Louise Welsh’s intensely atmospheric debut novel, The Cutting Room, won prizes and plaudits when it was published in 2002. Its protagonist is Rilke, a gay auctioneer and accidental sleuth who stumbles upon a disturbing cache of photographs. Now, 20 years later, comes an equally compelling sequel, The Second Cut, in which Rilke must navigate Grindr, queerwashing and Covid restrictions, as well as murky goings-on in a crumbling mansion and the sudden death of an old friend. Welsh, who was born in 1965, is a professor of creative writing and former antiquarian bookseller. Like Rilke, she lives in Glasgow with her partner, the writer Zoë Strachan.
Why did you wait so long to write a sequel?
You have to have the right story, and I guess I didn’t really feel I had anything to add. The Cutting Room changed my life, so I didn’t want to do something rubbish.
What made you feel differently?
I think enough has changed now. I wrote that first book with hysterical laughter and a lot of anger during the campaign to defeat clause 28. Now we’ve had equal marriage for a long time, hate laws... A lot has changed in the world of auctions too. Also, something nice happened: the Saltire first book award did a best-winner-of-30-years prize [the Most Inspiring Saltire First Book award], and the public voted for The Cutting Room. It was just another little shove.
How was it to re-encounter Rilke?
It was really good fun. I didn’t go back and read the previous book – you don’t want to ventriloquise something you did earlier – but we share some memories, Rilke and I, about the history of this city. Another pleasure was that I got permission to think about the fabric of stuff, because Rilke is an auctioneer [both novels involve him being called to do a house clearance]. When he picks something up, he knows where it came from, and there’s detective work in that.
Do you and Rilke share any characteristics?
He’s tall, he’s thin, he’s male – my opposite in terms of physicality. And I think he’s better than me: he sees something wrong and goes and fixes it. We do share a sense of humour.
Did you plot much before you started writing?
It was like driving with the lights off – you have scenes in mind but there’s a lot of instinct. I knew I wanted to start off with the two Bobbys’ wedding [Rilke’s friends have the same name]. People still have ideas that queer lives are a bit transitory; they confuse it with just being completely sexual – chance would be a fine thing! And so I wanted that image of a relationship that’s enduring, because Rilke won’t have that. To an extent, the genre demands that; if he settles down, it’s a different book.
Does being described as a crime writer make you feel boxed-in?
It’s a hugely broad church so I’m happy. Along with love stories and ghost stories, crime writing is an essential of life. Love, fear, justice – it’s always been there. I guess the fact that at times it’s been a denigrated genre means that the person on the street is empowered to pick it up, and that makes it a great political tool. Each writer decides their own ethics too, so my books don’t have that many murders in them, and they tend not to have the naked, tortured, female body.
Do you worry about the impact of images like that?
It’s not my favourite image. At the same time we know that women are being murdered, so how do we represent the world if we don’t represent this torture, which we know some people enjoy and find energising for some reason? I think Denise Mina is really good at engaging with misogynistic aspects of society. You can feel the political commitment and yet she’s expressing it within a story that people will want to read. It’s good advocacy work.
How integral is Scottishness to your writing?
Identity is funny because you don’t go to your desk thinking, Here I am, a lesbian Scottish novelist, writing at the start of the 21st century… But I do inhabit that landscape and it’s the language that I draw on.
You’ve a wall of books behind you (we are on Zoom). How do you organise them?
It’s very willy-nilly, like a reflection of my brain. You can’t find anything. We’re moving to the apartment downstairs and so maybe we’ll crack it this time.
As an ex-bookseller, are you good at packing books?
The thing is you get distracted, because you think, I remember reading that. Luckily, I’ve got a very strong friend who’s going to help. I won’t be able to watch because he runs with the boxes and I catastrophise – I can see accidents everywhere.
What was the last really great book you read?
I really liked Pat Barker’s The Women of Troy. The things it tells you about war and consistency of the way in which women in particular are treated – she’s an incredible writer. I also thought Ai Weiwei’s 1,000 Years of Joys and Sorrows was great.
Has any of your childhood reading stuck with you?
All the Robert Louis Stevenson – I think because it was read to me. I used to take out of the library a series of Alfred Hitchcock ghost stories with very lurid covers, and I still remember some of those. That’s possibly why I write the kind of things that I do. What do I associate reading with? Adventure, getting frightened or sad – an emotional response, all that stuff that makes the blood run faster.
What’s the last book you put down without finishing?
I haven’t finished One Thousand and One Nights yet. I started it because I was interested in the story of The Three Apples, which is about a woman whose body is dismembered, so it’s a really early iteration of that image we were talking about.
Do you have a favourite literary hero?
I love Sarah Waters’s books, and her female characters – she always has someone who is heroic and admirable and flawed enough for you to like. I’ve also been thinking about Rebecca recently – which I don’t think is the best book in the world, but who wouldn’t want a friend like Mrs Danvers? She’s so very loyal and passionate.
• The Second Cut by Louise Welsh is published by Canongate (£14.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
