‘Writers vary,’ said Waldegrave. ‘But Owen was always up the secretive end of the scale. He liked the big reveal, you know. Appealed to his sense of drama.’
‘Police will have asked you about your movements after you got the book, I suppose,’ said Strike casually.
‘Yeah, been through all that,’ said Waldegrave indifferently. He was attempting, without much success, to prise spines out of the Dover sole he had recklessly asked to be left on the bone. ‘Got the manuscript on Friday, didn’t look at it until the Sunday—’
‘You were meant to be away, weren’t you?’
‘Paris,’ said Waldegrave. ‘Anniversary weekend. Di’n’t happen.’
‘Something came up?’
Waldegrave emptied the last of the wine into his glass. Several drops of the dark liquid fell onto the white tablecloth and spread.
‘Had a row, a bloody awful row, on the way to Heathrow. Turned round, went back home.’
‘Rough,’ said Strike.
‘On the rocks for years,’ said Waldegrave, abandoning his unequal struggle with the sole and throwing down his knife and fork with a clatter that made nearby diners look round. ‘JoJo’s grown up. No point any more. Splitting up.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Strike.
Waldegrave shrugged lugubriously and took more wine. The lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses were covered in fingerprints and his shirt collar was grubby and frayed. He had the look, thought Strike, who was experienced in such matters, of a man who has slept in his clothes.
‘You went straight home after the row, did you?’
‘’S a big house. No need to see each other if we don’t want to.’
The drops of wine were spreading like crimson blossoms on the snowy tablecloth.
‘Black spot, that’s what this reminds me of,’ said Waldegrave. ‘Treasure Island, y’know… black spot. Suspicion on everyone who read that bloody book. Ev’ryone looking sideways at ev’ryone else. Ev’ryone who knows the ending’s suspect. Police in my bloody office, ev’ryone staring…
‘I read it on Sunday,’ he said, lurching back to Strike’s question, ‘’n I told Liz Tassel what I thought of her – and life went on. Owen not answering his phone. Thought he was probably having a breakdown – had my own bloody problems. Daniel Chard going berserk…
‘Fuck him. Resigned. Had enough. Accusations. No more. Being bloody bawled out in front of the whole office. No more.’
‘Accusations?’ asked Strike.
His interview technique was starting to feel like the dexterous flicking of Subbuteo football figures; the wobbling interviewee directed by the right, light touch. (Strike had had an Arsenal set in the seventies; he had played Dave Polworth’s custom-painted Plymouth Argyles, both boys lying belly-down on Dave’s mum’s hearthrug.)
‘Dan thinks I gossiped about him to Owen. Bloody idiot. Thinks the world doesn’t know… been gossip for years. Didn’t have to tell Owen. Ev’ryone knows.’
‘That Chard’s gay?’
‘Gay, who cares… repressed. Not sure Dan even knows he’s gay. But he likes pretty young men, likes painting ’em in the nude. Common knowledge.’
‘Did he offer to paint you?’ asked Strike.
‘Christ, no,’ said Waldegrave. ‘Joe North told me, years ago. Ah!’
He had caught the wine waiter’s eye.
‘’Nother glass of this, please.’
Strike was only grateful he had not asked for a bottle.
‘I’m sorry, sir, we don’t do that by the—’
‘Anything, then. Red. Anything.
‘Years ago, this was,’ Waldegrave went on, picking up where he had left off. ‘Dan wanted Joe to pose for him; Joe told him to piss off. Common knowledge, f’years.’
He leaned back, ramming the large woman behind him again, who unfortunately was now eating soup. Strike watched her angry dining companion summon a passing waiter to complain. The waiter bent down to Waldegrave and said apologetically, yet with firmness:
‘Would you mind pulling in your chair, sir? The lady behind you—’
‘Sorry, sorry.’
Waldegrave tugged himself nearer Strike, placed his elbows on the table, pushed his tangled hair out of his eyes and said loudly:
‘Head up his bloody arse.’
‘Who?’ asked Strike, finishing with regret the best meal he had had in a long time.
‘Dan. Handed the bloody company on a plate… rolling in it all his life… let him live in the country and paint his houseboy if that’s what he wants… had enough of it. Start my own… start my own bloody company.’
Waldegrave’s mobile phone rang. It took him a while to locate it. He peered over his glasses at the caller’s number before answering.
‘What’s up, JoJo?’
Busy though the restaurant was, Strike heard the response: shrill, distant screaming down the line. Waldegrave looked horrified.
‘JoJo? Are you—?’
But then the doughy, amiable face became tauter than Strike could have believed. Veins stood out on Waldegrave’s neck and his mouth stretched in an ugly snarl.
‘Fuck you!’ he said, and his voice carried loudly to all the surrounding tables so that fifty heads jerked upwards, conversations stalled. ‘Do not call me on JoJo’s number! No, you drunken fucking – you heard me – I drink because I’m fucking married to you, that’s why!’
The overweight woman behind Waldegrave looked around, outraged. Waiters were glaring; one had so far forgotten himself as to have paused with a Yorkshire pudding halfway to a Japanese businessman’s plate. The decorous gentleman’s club had doubtless seen other drunken brawls, but they could not fail to shock among the dark wood panels, the glass chandeliers and the bills of fare, where everything was stolidly British, calm and staid.
‘Well, whose fucking fault’s that?’ shouted Waldegrave.
He staggered to his feet, ramming his unfortunate neighbour yet again, but this time there was no remonstrance from her companion. The restaurant had fallen silent. Waldegrave was weaving his way out of it, a bottle and a third to the bad, swearing into his mobile, and Strike, stranded at the table, was amused to find in himself some of the disapproval felt in the mess for the man who cannot hold his drink.
‘Bill, please,’ said Strike to the nearest gaping waiter. He was disappointed that he had not gotten to sample the spotted dick, which he had noted on the bill of fare, but he must catch Waldegrave if he could.