The Constant Gardener

Tell her who I am later, he had reasoned. Don't scare her. Pick the time and place. Wiser. His cover was wearing thin but it was the only cover he had. He had been Atkinson at his German hotel and Atkinson when they beat him up. But they had addressed him as Mr. Quayle. As Atkinson nonetheless he had flown from Zurich to Toronto, gone to earth in a brick boarding house close to the railway station and, with a surreal sense of detachment, learned from his little radio of the worldwide manhunt for Dr. Arnold Bluhm, wanted in connection with the murder of Tessa Quayle. I'm an Oswald man, Justin… Arnold Bluhm lost his rag and killed Tessa… And it was as nobody at all that he had boarded the train to Winnipeg, waited a day, then boarded another to this little town. All the same he wasn't fooling himself. At best, he had a few days' march on them. But in a civilized country you could never tell.

* * *

"Peter?"

Justin woke abruptly and glanced at his watch. Nine at night. He had set a pen and notebook beside the telephone.

"This is Peter."

"I am Lara." It was a complaint.

"Hullo, Lara. Where can we meet?"

A sigh. A forlorn, terminally tired sigh to match the forlorn Slav voice. "It is not possible."

"Why not?"

"There is a car outside my house. Sometimes they put a van. They watch and listen all the time. To meet discreetly is not possible."

"Where are you now?"

"In a telephone kiosk." She made it sound as if she would never get out of it alive.

"Is anybody watching you now?"

"Nobody is visible. But it is night. Thank you for the roses."

"I can meet you wherever suits you. At a friend's house. Out in the country somewhere, if you prefer."

"You have a car?"

"No."

"Why not?" It was a rebuke and a challenge.

"I don't have the right documents with me."

"Who are you?"

"I told you. A friend of Birgit's. A British journalist. We can talk more about that when we meet."

She had rung off. His stomach was turning and he needed the lavatory, but the bathroom contained no telephone extension. He waited till he could wait no longer and scurried to the bathroom. With his trousers round his ankles he heard the phone ringing. It rang three times but by the time he had hobbled to it, it was dead. Head in hands he sat on the edge of the bed. I'm no bloody good at this. What would the spies do? What would crafty old Donohue do? With an Ibsen heroine on the line, the same as I'm doing now and probably worse. He checked his watch again, fearing he had lost his sense of time. He took it off and set it beside his pen and notepad. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Thirty. What the hell's happened to her? He put his watch back on, losing his temper while he tried to get the damned strap home.

"Peter?"

"Where can we meet? Anywhere you say."

"Birgit says you are her husband."

Oh God. Oh earth stand still. Oh Jesus.

"Birgit said that on the telephone?"

"She did not mention names. "He is her husband." That is all. She was discreet. Why did you not tell me you are her husband? Then I would not think you were a provocation."

"I was going to tell you when we met."

"I will telephone to my friend. You should not send me roses. It is exaggerated."

"What friend? Lara, be careful what you say to her. My name's Peter Atkinson. I'm a journalist. Are you still in the phone box?"

"Yes."

"The same one?"

"I am not observed. In winter they observe only from cars. They are lazy. No car is visible."

"Have you got enough coins?"

"I have a card."

"Use coins. Don't use a card. Did you use a card when you called Birgit?"

"It is not important."

It was half past ten before she called again. "My friend is assisting at an operation," she explained without apology. "The operation is complicated. I have another friend. She is willing. If you are afraid, take a taxi to Eaton's and walk the remaining distance."

"I'm not afraid. I'm prudent."

For God's sake, he thought, writing down the address. We haven't met, I've sent her two dozen exaggerated roses and we're having a lovers' tiff.

* * *

There were two ways to leave his motel: by the front door and one step down to the car park, or by the back door to the corridor that led, by a warren of other corridors, to reception. Switching out the lights in his room, Justin peered through the window at the car park. Under a full moon each parked car wore a silver halo of frost. Of the twenty-odd in the car park, only one was occupied. A woman sat in the driving seat. Her front passenger was a man. They were arguing. About roses? Or about the god Profit? The woman gesticulated, the man shook his head. The man got out and barked a final word at her, a curse, slammed the door, got into another car and drove away. The woman remained where she was. She lifted her hands in despair and drove them onto the top of the steering wheel, knuckles upward. She bowed her head into her hands and wept, shoulders heaving. Overcoming an absurd desire to comfort her, Justin hastened to the reception desk and ordered a cab.

* * *