Just back from three weeks in Provence researching the next Jacquot book. At the end of it, I have a Gambian pickpocket, a screwdriver, and a shaven-headed Turk with a vicious scar showing through the stubble. (An operation? A wound?). Strange ingredients, I know, but this is how it always starts. This time last year all I had was a speedboat pulling a 'donut' with three screaming kids on it. And twelve months later I'd turned it into 'Talking To The Sharks". All I have to do now is let it all simmer and see what I come up with...