The Constant Gardener

"Curtiss. Kenny K himself. The man." A plate appeared and Pellegrin laid the spine on it. "Surprised she didn't throw herself in front of his bloody racehorses while she was about it. Go sing it to Brussels. Go sing it to the United Nations. Go sing it on TV. Girl like that, mission to save the globe, goes wherever her fancy takes her and to hell with the consequences."

"That's not true at all," said Justin, wrestling with astonishment and serious rage.

"Say again?"

"Tessa went to great pains to protect me. And her country."

"By raking up muck? Blowing it out of all proportion? Importuning hubby's boss? Barging in on overworked company executives with Bluhm on her arm — not my idea of protecting her chap. More like the fast lane to wrecking the poor sod's chances if you ask me. Not that your chances were all that bright by then, if we're honest." A pull of fizzy water. "Ah. Got it now. I see what happened." A double smile. "You really don't know the back story. You're sticking to that."

"Yes. I am. I'm utterly bewildered. The police ask me, Alison asks me, you ask me — was I really in the dark? Answer, yes I was, and yes I still am."

Pellegrin was already shaking his head in amused disbelief. "Old boy. How's this? Listen a mo. I could live with this. So could Alison. They came to you. The two of 'em. Tessa and Arnold. Hand in hand. "Help us, Justin. We've found the smoking gun. Old, established, British-based company is poisoning innocent Kenyans, using 'em as guinea pigs, Christ knows what. Whole villages of corpses out there and here's the proof. Read it." Right?"

"They did nothing of the kind."

"Not done yet. Nobody's trying to pin anything on you, right? It's open doors round here. Everyone's your chum."

"So I've noticed."

"You hear 'em out. Decent chap that you are. You read their eighteen-page Armageddon scenario and you tell 'em they're out of their tiny minds. If they want to foul up Anglo-Kenyan relations for the next twenty years, they've found the ideal formula. Wise chap. If Celly had tried that one with me, I'd have given her a bloody good kick in the arse. And like you, I'd pretend the meeting never happened, which it didn't. Right? We'll forget it as fast as you did. Nothing on your file, nothing in Alison's little black book. Deal?"

"They didn't come to me, Bernard. Nobody pitched me a story, nobody showed me an Armageddon scenario, as you call it. Not Tessa, not Bluhm, not anyone. It's all a total mystery to me."

"Girl called Ghita Pearson, who the hell's she?"

"A junior member of Chancery. Anglo-Indian. Very bright and locally employed. Mother's a doctor. Why?"

"Apart from that."

"A friend of Tessa's. And mine."

"Could she have seen it?"

"The document? I'm sure not."

"Why?"

"Tessa would have kept it from her."

"She didn't keep it from Sandy Woodrow."

"Ghita's too fragile. She's trying to make herself a career with us. Tessa wouldn't have wanted to put her in an untenable position."

Pellegrin needed more salt, which he distributed by putting a small pile of it in his left palm, taking pinches with his right forefinger and thumb, then brushing his two hands together.

"Anyway. You're off the hook," he reminded Justin as if this were a consolation prize. "We won't be standing at the prison gates, shoving baguettes au fromage at you through the bars."

"So you said. I'm glad to hear it."

"That's the good news. Bad news is — your chum Arnold. Yours and Tessa's."

"Have they found him?"

Pellegrin shook his head grimly. "They've rumbled him, but they haven't found him. But they're hoping."

"Rumbled him for what? What are you talking about?"

"Deep waters, old boy. Very hard to navigate in your state of health. Wish we could be having this conversation in a few weeks' time when you've got your bearings, but we can't. Murder investigations are no respecters of persons unfortunately. They go at their own speed in their own way. Bluhm was your chum, Tessa was your wife. Not much fun for any of us to have to tell you chum killed wife."

Justin stared at Pellegrin in unfeigned astonishment, but Pellegrin was too busy with his fish to notice. "But what about the forensic evidence?" he heard himself ask, from some frozen planet. "The green safari truck? The beer bottles and cigarette ends? The two men who were spotted in Marsabit? What about — I don't know — ThreeBees, all the things the British police were asking me about?"