The Constant Gardener

"All she cared about. Anytime she thought I was getting fat and comfortable: pow, in there with another e-mail about company records." More crashing of pans deflected Ham to other paths. "Cheated at tennis, know that? In Turin. Oh yes. Little minx and self were partnered in a kiddywink knockout competition. Lied like a trooper all through the match. Every line call: out. Could be a yard in, didn't make a blind bit of difference. Out. "I'm Italian," she said, "I'm allowed to." "Like hell you're Italian," I said. "You're English to your boots, same as me." God alone knows what I'd have done if we'd won. Given the cup back, I suppose. No, I wouldn't. She'd have killed me. Oh Christ. Sorry."

Justin stepped into the drawing room to take his place before a greasy slag heap of bacon, egg, sausages, fried bread and tomatoes. Ham was standing with one hand crammed to his mouth, dazed by his unhappy choice of metaphor.

"What sort of companies exactly, Ham? Don't look like that. You'll put me off my breakfast."

"Ownership," said Ham through his knuckles, as he sat down opposite Justin at the tiny table. "Whole thing was about ownership. Who owned two pissy little companies in the Isle of Man. Anyone else call her Tess, d'you know?" he asked, still chastened. "Apart from me?"

"Not in my hearing. And certainly not in hers. "Tess" was your sole copyright."

"Loved her rotten, you see."

"And she loved you. What sort of companies?"

"Intellectual property. Never had it off with her, mind. Too close."

"And in case you were wondering, it was the same with Bluhm."

"Is that official?"

"He didn't kill her, either. Any more than you or I did."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

Ham brightened. "Old Meg wasn't convinced. Didn't know Tess the way I did, you see. Special thing. Can't be replicated. "Tess has chums," I told her. "Buddies. The demon sex doesn't come into it." I'll tell her what you said, if you don't mind. Cheer her up. All that shit in the press. Sort of rebounded on me."

"So where were these companies registered? What were their names? Do you remember?"

"'Course I remember. Couldn't help bloody remembering, with old Tess hammering away at me every other day."

Ham was pouring tea, clutching the teapot in both hands, one for the pot, one to keep the lid from falling off while he grumbled. The operation completed, he sat back, still nursing the teapot, then lowered his head as if he were about to charge.

"All right," he demanded aggressively. "Name me the most secretive, duplicitous, mendacious, hypocritical bunch of corporate wide boys it's been my dubious pleasure to encounter."

"Defense," Justin suggested disingenuously.

"Wrong. Pharmaceutical. Beats Defense into a cocked hat. I've got it now. Knew I would. Lorpharma and Pharmabeer."

"Who?"

"It was in some medical rag. Lorpharma discovered the molecule and Pharmabeer owned the process. Knew I would. How those chaps come up with names like that, God knows."

"Process to do what?"

"Produce the molecule, arsehole, what do you think?"

"What molecule?"

"God knows. Same as the law but worse. Words I've never seen before, hope never to see 'em again. Blind the punters with science. Keep 'em in their place."

After breakfast they went downstairs together and put the Gladstone in Ham's strongroom next door to his office. Lips pursed for discretion, eyes lifted to the heavens, Ham spun the combination and hauled back the steel door for Justin to go in alone. Then watched from the doorway while Justin laid the bag on the floor close to a pile of age-honored leather boxes with the firm's Turin address embossed on the lid.

"That was only the beginning, mark you," Ham warned darkly, affecting indignation. "A canter round the course before the real thing. After that it was names of directors of all companies owned by Messrs. Karel Vita Hudson of Vancouver, Seattle, Basel plus every city you've heard of from Oshkosh to East Pinner. And "What's the state of play regarding the much-publicized rumors of an imminent collapse of the noble and ancient house of Balls, Birmingham and Bumfluff Limited or whatever they're called, known otherwise as ThreeBees, president for life and master of the universe one Kenneth K. Curtiss, knight?"' Did she have any more questions? you wonder. Yes, she bloody did. I told her to get it off the Internet but she said half the stuff she wanted was X-rated or whatever they do if they don't want Joe Public looking over their shoulders. I said to her — "Tess, old thing, Christ's sake, this is going to take me weeks. Months, old girl." Did she give a tinker's? Did she hell. It was Tess, for Christ's sake. I'd have jumped out of a balloon without the parachute if she'd told me to."

"And the sum of it was?"