The Constant Gardener

The permanent government of England, on which her transient politicians spin and posture like so many table dancers, had once more done its duty: except, that is, in one small but irritating respect. Justin, it seemed, had spent the last weeks of his life composing a "black dossier" purporting to prove that Tessa and Bluhm had been murdered for knowing too much about the evil dealings of one of the world's most prestigious pharmaceutical companies, which so far had contrived to remain anonymous. Some upstart solicitor of Italian origin — a relation of the dead woman to boot — had come forward and, making free use of his late clients' money, retained the services of a professional troublemaker who hid behind the mask of public relations agent. The same hapless solicitor had allied himself with a firm of supercharged City lawyers famous for their pugnacity. The house of Oakey, Oakey and Farmeloe representing the unnamed company, challenged the use of clients' funds for this purpose, but without success. They had to content themselves with serving writs on any newspaper that dared take up the story.

Yet some did, and the rumors persisted. Scotland Yard, called in to examine the material, publicly declared it "baseless and a bit sad" and declined to forward it to the Crown Prosecution Service. But the lawyers for the dead couple, far from throwing in the sponge, resorted to Parliament. A Scottish MP, also a lawyer, was suborned, and tabled an innocuous parliamentary question of the Foreign Secretary concerning the health of the African continent at large. The Foreign Secretary batted it away with his customary grace, only to find himself grappling with a supplementary that went for the jugular.

Q: Has the Foreign Secretary knowledge of any written representations made to his department during the last twelve months by the late, tragically murdered Mrs. Tessa Quayle?

A: I require notice of that question.

Q: Is that a "no" I'm hearing?

A: I have no knowledge of such representations made during her lifetime.

Q: Then she wrote to you posthumously, perhaps? (laughter.)

In the written and verbal exchanges that followed, the Foreign Secretary first denied all knowledge of the documents, then protested that in view of pending legal actions they were sub judice. After "further extensive and costly research" he finally admitted to having "discovered" the documents, only to conclude that they had received all the attention they merited, then or now, "having regard for the disturbed mental condition of the writer." Imprudently, he added that the documents were classified.

Q: Does the Foreign Office regularly classify writings of people of disturbed mental condition? (laughter.)

A: In cases where such writings could cause embarrassment to innocent third parties, yes.

Q: Or to the Foreign Office, perhaps?

A: I am thinking of the needless pain that could be inflicted on the deceased's close relatives.

Q: Then be at peace. Mrs. Quayle had no close relatives.

A: These are not however the only interests I am obliged to consider.

Q: Thank you. I think I have heard the answer I was waiting for.

Next day a formal request for the release of the Quayle papers was presented to the Foreign Office and backed by an application to the High Court. Simultaneously, and surely not by coincidence, a parallel initiative was mounted in Brussels by lawyers for friends and family of the late Dr. Arnold Bluhm. During the preliminary hearing, a racially varied crowd of mischief makers dressed in symbolic white coats paraded for television cameras outside the Brussels Palace of Justice and brandished placards bearing the slogan 'Nous Accusons'. The nuisance was quickly dealt with. A string of cross-petitions by the Belgian lawyers ensured that the case would run for years. However, it was now common knowledge that the company in question was none other than Karel Vita Hudson.

* * *

"Up there, that's the Lokomormyang range," Captain McKenzie informs Justin over the intercom. "Gold and oil. Kenya and Sudan been fighting about it for well on a hundred years. Old maps give it to the Sudan, new ones give it to Kenya. I reckon somebody slipped the cartographer a backhander."

Captain McKenzie is one of those tactful men who knows exactly when to be irrelevant. His chosen plane this time is a Beech Baron with twin engines. Justin sits beside him in the copilot's seat, listening without hearing, now to Captain McKenzie, now to the banter of other pilots in the vicinity: "How are we today, Mac? Are we above the cloud level or below?" — "Where the hell are you, man?" — "A mile to your right and a thousand feet below you. What's happened to your eyesight?" They are flying over flat brown slabs of rock, darkening into blue. The clouds are thick above them. Vivid red patches appear where the sun breaks through to strike the rock. The foothills ahead of them are tousled and untidy. A road appears like a vein among the muscles of the rock.