‘There are similarities,’ said Strike, ‘with what happened to your first wife.’
‘They weren’t the same thing at all,’ said Fancourt flatly.
‘Why not?’
‘Joe’s was an infinitely better book.’
Yet another pause, this time much longer.
‘That’s considering the matter,’ said Fancourt, ‘from a purely literary perspective. Naturally, there are other ways of looking at it.’
He finished his glass of wine and raised a hand to indicate to the barman that he wanted another. The actor beside them, who had barely drawn breath, was still talking.
‘… said, “Screw authenticity, what d’you want me to do, saw my own bloody arm off?”’
‘It must have been a very difficult time for you,’ said Strike.
‘Yes,’ said Fancourt waspishly. ‘Yes, I think we can call it “difficult”.’
‘You lost a good friend and a wife within – what – months of each other?’
‘A few months, yes.’
‘You were writing all through that time?’
‘Yes,’ said Fancourt, with an angry, condescending laugh, ‘I was writing all through that time. It’s my profession. Would anyone ask you whether you were still in the army while you were having private difficulties?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Strike, without rancour. ‘What were you writing?’
‘It was never published. I abandoned the book I was working on so that I could finish Joe’s.’
The waiter set a second glass in front of Fancourt and departed.
‘Did North’s book need much doing to it?’
‘Hardly anything,’ said Fancourt. ‘He was a brilliant writer. I tidied up a few rough bits and polished the ending. He’d left notes about how he wanted it done. Then I took it to Jerry Waldegrave, who was with Roper.’
Strike remembered what Chard had said about Fancourt’s over-closeness to Waldegrave’s wife and proceeded with some caution.
‘Had you worked with Waldegrave before?’
‘I’ve never worked with him on my own stuff, but I knew of him by reputation as a gifted editor and I knew that he’d liked Joe. We collaborated on Towards the Mark.’
‘He did a good job on it, did he?’
Fancourt’s flash of bad temper had gone. If anything, he looked entertained by Strike’s line of questioning.
‘Yes,’ he said, taking a sip of wine, ‘very good.’
‘But you didn’t want to work with him now you’ve moved to Roper Chard?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Fancourt, still smiling. ‘He drinks a lot these days.’
‘Why d’you think Quine put Waldegrave in Bombyx Mori?’
‘How can I possibly know that?’
‘Waldegrave seems to have been good to Quine. It’s hard to see why Quine felt the need to attack him.’
‘Is it?’ asked Fancourt, eyeing Strike closely.
‘Everyone I talk to seems to have a different angle on the Cutter character in Bombyx Mori.’
‘Really?’
‘Most people seem outraged that Quine attacked Waldegrave at all. They can’t see what Waldegrave did to deserve it. Daniel Chard thinks the Cutter shows that Quine had a collaborator,’ said Strike.
‘Who the hell does he think would have collaborated with Quine on Bombyx Mori?’ asked Fancourt, with a short laugh.
‘He’s got ideas,’ said Strike. ‘Meanwhile Waldegrave thinks the Cutter’s really an attack on you.’
‘But I’m Vainglorious,’ said Fancourt with a smile. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘Why would Waldegrave think that the Cutter is about you?’
‘You’ll need to ask Jerry Waldegrave,’ said Fancourt, still smiling. ‘But I’ve got a funny feeling you think you know, Mr Strike. And I’ll tell you this: Quine was quite, quite wrong – as he really should have known.’
Impasse.
‘So in all these years, you’ve never managed to sell Talgarth Road?’
‘It’s been very difficult to find a buyer who satisfies the terms of Joe’s will. It was a quixotic gesture of Joe’s. He was a romantic, an idealist.
‘I set down my feelings about all of this – the legacy, the burden, the poignancy of his bequest – in House of Hollow,’ said Fancourt, much like a lecturer recommending additional reading. ‘Owen had his say – such as it was –’ added Fancourt, with the ghost of a smirk, ‘in The Balzac Brothers.’
‘The Balzac Brothers was about the house in Talgarth Road, was it?’ asked Strike, who had not gleaned that impression during the fifty pages he had read.
‘It was set there. Really it’s about our relationship, the three of us,’ said Fancourt. ‘Joe dead in the corner and Owen and I trying to follow in his footsteps, make sense of his death. It was set in the studio where I think – from what I’ve read – you found Quine’s body?’
Strike said nothing, but continued to take notes.
‘The critic Harvey Bird called The Balzac Brothers “wincingly, jaw-droppingly, sphincter-clenchingly awful”.’
‘I just remember a lot of fiddling with balls,’ said Strike and Fancourt gave a sudden, unforced girlish titter.
‘You’ve read it, have you? Oh yes, Owen was obsessed with his balls.’
The actor beside them had paused for breath at last. Fancourt’s words rang in the temporary silence. Strike grinned as the actor and his two dining companions stared at Fancourt, who treated them to his sour smile. The three men began talking hurriedly again.
‘He had a real idée fixe,’ said Fancourt, turning back to Strike. ‘Picasso-esque, you know, his testicles the source of his creative power. He was obsessed in both his life and his work with machismo, virility, fertility. Some might say it was an odd fixation for a man who liked to be tied up and dominated, but I see it as a natural consequence… the yin and yang of Quine’s sexual persona. You’ll have noticed the names he gave us in the book?’
‘Vas and Varicocele,’ said Strike and he noted again that slight surprise in Fancourt that a man who looked like Strike read books, or paid attention to their contents.
‘Vas – Quine – the duct that carries sperm from balls to penis – the healthy, potent, creative force. Varicocele – a painful enlargement of a vein in the testicle, sometimes leading to infertility. A typically crass Quine-esque allusion to the fact that I contracted mumps shortly after Joe died and in fact was too unwell to go to the funeral, but also to the fact that – as you’ve pointed out – I was writing under difficult circumstances around that time.’
‘You were still friends at this point?’ Strike clarified.
‘When he started the book we were still – in theory – friends,’ said Fancourt, with a grim smile. ‘But writers are a savage breed, Mr Strike. If you want life-long friendship and selfless camaraderie, join the army and learn to kill. If you want a lifetime of temporary alliances with peers who will glory in your every failure, write novels.’
Strike smiled. Fancourt said with detached pleasure:
‘The Balzac Brothers received some of the worst reviews I’ve ever read.’
‘Did you review it?’
‘No,’ said Fancourt.
‘You were married to your first wife at this point?’ Strike asked.