‘That’s right,’ said Fancourt. The flicker of his expression was like the shiver of an animal’s flank when a fly touches it.
‘I’m just trying to get the chronology right – you lost her shortly after North died?’
‘Euphemisms for death are so interesting, aren’t they?’ said Fancourt lightly. ‘I didn’t “lose” her. On the contrary, I tripped over her in the dark, dead in our kitchen with her head in the oven.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Strike formally.
‘Yes, well…’
Fancourt called for another drink. Strike could tell that a delicate point had been reached, where a flow of information might either be tapped, or run forever dry.
‘Did you ever talk to Quine about the parody that caused your wife’s suicide?’
‘I’ve already told you, I never talked to him again about anything after Ellie died,’ said Fancourt calmly. ‘So, no.’
‘You were sure he wrote it, though?’
‘Without question. Like a lot of writers without much to say, Quine was actually a good literary mimic. I remember him spoofing some of Joe’s stuff and it was quite funny. He wasn’t going to jeer publicly at Joe, of course, it did him too much good hanging around with the pair of us.’
‘Did anyone admit to seeing the parody before publication?’
‘Nobody said as much to me, but it would have been surprising if they had, wouldn’t it, given what it caused? Liz Tassel denied to my face that Owen had shown it to her, but I heard on the grapevine that she’d read it pre-publication. I’m sure she encouraged him to publish. Liz was insanely jealous of Ellie.’
There was a pause, then Fancourt said with an assumption of lightness:
‘Hard to remember these days that there was a time when you had to wait for the ink and paper reviews to see your work excoriated. With the invention of the internet, any subliterate cretin can be Michiko Kakutani.’
‘Quine always denied writing it, didn’t he?’ Strike asked.
‘Yes he did, gutless bastard that he was,’ said Fancourt, apparently unconscious of any lack of taste. ‘Like a lot of soi-disant mavericks, Quine was an envious, terminally competitive creature who craved adulation. He was terrified that he was going to be ostracised after Ellie died. Of course,’ said Fancourt, with unmistakable pleasure, ‘it happened anyway. Owen had benefited from a lot of reflected glory, being part of a triumvirate with Joe and me. When Joe died and I cut him adrift, he was seen for what he was: a man with a dirty imagination and an interesting style who had barely an idea that wasn’t pornographic. Some authors,’ said Fancourt, ‘have only one good book in them. That was Owen. He shot his bolt – an expression he would have approved of – with Hobart’s Sin. Everything after that was pointless rehashes.’
‘Didn’t you say you thought Bombyx Mori was “a maniac’s masterpiece”?’
‘You read that, did you?’ said Fancourt, with vaguely flattered surprise. ‘Well, so it is, a true literary curiosity. I never denied that Owen could write, you know, it was just that he was never able to dredge up anything profound or interesting to write about. It’s a surprisingly common phenomenon. But with Bombyx Mori he found his subject at last, didn’t he? Everybody hates me, everyone’s against me, I’m a genius and nobody can see it. The result is grotesque and comic, it reeks of bitterness and self-pity, but it has an undeniable fascination. And the language,’ said Fancourt, with the most enthusiasm he had so far brought to the discussion, ‘is admirable. Some passages are among the best things he ever wrote.’
‘This is all very useful,’ said Strike.
Fancourt seemed amused.
‘How?’
‘I’ve got a feeling that Bombyx Mori’s central to this case.’
‘“Case”?’ repeated Fancourt, smiling. There was a short pause. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you still think the killer of Owen Quine is at large?’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Strike.
‘Then,’ said Fancourt, smiling still more broadly, ‘wouldn’t it be more useful to analyse the writings of the killer rather than the victim?’
‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘but we don’t know whether the killer writes.’
‘Oh, nearly everyone does these days,’ said Fancourt. ‘The whole world’s writing novels, but nobody’s reading them.’
‘I’m sure people would read Bombyx Mori, especially if you did an introduction,’ said Strike.
‘I think you’re right,’ said Fancourt, smiling more broadly.
‘When exactly did you read the book for the first time?’
‘It would have been… let me see…’
Fancourt appeared to do a mental calculation.
‘Not until the, ah, middle of the week after Quine delivered it,’ said Fancourt. ‘Dan Chard called me, told me that Quine was trying to suggest that I had written the parody of Ellie’s book, and tried to persuade me to join him in legal action against Quine. I refused.’
‘Did Chard read any of it out to you?’
‘No,’ said Fancourt, smiling again. ‘Frightened he might lose his star acquisition, you see. No, he simply outlined the allegation that Quine had made and offered me the services of his lawyers.’
‘When was this telephone call?’
‘On the evening of the… seventh, it must have been,’ said Fancourt. ‘The Sunday night.’
‘The same day you filmed an interview about your new novel,’ said Strike.
‘You’re very well-informed,’ said Fancourt, his eyes narrowing.
‘I watched the programme.’
‘You know,’ said Fancourt, with a needle-prick of malice, ‘you don’t have the appearance of a man who enjoys arts programmes.’
‘I never said I enjoyed them,’ said Strike and was unsurprised to note that Fancourt appeared to enjoy his retort. ‘But I did notice that you misspoke when you said your first wife’s name on camera.’
Fancourt said nothing, but merely watched Strike over his wine glass.
‘You said “Eff” then corrected yourself, and said “Ellie”,’ said Strike.
‘Well, as you say – I misspoke. It can happen to the most articulate of us.’