nastiest – the nastiest—’ before exploding again into coughs.
‘Why would Mr Quine try and publish something that was bound to get him sued?’ Strike asked when she had stopped coughing.
‘Because Owen doesn’t think he’s subject to the same laws as the rest of society,’ she said roughly. ‘He thinks himself a genius, an
enfant terrible
. He takes pride in causing offence. He thinks it’s brave, heroic.’
‘What did you do with the book when you’d looked at it?’
‘I called Owen,’ she said, closing her eyes momentarily in what seemed to be fury at herself. ‘And said, “Yes, jolly good,” and I got Ralph to pick the damn thing up from my house, and asked him to make two copies, and send one to Jerry Waldegrave, Owen’s editor at Roper Chard and the other, G-God help me, to Christian Fisher.’
‘Why didn’t you just email the manuscript to the office?’ asked Strike curiously. ‘Didn’t you have it on a memory stick or something?’
She ground out her cigarette in a glass ashtray full of stubs.
‘Owen insists on continuing to use the old electric typewriter on which he wrote
Hobart’s Sin
. I don’t know whether it’s affectation or stupidity. He’s remarkably ignorant about technology. Maybe he tried to use a laptop and couldn’t. It’s just another way he contrives to make himself awkward.’
‘And why did you send copies to two publishers?’ asked Strike, although he already knew the answer.
‘Because Jerry Waldegrave might be a blessed saint and the nicest man in publishing,’ she replied, sipping more coffee, ‘but even
he’s
lost patience with Owen and his tantrums lately. Owen’s last book for Roper Chard barely sold. I thought it was only sensible to have a second string to our bow.’
‘When did you realise what the book was really about?’
‘Early that evening,’ she croaked. ‘Ralph called me. He’d sent off the two copies and then had a flick through the original. He phoned me and said, “Liz, have you actually read this?”’
Strike could well imagine the trepidation with which the pale young assistant had made the call, the courage it had taken, the agonised deliberation with his female colleague before he had reached his decision.
‘I had to admit I hadn’t… or not thoroughly,’ she muttered. ‘He read me a few choice excerpts I’d missed and…’
She picked up the onyx lighter and flicked it absently before looking up at Strike.
‘Well, I panicked. I phoned Christian Fisher, but the call went straight to voicemail, so I left a message telling him that the manuscript that had been sent over was a first draft, that he wasn’t to read it, that I’d made a mistake and would he please return it as soon as – as soon as p-possible. I called Jerry next, but I couldn’t reach him either. He’d told me he was going away for an anniversary weekend with his wife. I hoped he wouldn’t have any time for reading, so I left a message along the lines of the one I’d left for Fisher.
‘Then I called Owen back.’
She lit yet another cigarette. Her large nostrils flared as she inhaled; the lines around her mouth deepened.
‘I could barely get the words out and it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. He talked over me as only Owen can, absolutely delighted with himself. He said we ought to meet to have dinner and celebrate the completion of the book.
‘So I dragged myself into clothes, and I went to the River Café and I waited. And in came Owen.
‘He wasn’t even late. He’s usually late. He was virtually floating on air, absolutely elated. He genuinely thinks he’s done something brave and marvellous. He’d started to talk about film adaptations before I managed to get a word in edgeways.’
When she expelled smoke from her scarlet mouth she looked truly dragonish, with her shining black eyes.
‘When I told him that I think what he’s produced is vile, malicious and unpublishable, he jumped up, sent his chair flying and began
‘Why would Mr Quine try and publish something that was bound to get him sued?’ Strike asked when she had stopped coughing.
‘Because Owen doesn’t think he’s subject to the same laws as the rest of society,’ she said roughly. ‘He thinks himself a genius, an
enfant terrible
. He takes pride in causing offence. He thinks it’s brave, heroic.’
‘What did you do with the book when you’d looked at it?’
‘I called Owen,’ she said, closing her eyes momentarily in what seemed to be fury at herself. ‘And said, “Yes, jolly good,” and I got Ralph to pick the damn thing up from my house, and asked him to make two copies, and send one to Jerry Waldegrave, Owen’s editor at Roper Chard and the other, G-God help me, to Christian Fisher.’
‘Why didn’t you just email the manuscript to the office?’ asked Strike curiously. ‘Didn’t you have it on a memory stick or something?’
She ground out her cigarette in a glass ashtray full of stubs.
‘Owen insists on continuing to use the old electric typewriter on which he wrote
Hobart’s Sin
. I don’t know whether it’s affectation or stupidity. He’s remarkably ignorant about technology. Maybe he tried to use a laptop and couldn’t. It’s just another way he contrives to make himself awkward.’
‘And why did you send copies to two publishers?’ asked Strike, although he already knew the answer.
‘Because Jerry Waldegrave might be a blessed saint and the nicest man in publishing,’ she replied, sipping more coffee, ‘but even
he’s
lost patience with Owen and his tantrums lately. Owen’s last book for Roper Chard barely sold. I thought it was only sensible to have a second string to our bow.’
‘When did you realise what the book was really about?’
‘Early that evening,’ she croaked. ‘Ralph called me. He’d sent off the two copies and then had a flick through the original. He phoned me and said, “Liz, have you actually read this?”’
Strike could well imagine the trepidation with which the pale young assistant had made the call, the courage it had taken, the agonised deliberation with his female colleague before he had reached his decision.
‘I had to admit I hadn’t… or not thoroughly,’ she muttered. ‘He read me a few choice excerpts I’d missed and…’
She picked up the onyx lighter and flicked it absently before looking up at Strike.
‘Well, I panicked. I phoned Christian Fisher, but the call went straight to voicemail, so I left a message telling him that the manuscript that had been sent over was a first draft, that he wasn’t to read it, that I’d made a mistake and would he please return it as soon as – as soon as p-possible. I called Jerry next, but I couldn’t reach him either. He’d told me he was going away for an anniversary weekend with his wife. I hoped he wouldn’t have any time for reading, so I left a message along the lines of the one I’d left for Fisher.
‘Then I called Owen back.’
She lit yet another cigarette. Her large nostrils flared as she inhaled; the lines around her mouth deepened.
‘I could barely get the words out and it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. He talked over me as only Owen can, absolutely delighted with himself. He said we ought to meet to have dinner and celebrate the completion of the book.
‘So I dragged myself into clothes, and I went to the River Café and I waited. And in came Owen.
‘He wasn’t even late. He’s usually late. He was virtually floating on air, absolutely elated. He genuinely thinks he’s done something brave and marvellous. He’d started to talk about film adaptations before I managed to get a word in edgeways.’
When she expelled smoke from her scarlet mouth she looked truly dragonish, with her shining black eyes.
‘When I told him that I think what he’s produced is vile, malicious and unpublishable, he jumped up, sent his chair flying and began
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