"I suppose not."
"And if Porter was too starry-eyed, too tied up with his awful family problems — nobody disputes that — to see what was developing under his nose — the Bluhm thing and so on, I'm sorry-he had an absolutely first-class lieutenant in Sandy, with a very safe pair of hands, at his elbow, any-time, to spell it out for him in words a foot high. Which Sandy did. Ad nauseam, one gathers. But to no effect. So I mean it's perfectly clear that the child — obviously-the poor girl — Rosie or whatever its name is — claims all their out-of-hours attention. Which isn't necessarily what one appoints a High Commissioner for. Is it?"
Justin made a meek face, indicating his sympathy with her dilemma.
"I'm not prying, Justin. I'm asking you. How is it possible — how was it possible — forget Porter for a moment — for your wife to engage in a range of activities of which, by your account, you knew nothing? All right. She was a modern woman. Jolly good luck to her. She led her life, she had her relationships." Pointed silence. "I'm not suggesting you should have restrained her, that would be sexist. I'm asking you how, in reality, you remained totally ignorant of her activities — her inquiries — her — how shall I put it? I'd like to say meddling, actually."
"We had an arrangement," Justin said.
"Of course you did. Equal and parallel lives. But in the same house, Justin! Are you really saying she told you nothing, showed you nothing, shared nothing? I find that awfully hard to believe."
"I do too," Justin agreed. "But I'm afraid it's what happens when you put your head in the sand."
Prod. "So now did you share her computer?"
"Did I what?"
"The question is perfectly clear. Did you share, or otherwise have access to, Tessa's laptop computer? You may not know it, but she addressed some very strong documents to the Office, among others. Raising grave allegations about certain people. Accusing them of awful things. Making trouble of a potentially very damaging kind."
"Potentially damaging to whom, actually, Alison?" Justin asked, delicately fishing for any free gifts of information she might care to bestow.
"It's not a matter of whom, Justin," she replied severely. "It's whether you have Tessa's laptop computer in your possession and, if not, where is it, physically at this moment in time and what does it contain?"
"We never shared it, is the answer to your first question. It was hers and hers alone. I wouldn't even know how to get into it."
"Never mind getting into it. You have it in your possession, that's the main thing. Scotland Yard asked you for it, but you, very wisely and loyally, concluded that it was better in the Office's hands than theirs. We're grateful for that. It's been noted."
It was a statement, it was a binary question. Tick box A for yes I have it, box B for no I haven't. It was an order and a challenge. And judging by her crystal stare, it was a threat.
"And disks, obviously," she added while she waited. "She was an efficient woman, which makes it all so odd, a lawyer. She's sure to have made copies of whatever was important to her. In the circumstances these disks also constitute a breach of security and we'd like them as well, please."
"There aren't any disks. Weren't."
"Of course there were. How can she have run a computer without keeping disks?"
"I looked high and low. There weren't any."
"How very bizarre."
"Yes, isn't it?"
"So I think the best thing you can do, Justin, on reflection, is bring everything you've got into the Office as soon as you've unpacked it, and let us handle it from then on. To spare you the pain and the responsibility. Yes? We can do a deal. Anything that isn't relevant to our concerns belongs to you exclusively. We'll print it out, and give it to you, and nobody here will read it or evaluate it or commit it to memory in any way. Shall we send somebody with you now? Would that help? Yes?"
"I'm not sure."
"Not sure you want a second person? You should be. A sympathetic colleague of your own grade? Someone you can trust entirely? Now are you sure?"
"It was Tessa's, you see. She bought it, she used it."
"So?"
"So I'm not sure you should be asking me to do that. Give you her property to be plundered just because she's dead." Feeling sleepy, he closed his eyes a moment, then shook his head to wake himself. "Anyway, it's not an issue, is it?"
"Why not, pray?"
"Because I haven't got it." He stood up, taking himself by surprise, but he needed a stretch and some fresh air. "The Kenyan police probably stole it. They steal most things. Thank you, Alison. You've been very kind."
Recovering the Gladstone from the head janitor took a little longer than was natural.
"Sorry to be premature," Justin said while he waited.
"You're not premature at all, sir," the head janitor retorted, and flushed.
* * *
"Justin, my dear fellow!"
Justin had started to give his name to the club porter at the door, but Pellegrin was ahead of him, pounding down the steps to claim him, smiling his decent chap's smile and calling out, "He's mine, Jimmy, shove his bag in your glory hole and put him down to me," before grasping Justin's hand and flinging his other arm round Justin's shoulders in a powerful un-English gesture of friendship and commiseration.
"You're up to this, are you?" he asked confidingly, first making sure no one was within earshot. "We can take a walk in the park if you'd rather. Or do it another time. Just say."
"I'm fine, Bernard. Really."
"The Beast of Landsbury didn't wear you out?"
"Not a bit."
"I've booked us in the dining room. There's a bar lunch, but it's eat off your crotch and a lot of ex-Office wrinklies moaning about Suez. Need a pee?"
The dining room was a risen catafalque with painted cherubs posturing in a ceiling of blue sky. Pellegrin's chosen place of worship was a corner sheltered by a polished granite pillar and a sad dracaena palm. Round them sat the timeless Whitehall brethren in chemical gray suits and school haircuts. This was my world, Justin explained to her. When I married you, I was still one of them.
"Let's get rid of the hard work first," Pellegrin proposed masterfully, when a West Indian waiter in a mauve dinner jacket had handed them menus shaped like Ping-Pong bats. And that was tactful of Pellegrin and typical of his decent chap's image, because by studying menus they were able to settle to each other and avoid eye contact. "Flight bearable?"
"Very, thank you. They upgraded me."
"Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous girl, Justin," Pellegrin murmured, over the parapet of his Ping-Pong bat. "Enough said."
"Thank you, Bernard."
"Great spirit, great guts. Bugger the rest. Meat or fish? — not a Monday — what have you been eating out there?"
Justin had known Bernard Pellegrin in snatches for most of his career. He had followed Bernard in Ottawa and they had briefly coincided in Beirut. In London they had attended a hostage survival course together and shared such gems as how to establish that you are being pursued by a group of armed thugs not afraid to die; how to preserve your dignity when they blindfold you and bind you hand and foot with sticky plaster and sling you into the boot of their Mercedes; and the best way to jump out of an upper-story window if you can't use the stairs but presumably have your feet free.