The Constant Gardener

Now it was Donohue that Woodrow was discreetly favoring, no longer Ghita. Woodrow's gaze, by careful design, was fixed on neither one of them, of course. Ostensibly it oscillated between the middle air and the notes on his desk. But in reality he was focusing on Donohue and persuading himself with increasing conviction that once again Donohue and his scrawny Sheila had received prior warning of Justin's defection.

"On the same day that he arrived in Britain — the same night, more accurately — Justin sent a somewhat disingenuous letter to the Head of Personnel advising her that he was taking leave to sort out his wife's affairs. He used the ordinary mail, which in effect gave him three days to get clear. By the time Personnel moved to put a restraining hand on him — for his own good, I may add — he'd disappeared from everybody's screens. Signs are, he went to considerable lengths to conceal his movements. He's been traced to Elba, where Tessa had estates, but by the time the Office got on the scent he'd moved on. Where to, God knows, but there are suspicions. He'd made no formal leave application, of course, and the Office, for its part, was in the throes of deciding how it could best help him back on his feet — find him a slot where he could nurse his wounds for a year or two." A shrug to suggest there wasn't a lot of gratitude in the world. "Well, whatever he's doing, he's doing it alone. And he's certainly not doing it for us."

He glanced grimly at his audience, then went back to his notes.

"There's a security aspect to this that I obviously can't share with you, so the Office is doubly exercised about where he's going to pop up next and how. They're also decently worried for him, as I'm sure we all are. Having shown a lot of bearing and self-control while he was here, he seems to have gone to pieces from the strain." He was coming to the hard part but they were steeled for it. "We have various readings from the experts, none of them, from our point of view, pleasant."

The general's son soldiers gallantly on.

"One likelihood, according to the clever people who read entrails in these cases, is that Justin is in denial — that's to say, he refuses to accept that his wife is dead and he's gone looking for her. It's very painful, but we're talking of the logic of a temporarily deranged mind. Or we hope it's temporary. Another theory, equally likely or unlikely, says he's on a vengeance trip, looking for Bluhm. It seems that the Pellegrin, with the best of intentions, let slip that Bluhm was under suspicion for Tessa's murder. Maybe Justin took the ball and ran. Sad. Very sad indeed."

For a moment, in his ever-fluctuating vision of himself, Woodrow became the embodiment of this sadness. He was the decent face of a caring British civil service. He was the Roman adjudicator, slow to judge, slower to condemn. He was your man of the world, not afraid of hard decisions but determined to let his best instincts rule. Emboldened by the excellence of his performance, he felt free to improvise.

"It seems that people in Justin's condition very often have agendas they themselves may not be aware of. They're on automatic pilot, waiting for an excuse to do what they're unconsciously planning to do anyway. A bit like suicides. Somebody says something in jest and — and bang, they've triggered it."

Was he talking too much? Too little? Was he straying from the point? Ghita was scowling at him like an angry sibyl, and there was something at the back of Donohue's shaggy yellowed eyes that Woodrow couldn't read. Contempt? Anger? Or just that permanent air of having a different purpose, of coming from a different place and going back to it?

"But the most likely theory of what's in Justin's head at the moment, I'm afraid — the one that best fits the known facts, and is favored, I must tell you, by the Office shrinks — is that Justin has hit the conspiracy trail, which could be very serious indeed. If you can't deal with the reality, then dream up a conspiracy. If you can't accept that your mother died of cancer, then blame the doctor who was attending her. And the surgeons. And the anesthetists. And the nurses. Who were all in league with each other, of course. And collectively conspired

to do away with her. And that seems to be exactly what Justin's saying to himself about Tessa. Tessa wasn't just raped and murdered. Tessa was the victim of an international intrigue. She didn't die because she was young and attractive and desperately unlucky, but because They wanted her dead. Who They are — I'm afraid that one's up to you. It can be your neighborhood greengrocer, or the Salvation Army lady who rang your doorbell and flogged you a copy of their magazine. They're all in it. They all conspired to kill Tessa."

A patter of embarrassed laughter. Had he over-spoken or were they coming to him? Harden up. You're getting too broad.