"You won't overwork our poor houseguest, will you, darlings? He's got quite enough on his plate as it is, haven't you, Justin?"
And a kiss on the cheek for Justin, and a music-hall exit for everyone, as the three of them with one mind spring to open the door for their jailer as she departs with the spent tea tray.
* * *
For a while after Gloria's intrusion the talk is piecemeal. They munch their sandwiches, Lesley opens a different notebook, a blue one, while Rob with his mouth full fires off a seemingly unrelated stream of questions.
"Know anyone who smokes Sportsman cigarettes incessantly, do we?" — in a tone to suggest that smoking Sportsmans is a capital offense.
"Not that I'm aware of, no. We both detested cigarette smoke."
"I meant out and about, not just at home."
"Still no."
"Know anyone owns a green long-wheelbase safari truck, good condition, Kenyan plates?"
"The High Commissioner boasts an armored jeep of some sort, but I don't imagine that's what you have in mind."
"Know any blokes in their forties, wellbuilt military types, polished shoes, tanned complexions?"
"Nobody who comes to mind, I'm afraid," Justin confesses, smiling in his relief to be clear of the danger zone.
"Ever heard of a place called Marsabit, at all?"
"Yes, I think so. Yes, Marsabit. Of course. Why?"
"Oh. Right. Good. We have heard of it. Where is it?"
"On the edge of the Chalbi desert."
"East of Lake Turkana then?"
"As memory serves, yes. It's an administrative center of some sort. A meeting place for wanderers from all over the northern region."
"Ever been there?"
"Alas, no."
"Know anyone who has?"
"No, I don't believe so."
"Any idea of the facilities available to the careworn traveler at Marsabit?"
"I believe there is accommodation there. And a police post. And a national reserve."
"But you've never been there." Justin has not. "Or sent anyone there? Two anyones, for instance?" Justin has not. "So how come you know all about the place then? Psychic, are you?"
"When I am posted to a country I make it my business to study the map."
"We're getting stories of a green long wheelbase safari truck that stopped over at Marsabit two nights before the murder, Justin," Lesley explains, when this ritual display of aggression has run its course. "Two white men aboard. They sound like white hunters. Fit, your sort of age, khaki drills, shiny shoes, like Rob says. Didn't talk to anyone except each other. Didn't flirt with a bevy of Swedish girls at the bar. Bought stores from the shop. Fuel, fags, water, beer, rations. The fags were Sportsmans, the beer was Whitecap in bottles. Whitecap only comes in bottles. They left next morning, headed west across the desert. If they kept driving they could have hit Turkana shore next evening. They might even have made it to Allia Bay. The empty beer bottles we found near the murder scene were Whitecaps. The fag ends were Sportsmans."
"Is it simplistic of me to ask whether the hotel at Marsabit keeps a register?" Justin inquires.
"Page missing," Rob declares triumphantly, barging his way back. "Untimely ripped. Plus the Marsabit staff don't remember them from shit. They're so scared they can't remember their own names. Someone had a quiet word with them too, we assume. Same people as had a word with the staff at the hospital."
But this is Rob's swansong in his role of Justin's hangman, a truth that he himself seems to recognize, for he scowls and yanks at his ear and very nearly looks apologetic, but Justin meanwhile is quickening. His gaze travels restlessly from Rob to Lesley and back again. He waits for the next question and, when none is forthcoming, asks one of his own.
"What about the vehicle registration office?"
The suggestion drew a hollow laugh from the two officers.
"In Kenya?" they ask.
"The motor insurance companies, then. The importers, the suppliers. There can't be that many long-wheelbase green safari trucks in Kenya. Not if you sift through them."
"The Blue Boys are working on it flat out," says Rob. "By the next millennium, if we're very nice, they may come up with an answer. The importers haven't been all that clever either, to be frank," he goes on, with a sly look at Lesley. "Little firm called Bell, Barker and Benjamin, known otherwise as ThreeBees — heard of them? President for Life, one Sir Kenneth K. Curtiss, golfer and crook, Kenny K to his friends?"
"Everyone in Africa has heard of ThreeBees," says Justin, pulling himself sharply back into line. If in doubt, lie. "And of Sir Kenneth, obviously. He's a character."
"Loved?"
"Admired, I suppose is the word. He owns a popular Kenyan football team. And wears a baseball cap back to front," he adds, with a distaste that makes them laugh.
"ThreeBees have shown a lot of what I'd call alacrity all right, but not a lot of results," Rob resumes. "Very helpful, not a lot of help. "No problem, Officer! You'll have it by lunchtime, Officer!" But that was lunchtime a week ago."
"I'm afraid that's the way with quite a few people round here," Justin laments with a weary smile. "Have you tried the motor insurance companies?"
"ThreeBees do motor insurance too. Well, they would, wouldn't they? Free third-party cover when you buy one of their vehicles. Still, that hasn't been a lot of help either. Not when it comes to green safari trucks in good condition."
"I see," says Justin blandly.
"Tessa never had them in her sights at all, did she?" Rob asks, in his ever-so-casual tone. "ThreeBees? Kenny K does seem rather close to the Moi throne, which can usually be relied on to get her dander up. Did she?"
"Oh I expect so," says Justin with equal vagueness. "At one time or another. Bound to have."
"Which might account for why we're not getting that extra bit of help we're after from the noble House of ThreeBees on the matter of the mystery vehicle and one or two other matters not directly related to it. Only they're big in other fields too, aren't they? Everything from cough syrup to executive jets, they told us, didn't they, Les?"
Justin smiles distantly, but does not advance the topic of conversation — not even, though he is tempted, with an amusing reference to the borrowed glory of Napoleon, or the absurd coincidence of Tessa's connection with the island of Elba. And he makes no reference whatever to the night he brought her home from the hospital, and to those bastards in ThreeBees who killed Wanza with their poison.
"But they weren't on Tessa's blacklist, you say," Rob continues. "Which is surprising really, considering what's been said about them by their many critics. "The iron fist in the iron glove," was how one Westminster MP recently described them if I remember rightly, apropos some forgotten scandal. I don't expect he'll be getting a free safari in a hurry, will he, Les?" Les said no way. "Kenny K and his ThreeBees. Sounds like a rock group. But Tessa hadn't declared one of her fatwas against them, as far as you know?"