The Constant Gardener

Ham was already beaming with innocent pride. "KVH Vancouver and Basel own fifty-one percent of the pissy Isle of Man biotech companies, Lor-hoojamy and Pharmawhatnot. ThreeBees Nairobi have sole import and distribution rights of said molecule plus all derivatives for the whole of the African continent."

"Ham, you're incredible!"

"Lorpharma and Pharmabeer are both owned by the same gang of three. Or were till they sold their fifty-one percent. One chap, two hags. The chap is called Lorbeer. "Lor" plus "beer" plus "pharma" gives you Lorpharma and Pharmabeer. The hags are both doctors. Address care of a Swiss gnome who lives in a letter box in Liechtenstein."

"Names?"

"Lara Somebody. She's in my notes. Lara Emrich. Got it."

"And the other one?"

"Forget. No, I don't. Kovacs. No first name given. It was Lara I fell in love with. My favorite song. Used to be. From Zhivago. Old Tess's too in those days. Fuck." A natural break while Ham blew his nose and Justin waited.

"So what did you do with these nuggets of intelligence when you'd landed them, Ham?" Justin inquired tenderly.

"Read the whole lot to her over the telephone to Nairobi. Chuffed to bits, she was. Called me her hero — " he broke off, alarmed by Justin's expression — "not your telephone, idiot. Some mate of hers up-country. "You're to go to a phone box, Ham, and you're to call me straight back on the following number. Got a pen?"' Bossy little cow, always was. Bloody cagey about telephones, though. Bit paranoid in my view. Still, some paranoids have real enemies, don't they?"

"Tessa did," Justin agreed, and Ham gave him a queer look, which got queerer the longer it lasted.

"You don't think that's what happened, do you?" Ham asked, in a subdued voice.

"In what way?"

"Old Tess fell foul of the pharmaceutical chaps?"

"It's conceivable."

"But I mean, Christ — old sport — you don't think they shut her mouth for her, do you? I mean, I know they're not Boy Scouts."

"I'm sure they're all dedicated philanthropists, Ham. Right down to their last millionaire."

A very long silence followed, broken by Ham.

"Mother. Oh Christ. Well. Tread gently, what?"

"Exactly."

"I dropped her in the shit by making that phone call."

"No, Ham. You broke an arm and a leg for her and she loved you."

"Well. Christ. Anything I can do?"

"Yes. Find me a box. A stout brown cardboard box would do. Got such a thing?"

Glad of an errand Ham charged off and, after much cursing, returned with a plastic draining tray. Crouching to the Gladstone, Justin opened the padlocks, released the leather straps and, masking Ham's view with his back, transferred the contents to the tray.

"And now, if you would, a wad of your dullest files on the Manzini estate. Back numbers. Stuff you keep but never look at. Enough to fill up this bag."

So Ham found him files too: as old and dog-eared as Justin seemed to want. And helped him load them into the empty bag. And watched him buckle the bag up and lock it. Then from his window watched him again, as he strode down the cul-desac, bag in hand, to hail a cab. And as Justin disappeared from view, Ham breathed "Holy Mother!" in an honest invocation to the Virgin.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Quayle, sir. Take your bag, sir? I'll have to run it under the X ray, if you don't mind. It's the new regulations. Wasn't like that in our day, was it? Or your father's. Thank you, sir. And here's your ticket, all shipshape and aboveboard as they say." A dropping of the voice. "Very sorry, sir. We're all greatly affected."

"Good morning, sir! Nice to have you back with us." Another dropped voice. "Deepest condolences, sir. From the wife also."

"Our very deepest commiserations, Mr. Quayle" — another voice, breathing beer fumes in his ear — "Miss Landsbury says please to go straight on up, sir. Welcome home."

But the Foreign Office was no longer home. Its preposterous hall, built to strike terror into the hearts of Indian princes, imparted only strutting impotence. The portraits of disdainful buccaneers in periwigs no longer tipped him their familial smile.

"Justin. I'm Alison. We haven't met. What a terrible, terrible way to get to know each other. How are you?" said Alison Landsbury, appearing with posed restraint in the twelve-foot-tall doorway of her office, and pressing his right hand in both of hers before leaving it to swing. "We're all so, so sad, Justin. So utterly horrified. And you're so brave. Coming here so soon. Are you really able to talk sensibly? I don't see how you could."

"I was wondering whether you had any news of Arnold."

"Arnold? — ah, the mysterious Dr. Bluhm. Not a murmur, I'm afraid. We must fear the worst," she said, without revealing what the worst might be. "Still, he's not a British subject, is he?" — cheering up — "we must let the good Belgians look after their own."