The Constant Gardener

"From Tessa. From what Tessa told you when she was being coherent," Rob explained, and smiled so broadly that his good humor became a disturbing element, the precursor of a joke they had yet to share. "Was the sick woman in Tessa's ward — whose baby she was feeding — receiving any medical attention from anyone, according to Tessa?" he asked patiently, composing his words to fit some unspecified parlor game. "Was the sick woman being visited — or examined — or observed — or treated — by anyone, male or female, black or white, be they doctors, nurses, nondoctors, outsiders, insiders, hospital sweepers, visitors or plain people?" He sat back: wriggle out of that one.

Woodrow was becoming aware of the scale of his predicament. How much more did they know that they weren't revealing? The name Lorbeer had sounded in his head like a death knell. What other names were they about to throw at him? How much more could he deny and stay upright? What had Coleridge told them? Why was he withholding comfort, refusing to collude? Or was he confessing all, behind Woodrow's back?

"She had some story about the woman being visited by little men in white coats," he replied disdainfully. "I assumed she had dreamed it. Or was dreaming it while she related it. I gave it no credence." And nor should you, he was saying.

"Why were the white coats visiting her? According to Tessa's story. In what you call her dream."

"Because the men in white coats had killed the woman. At one point she called them the coincidences." He had decided to tell the truth and ridicule it. "I think she also called them greedy. They wished to cure her, but were unable to do so. The story was a load of rubbish."

"Cure her how?"

"That was not revealed."

"Killed her how, then?"

"I'm afraid she was equally unclear on that point."

"Had she written it down at all?"

"The story? How could she?"

"Had she made notes? Did she read to you from notes?"

"I told you. To my knowledge she had no notebook."

Rob tilted his long head to one side in order to observe Woodrow from a different angle, and perhaps a more telling one. "Arnold Bluhm doesn't think the story was a load of rubbish. He doesn't think she was incoherent. Arnold reckons she was bang on target with everything she said. Right, Les?"

* * *

The blood had drained from Woodrow's face, he could feel it. Yet even in the aftershock of their words he remained as steady under fire as any other seasoned diplomat who must hold the fort. Somehow he found the voice. And the indignation. "I'm sorry. Are you saying you've found Bluhm? That's utterly outrageous."

"You mean you don't want us to find him?" Rob inquired, puzzled.

"I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that you're here on terms, and that if you have found Bluhm or spoken to him, you're under a clear obligation to share that knowledge with the High Commission."

But Rob was already shaking his head. "No way we've found him, sir. Wish we had. But we've found a few papers of his. Useful bits and pieces, as you might say, lying around his flat. Nothing sensational, unfortunately. A few case notes, which I suppose might interest someone. Copies of the odd rude letter the doctor sent to this or that firm, laboratory, or teaching hospital around the world. And that's about it, isn't it, Les?"

"Lying around's a bit of an exaggeration, actually," Lesley admitted. "Stashed is more like. There was one batch pasted to the back of a picture frame, another underneath the bathtub. Took us all day. Well, most of one, anyway." She licked her finger and turned a page of her notebook.

"Plus the whoevers had forgotten his car," Rob reminded her.

"More like a rubbish tip than a flat by the time they'd finished with it," Lesley agreed. "No art to it. Just smash and grab. Mind you, we get that in London these days. Someone's posted missing or dead in the papers, the villains are round there the same morning, helping themselves. Our crime prevention people are getting quite bothered about it. Mind if we bounce a couple more names off you a minute, Mr. Woodrow?" she inquired, raising her gray eyes and turning them steadily upon him.

"Make yourselves at home," said Woodrow, as if they hadn't.

"Kovacs — believed Hungarian — woman-young. Raven-black hair, long legs-he'll be giving us her vital statistics next — first name unknown, researcher."

"You'd remember her all right," said Rob.

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Emrich. Medical doctor, research scientist, first qualified in Petersburg, took a German degree at Leipzig, did research work in Gdansk. Female. No description available. Name to you?"

"I've never heard of such a person in my life. Nobody of that description, nobody of that name, nobody of that origin or qualification."

"Blimey. You really haven't heard of her, have you?"