"Was she nympho?" Rob asked.
"I'm afraid that question is a little above my pay grade," Woodrow replied icily.
"Let's just say she flirted outrageously," Lesley suggested. "With everyone."
"If you insist" — no man could have sounded more detached — "it's hard to tell, isn't it? Beautiful girl, belle of the ball, older husband — is she flirting? Or is she just being herself, having a good time? If she wears a low dress and flounces, people say she's fast. If she doesn't, they say she's a bore. That's white Nairobi for you. Perhaps it's anywhere. I can't say I'm an expert."
"Did she flirt with you?" asked Rob, after another infuriating tattoo of the pencil on his teeth.
"I've told you already. It was impossible to tell whether she was flirting or merely indulging her high spirits," said Woodrow, reaching new levels of urbanity.
"So, er, did you by any chance have a bit of a flirt back?" Rob inquired. "Don't look like that, Mr. Woodrow. You're forty-some-thing, menopausal, heading for injury time, same as Justin is. You had the hots for her, why not? I'll bet I would have."
Woodrow's recovery was so quick that it had happened almost before he was aware of it. "Oh my dear chap. Thought of nothing else. Tessa, Tessa, night and day. Obsessed by her. Ask anyone."
"We did," said Rob.
* * *
Next morning, it seemed to the beleaguered Woodrow, his interrogators were indecent in their haste to get at him. Rob set the tape recorder on the table, Lesley opened a large red notebook at a double page marked by an elastic band and led the questioning.
"We have reason to believe you visited Tessa in the Nairobi hospital soon after she lost her baby, sir, is that correct?"
Woodrow's world rocked. Who in God's name told them that? Justin? He can't have done, they haven't seen him yet, I'd know.
"Hold everything," he ordered sharply.
Lesley's head came up. Rob unraveled himself and, as if about to flatten his face with his palm, extended one long hand and laid it upright against his nose, then studied Woodrow over the tips of his extended fingers.
"Is this to be our topic for the morning?" Woodrow demanded.
"It's one of them," Lesley conceded.
"Then can you tell me, please — given that time is short for all of us — what on earth visiting Tessa in hospital has to do with tracking down her murderer — which I understand is the purpose of your being here?"
"We're looking for a motive," said Lesley.
"You told me you had one. Rape."
"Rape doesn't fit anymore. Not as motive. Rape was a side effect. Maybe a blind, to make us think we're looking at a random killing, not a planned one."
"Premeditation," Rob explained, his big brown eyes fixing Woodrow in a lonely stare. "What we call a corporate job."
At which, for a brief but terrifying moment, Woodrow thought of absolutely nothing at all. Then he thought corporate. Why did he say "corporate"?
Corporate as performed by a corporation? Outrageous! Too farfetched to be worthy of consideration by a reputable diplomat!
After that his mind became a blank screen. No words, not even the most banal and meaningless, came to rescue him. He saw himself, if at all, as some kind of computer, retrieving, assembling and then rejecting a train of heavily encrypted connections from a cordoned-off area of his brain.
Corporate nothing. It was random. Unplanned. A blood feast, African style.
"So what took you to the hospital?" he heard Lesley saying as he caught up with the sound track. "Why did you go and see Tessa after she lost her baby boy?"
"Because she asked me to. Through her husband. In my capacity as Justin's superior."
"Anyone else invited to the party?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Maybe Ghita?"
"You mean Ghita Pearson?"
"D'you know a different one?"
"Ghita Pearson was not present."
"So just you and Tessa," Lesley noted aloud, writing in her notebook. "What's you being his superior got to do with it?"
"She was concerned for Justin's welfare and wished to reassure herself that all was well with him," Woodrow replied, deliberately taking his time rather than respond to her quickening rhythm. "I had tried to persuade Justin to take leave of absence, but he preferred to remain at his post. The EADEC annual conference of ministers was coming up and he was determined to prepare for it. I explained this to her and promised to continue to keep an eye on him."
"Did she have her laptop with her?" Rob cut in.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why's that so difficult? Did she have her laptop with her — beside her, on a table, under the bed, in it? Her laptop. Tessa loved her laptop. She e-mailed people with it. She e-mailed Bluhm. She e-mailed Ghita. She e-mailed a sick kid in Italy she was looking after, and some old boyfriend she had in London. She e-mailed half the world all the time. Did she have the laptop with her?"
"Thank you for being so explicit. No, I saw no laptop."
"What about a notebook?"
A hesitation while he searched his memory and composed the lie. "None that I saw."
"Any you didn't?"
Woodrow did not deign to answer. Rob leaned back and studied the ceiling in a falsely leisured way.
"So how was she in herself?" he inquired.
"Nobody's at her best after producing a stillborn baby."
"So how was she?"
"Weak. Rambling. Depressed."
"And that was all you talked about. Justin. Her beloved husband."
"So far as I remember, yes."
"How long were you with her?"
"I didn't time myself, but I would imagine something in the region of twenty minutes. Obviously I didn't want to tire her."
"So you talked about Justin for twenty minutes. Whether he's eating his porridge and that."
"The conversation was intermittent," Woodrow replied, coloring. "When someone is feverish and exhausted and has lost her child, it is not easy to have a lucid exchange."
"Anyone else present?"
"I told you already. I went alone."
"That's not what I asked you. I asked whether anyone else was present?"
"Such as who?"
"Such as whoever else was present. A nurse, a doctor. Another visitor, a friend of hers. Girlfriend. Man friend. African friend. Like Dr. Arnold Bluhm, for instance. Why do I have to drag it out of you, sir?"
As evidence of his annoyance, Rob unwound himself like a javelin thrower, first flinging a hand in the air, then tortuously repositioning his long legs. Woodrow meanwhile was again visibly consulting his memory: bringing his eyebrows together in an amused and rueful frown.
"Now you come to mention it, Rob, you're right. How very clever of you. Bluhm was there when I arrived. We greeted each other and he left. I would imagine we overlapped by the better part of twenty seconds. For you, twenty-five."
But Woodrow's careless demeanor was hard won. Who the devil told him Bluhm was at her bedside? But his apprehension went further. It reached into the darkest crevices of his other mind, touching again on that chain of causality he refused to acknowledge and Porter Coleridge had furiously ordered him to forget.
"So what was Bluhm doing there, do you suppose, sir?"
"He offered no explanation, neither did she. He's a doctor, isn't he? Apart from anything else."
"What was Tessa doing?"
"Lying in the bed. What did you expect her to be doing?" he retorted, losing his head for a moment. "Playing tiddlywinks?"
Rob stretched his long legs in front of him, admiring his huge feet down the length of them in the manner of a sunbather. "I don't know," he said. "What do we expect her to be doing, Les?" he asked of his fellow officer. "Not tiddlywinks, for sure. There she is lying in bed. Doing what? we ask ourselves."