The Constant Gardener

Ghita's flat was small, three rooms only, and all looking at the same run-down warehouse and the same bustling street with broken neon signs and honking cars and intrepid beggars who stood in their path until the last moment. A barred window gave onto an outside iron staircase that was supposed to be a fire escape, though for reasons of self-preservation the tenants had sawn off the bottom flight. But the upper flights were still intact, and on warm evenings Ghita could climb up to the roof and settle herself against the wooden cladding of the water tank, and study for the Foreign Service examination that she was determined to sit next year, and listen to the clatter of her fellow Asians up and down the building, and share their music and their arguments and their children, and almost convince herself she was among her own people.

And if this illusion vanished as soon as she drove through the gates of the High Commission and put on her other skin, the rooftop with its cats and chicken coops and washing and aerials remained one of the few places where she felt at ease — which was why perhaps she was not unduly surprised when Donohue proposed that they enjoy their coffee underneath the stars. How he knew she had a rooftop was a mystery to her, since he had never, so far as she knew, set foot in her apartment. But he knew. With Justin warily looking on, Donohue stepped over the threshold and, holding a finger to his lips, threaded his angular body through the window and onto the platform of the iron staircase, then beckoned them to follow him. Justin went next and by the time Ghita joined them with the coffee tray, Donohue was perched on a packing case, knees level with his ears. But Justin could settle nowhere. One minute he was posed like an embattled sentinel against the neon strips across the street, the next squatting at her side, head bowed, like a man drawing with his finger in the sand.

"How'd you make it through the lines, old boy?" Donohue inquired above the rumble of traffic, while he sipped his coffee. "Little bird told me you were in Saskatchewan couple of days ago."

"Safari package," said Justin.

"Via London?"

"Amsterdam."

"Big group?"

"Big as I could find."

"As Quayle?"

"More or less."

"When did you jump ship?"

"In Nairobi. Soon as we'd cleared Customs and Immigration."

"Smart lad. I misjudged you. Thought you'd use one of the land routes. Slip up from Tanzania or whatever."

"He wouldn't let me fetch him from the airport," Ghita put in protectively. "He came here by cab in the dark."

"What do you want?" Justin asked from another part of the darkness.

"A quiet life, if you don't mind, old boy. I've reached an age. No more scandal. No more lifting of stones. No more chaps sticking their necks out, looking for what isn't there anymore." His craggy silhouette turned to Ghita. "What did you go up to Loki for, dear?"

"She went for my sake," Justin's voice cut in, before she had thought of a reply.

"And so she should," Donohue said approvingly. "And for Tessa's sake too, I'm sure. Ghita's an admirable girl." And to Ghita again, more forcibly, "And you found what you were looking for, did you, dear? Mission accomplished? I'm sure it was."

Justin again, faster than before. "I asked her to check on Tessa's last days up there. To make sure they were doing what they said they were doing: attending the gender seminar. They were."

"And you agree with that version of events, do you, my dear?" Donohue inquired, back to Ghita.

"Yes."

"Well, good on you," Donohue remarked and took another sip of his coffee. "Shall we talk turkey?" he suggested to Justin.

"I thought we were doing that."

"About your plans."

"What plans?"

"Precisely. For example, if it were ever in your mind to have a quiet word with Kenny K. Curtiss, you'll be wasting your breath. I can tell you that for no fee."

"Why?"

"His bully boys are waiting for you, that's one reason. For another, he's out of the race, if he was ever completely in it. The banks have taken his toys away. ThreeBees' pharmaceutical interests will go back to where they came from: KVH."

No reaction.

"My point being, Justin, that there's not a lot of satisfaction to be had from firing bullets into somebody who's already dead. If it's satisfaction you're looking for. Is it?"

No answer.

"As to the murder of your wife, much as it pains me to have to tell you this, Kenny K was not, repeat not complicit, as we say in court. Neither was his sidekick Mr. Crick, though I've no doubt he'd have leaped at the opportunity if it had been offered to him. Crick was under standing instructions to report Arnold's and Tessa's movements to KVH, naturally. He made ample use of Kenny Knowledge's local assets, notably the Kenyan police, to keep an ear and an eye out for them. But Crick was no more complicit than Kenny K. A watching brief doesn't make him a murderer."

"Who did Crick report to?" Justin's voice asked.