Free The Constant Gardener by John le Carré

shores of Lake Tanganyika rather than Turkana.
    There were photographs of her galore. Cheerful baby Tessa in the arms of her father the judge in the days when His Honor was a humble barrister struggling along on half a million a year. Ten-year-old Tessa in plaits and jodhpurs at her rich girl's private school, docile pony in background. (though her mother was an Italian contessa, it was noted approvingly, the parents had wisely settled for a British education.) Teenaged Golden Girl Tessa in bikini, her uncut throat artfully highlighted by the photographic editor's airbrush. Tessa in saucily pitched mortarboard, academic gown and miniskirt. Tessa in the ludicrous garb of a British barrister, following in her father's footsteps. Tessa on her wedding day, and Old Etonian Justin already smiling his older Etonian's smile.
    Toward Justin, the press showed an unusual restraint, partly because they wished nothing to tarnish the shining image of their instant heroine, partly because there was precious little to say about him. Justin was “one of the FO'S loyal middle-rankers”—read “pen pusher”—a long-term bachelor “born into the diplomatic tradition” who before his marriage had flown the flag in some of the world's least favored hot spots, among them Aden and Beirut. Colleagues spoke kindly of his coolness in crisis. In Nairobi he had headed a “hightech international forum” on aid. Nobody used the word “backwater.” Rather comically, there turned out to be a dearth of photographs of him either before or after his wedding. A “family snap” showed a clouded, inward-looking youth who with hindsight seemed marked down for early widowhood. It was abstracted, Justin confessed under pressure from his hostess, from a group picture of the Eton rugby team.
    “I didn't know you were a rugger man, Justin! How very plucky of you,” cried Gloria, whose self-appointed task each morning after breakfast was to take him his letters of commiseration and newspaper cuttings sent up by the High Commission.
    “It wasn't plucky at all,” he retorted in one of those flashes of spirit that Gloria so relished. “I was press-ganged into it by a thug of a housemaster who thought we weren't men till we'd been kicked to pieces. The school had no business releasing that photograph.” And cooling down: “I'm most grateful, Gloria.”
    As he was for everything, she reported to Elena: for his drinks and meals and for his prison cell; for their turns together in the garden and their little seminars on bedding plants—he was particularly complimentary about the alyssum, white and purple, that she had finally persuaded to spread underneath the bombax tree—for her help in handling details of the approaching funeral, including going with Jackson to inspect the grave site and funeral home, since Justin by edict of London was to remain gated till the hue and cry died down. A faxed Foreign Office letter to this effect, addressed to Justin at the High Commission and signed “Alison Landsbury, Head of Personnel,” had produced an almost violent effect on Gloria. She could not afterward remember an occasion when she so nearly lost control of herself.
    “Justin, you are being outrageously misused. ”Surrender the keys to your house until the appropriate steps have been taken by the authorities,“ my Aunt Fanny! Which authorities? Kenyan authorities? Or those flatfeet from Scotland Yard who still haven't even bothered to call on you?”
    “But Gloria, I have already been to my house,” Justin insisted, in an effort to soothe her. “Why fight a battle that is won? Will the cemetery have us?”
    “At two-thirty. We are to be at Lee's Funeral Parlor at two. A notice goes to the newspapers tomorrow.”
    “And she's next to Garth”—Garth his dead son, so named after Tessa's father the judge.
    “As near as we can be, dear. Under the same jacaranda tree. With a little African boy.”
    “You're very kind,” he told her for the umpteenth