The Silkworm

Drunks were always tricky interviewees. Back in the SIB, intoxicated suspects or witnesses had been a rarity. He remembered the alcoholic major whose twelve-year-old daughter had disclosed sexual abuse at her school in Germany. When Strike had arrived at the family house the major had taken a swing at him with a broken bottle. Strike had laid him out. But here in the civilian world, with the wine waiter hovering, this drunken, mild-mannered editor could choose to walk away and there would be nothing Strike could do about it. He could only hope for a chance to double back to the subject of the Cutter, to keep Waldegrave in his seat, to keep him talking.

The trolley now wended its stately way to Strike’s side. A rib of Scottish beef was carved with ceremony while Waldegrave was presented with Dover sole.

No taxis for three months, Strike told himself sternly, salivating as his plate was heaped with Yorkshire puddings, potatoes and parsnips. The trolley trundled away again. Waldegrave, who was now two-thirds of the way down his bottle of wine, contemplated his fish as though he was not quite sure how it had ended up in front of him, and put a small potato in his mouth with his fingers.

“Did Quine discuss what he was writing with you, before he handed in his manuscripts?” asked Strike.

“Never,” said Waldegrave. “The only thing he ever told me about Bombyx Mori was that the silkworm was a metaphor for the writer, who has to go through agonies to get at the good stuff. That was it.”

“He never asked for your advice or input?”

“No, no, Owen always thought he knew best.”

“Is that usual?”

“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 prize 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 anymore. 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.