The Constant Gardener

He had every idea. Poison. He had fetched Tessa from the hospital and was standing two steps below her on the staircase to their bedroom, holding her night bag in one hand and the bag of Garth's first clothes and bedclothes and nappies in the other, but he was watching her like a wrestler because, being Tessa, she had to manage on her own. As soon as she started to crumple he let go the bags and caught her before her knees gave way, and he felt the awful lightness of her, and the shaking and despair as she broke into her lament, not about dead Garth, but about dead Wanza. They killed her! she blurted, straight into his face because he was holding her so close. Those bastards killed Wanza, Justin! They killed her with their poison. Who did, darling? he asked, smoothing her sweated hair away from her cheeks and forehead. Who killed her? Tell me. With his arm across her emaciated back he manhandled her gently up the stairs. What bastards, darling? Tell me who the bastards are. Those bastards in ThreeBees. Those phony bloody doctors. The ones that wouldn't look at us! What sort of doctors are we talking about? — lifting her up and laying her on the bed, not giving her the slightest second chance to fall. Do they have names, the doctors? Tell me.

From deep in his inner world, he hears Lesley asking him the same question in reverse. "Does the name Lorbeer mean anything to you, Justin?"

If in doubt, lie, he has sworn to himself. If in hell, lie. If I trust nobody — not even myself — if I am to be loyal only to the dead, lie.

"I fear not," he replies.

"Not overheard anywhere — on the phone? Bits of chitchat between Arnold and Tessa? Lorbeer, German, Dutch — Swiss perhaps?"

"Lorbeer is not a name to me in any context."

"Kovacs — Hungarian woman? Dark hair, said to be a beauty?"

"Does she have a first name?" He means no again, but this time it's the truth.

"Nobody does," Lesley replies in a kind of desperation. "Emrich. Also a woman. But blonde. No?" She tosses her pencil onto the table in defeat. "So Wanza dies," she says. "Official. Killed by a man who wouldn't look at you. And today, six months later, you still don't know what of. She just died."

"It was never revealed to me. If Tessa or Arnold knew the cause of her death, I did not."

Rob and Lesley flop in their chairs like two athletes who have agreed to take time out. Leaning back, stretching his arms wide, Rob gives a stage sigh while Lesley stays leaning forward, cupping her chin in her hand, an expression of melancholy on her wise face.

"And you haven't made this up, then?" she asks Justin through her knuckles. "This whole pitch about the dying woman Wanza, her baby, the so-called doctor who was ashamed, the so-called students in white coats? It's not a tissue of lies from end to end, for example?"

"What a perfectly ridiculous suggestion! Why on earth should I waste your time inventing such a story?"

"The Uhuru Hospital's got no record of Wanza," Rob explains, equally despondent, from his half-recumbent position. "Tessa existed, so did your poor Garth. Wanza didn't. She was never there, she was never admitted, she was never treated by a doctor, pseudo or otherwise, no one observed her, no one prescribed for her. Her baby was never born, she never died, her body was never lost because it never existed. Our Les here had a go at speaking to a few of the nurses but they don't know nuffink, do they, Les?"

"Somebody had a quiet word with them before I did," Lesley explains.

* * *

Hearing a man's voice behind him, Justin swung round. But it was only the flight steward inquiring after his bodily comforts. Did Mr. Brown require a spot of help with the controls on his seat at all? Thank you, Mr. Brown preferred to remain upright. Or his video machine? Thank you, no, I have no need of it. Then would he like to have the blind across his window drawn at all? No, thank you — emphatically — Justin preferred his window open to the cosmos. Then what about a nice warm blanket for Mr. Brown? Out of incurable politeness, Justin accepted a blanket and returned his gaze to the black window in time to see Gloria barging into the dining room without knocking, carrying a tray of paste sandwiches. Setting it on the table, she sneaks a look at whatever Lesley has written in her notebook: fruitlessly, as it happens, for Lesley has deftly turned to a fresh page.

"You won't overwork our poor houseguest, will you, darlings? He's got quite enough on his plate as it is, haven't you, Justin?"

And a kiss on the cheek for Justin, and a music-hall exit for everyone, as the three of them with one mind spring to open the door for their jailer as she departs with the spent tea tray.

* * *

For a while after Gloria's intrusion the talk is piecemeal. They munch their sandwiches, Lesley opens a different notebook, a blue one, while Rob with his mouth full fires off a seemingly unrelated stream of questions.