass. Mickey Finn was an ex-boxer himself, with scarred eyes and a tremor to prove it. In latter days he was a trainer, then a manager. Today he just ran the gym and dabbled in drug-dealing on the side.
'Who are we here to see?' asked Mary as their feet rang out on the iron treads.
'Mickey Finn,' replied Jack. 'He got caught up in some trouble a few years ago and I put in a good word. He owes me.'