The Constant Gardener

"Or in Justin's case it can be Moi's Boys, and Big Business, and the Foreign Office and us here in this room. We're all enemies. All conspirators. And Justin's the only person who knows it, which is another element of his paranoia. The victim, in Justin's eyes, is not Tessa but himself. Who your enemies are, if you're in Justin's shoes, depends on who you last listened to, what books and newspapers you've read recently, the movies you've seen and where you are in your bio-day. Incidentally, we're told Justin's drinking a lot, which I don't think was the case when he was here. The Pellegrin says lunch for two at his club cost him a month's pay."

Another trickle of nervous laughter, shared by pretty well everyone except Ghita. He skated on, admiring his own footwork, cutting figures in the ice, spinning, gliding. This is the part of me you hated most, he is telling Tessa breathlessly as he pirouettes and comes back to her. This is the voice that ruined England, you told me playfully as we danced.

This is the voice that sank a thousand ships, and they were all ours. Very funny. Well, listen to the voice now, girl. Listen to the artful dismantling of your late husband's reputation, courtesy of the Pellegrin and my five mind-warping years in the Foreign Office's ever-truthful Information Department.

A wave of nausea seized him as for a moment he hated every unfeeling surface of his own paradoxical nature. It was the nausea that could have him scurrying out of the room on the pretext of an urgent phone call or a natural need, just to get away from himself; or send him stumbling to this very desk, to pull open the drawer and grab a page of Her Majesty's Stationery Office blue, and fill the void in himself with declarations of adoration and promises of recklessness. Who did this to me? he wondered while he talked. Who made me what I am? England? My father? My schools? My pathetic, terrified mother? Or seventeen years of lying for my country? "We reach an age, Sandy," you were kind enough to inform me, "where our childhood is no longer an excuse. The problem in your case is, that age is going to be about ninety-five

."

He rode on. He was being brilliant again.

"What precise conspiracy Justin has dreamed up — and where we come into it, we in the High Commission — whether we're in league with the Freemasons, or the Jesuits, or the Ku Klux Klan, or the World Bank — I'm afraid I can't enlighten you. What I

can tell you is, he's out there. He's already made some serious insinuations, he's still very plausible, very personable — when wasn't he? — and it's perfectly possible that tomorrow or in three months' time he'll head this way." He hardened again. "In which case, you all — collectively and individually — are under instruction, please — this is not a request, I'm afraid, Ghita, it's a straight order-whatever your personal feelings toward Justin may be — and believe me, I'm no different, he's a sweet, kind, generous chap, we all know that-whatever time of night or day it is — to inform me. Or Porter when he's back. Or — " a glance at him — "Mike Mildren." He had nearly said Mildred. "Or if it's nighttime the High Commission's duty officer immediately

. Before the press or the police or anybody else gets to him — tell us."

Ghita's eyes, covertly observed, seemed darker and more languorous than ever, Donohue's sicklier. Scruffy Sheila's were as hard as diamonds and as unblinking. "For ease of reference — and for security reasons — London has given Justin the code name of Dutchman. As in Flying Dutchman. If by any chance — it's a long shot, but we're speaking of a deeply disturbed man with unlimited money at his disposal — if by any chance he crosses your path-directly, indirectly, hearsay, whatever — or has done so already — then for his sake as well as ours, pick up the phone, wherever you are, and say, "It's about the Dutchman, the Dutchman is doing this or that, I've got a letter from the Dutchman, he's just phoned or faxed or emailed me, he's sitting here in front of me in my armchair." Are we all completely clear on that one? Questions. Yes, Barney?"

"You said "serious insinuations." Who to? Insinuating what?"

It was the dangerous area. Woodrow had discussed it at length with Pellegrin on Porter Coleridge's encrypted telephone. "There seems to be very little pattern to it. He's obsessed with pharmaceutical stuff. As far as we can fathom, he's convinced himself that the manufacturers of a particular drug — and the inventors — were responsible for Tessa's murder."

"He thinks she didn't get her throat cut? He saw her body!" Barney again, disgusted.