The Constant Gardener

"Last bloody thing to go if I have anything to do with it."

Justin squinted downward into the dimly lighted street. They're still there: one large woman in a bulky overcoat and one emaciated man with a curly trilby and bandy legs like a dismounted jockey's, and a skiing jacket with the collar rolled to his nose. They had been staring at St. Etheldreda's notice board for the last ten minutes, when anything it had to tell them on an ice-cold February night could be committed to memory in ten seconds. Sometimes, in a civilized society, you know after all.

"Tell me, Ham."

"Anything you like, old boy."

"Did Tessa have loose cash sitting around in Italy?"

"Pots. Want to see the statements?"

"Not very much. Is it mine now?"

"Always was. Joint accounts, remember? What's mine is his. Tried to talk her out of it. Told me to get lost. Typical."

"Then your chap in Turin could send me some, couldn't he? To this or that bank. Wherever I was abroad, for instance."

"No problem."

"Or to anyone I named, really. As long as they produced their passport."

"Your lolly, old boy. Do what you want with it. Enjoy it, that's the main thing."

The dismounted jockey had turned his back to the notice board and was affecting to study the stars. The bulky overcoat was looking at her watch. Justin again remembered his tiresome instructor on the security course. Watchers are actors. The hardest thing for them to do is nothing.

"There's a chum of mine, Ham. I never talked to you about him. Peter Paul Atkinson. He has my absolute confidence."

"Lawyer?"

"Of course not. I've got you. He's a journalist with the Daily Telegraph. Old friend from my undergraduate days. I want him to have complete power of attorney over my affairs. If you or your people in Turin should ever receive instructions from him, I'd like you to treat them in exactly the same way as if they came from me."

Ham hawed and rubbed the end of his nose. "Can't be done just like that, old boy. "Can't just wave a bloody wand. Have to have his signature and stuff. Formal authorization from you. Witnessed, probably."

Justin crossed the room to where Ham was sitting, and gave him the Atkinson passport to look at.

"Maybe you could copy down the details from that," he suggested.

Ham turned first to the photograph at the back and, without any discernible change in his expression at first, compared it with Justin's features. He took a second look and read the personal details. He flipped slowly through the much-stamped pages.

"Done a good bit of traveling, your chum," he remarked phlegmatically.

"And will be doing a good deal more, I suspect."

"I'll need a signature. Can't move without a signature."

"Give me a moment and you shall have one."

Ham got up and, handing the passport back to Justin, walked deliberately to his desk. He opened a drawer and extracted a couple of official-looking forms and some blank paper. Justin set the passport flat under the reading lamp and, with Ham peering officiously over his shoulder, made a few practice passes before signing over his affairs to one Peter Paul Atkinson, care of Messrs. Hammond Manzini of London and Turin.

"I'll have it notarized," said Ham. "By me."

"There's one more thing, if you don't mind."

"Christ."

"I'll need to write to you."

"Anytime, old boy. Delighted to keep in touch."

"But not here. Not in England at all. And not to your office in Turin either, if you don't mind. I seem to remember you have a bevy of Italian aunts. Might one of them receive mail for you and hang on to it safely till the next time you dropped by?"

"Got one old dragon lives in Milan," said Ham with a shudder.

"An old dragon in Milan is just what we need. Perhaps you'd give me her address."

* * *

It was midnight in Chelsea. Dressed in a blazer and gray flannels, Justin the dutiful desk officer sat at the hideous dining table under an Arthurian chandelier, writing once more. In fountain pen, on number four stationery. He had torn up several drafts before he was satisfied, but his style and handwriting remained unfamiliar to him.

Dear Alison,

I was grateful for your considerate suggestions at our meeting this morning. The Office has always shown its human face at critical moments, and today was no exception. I have given due thought to what you propose, and spoken at length with Tessa's lawyers. It appears that her affairs have been much neglected in recent months, and my immediate attention is needed. There are matters of domicile and taxation to resolve, not to mention the disposal of properties here and abroad. I have therefore decided that must address these business matters first, and I suspect I may welcome the task.