Free A Good Man in Africa by William Boyd

circumstances,” he added wryly. He removed his hand to expose her engagement ring. Priscilla snatched it away, as if his arm had suddenly turned blazing hot,and tucked it in the pocket of her jeans. She looked down at her feet in confusion.
    Morgan leaned forward. “You don’t want to listen to Denzil’s nonsense about me having a date,” he whispered. “It’s just his curious Welsh sense of humour.” He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, then raised his voice. “Bye everyone,” he called. “See you anon.” He strode off, exulting momentarily at this superb turning of the tables until he recalled suddenly where he was striding to. His step faltered and he looked back longingly at the small circle of people he’d just left. He felt a terrible sense of isolation descend on him. Adekunle was waiting.

Chapter 4
    The small bar was the name given to the club room that overlooked the eighteenth hole. Normally it was occupied by perspiring golfers downing pints of shandy but at this time of night it was deserted. A sleepy steward slumped on the bar; Morgan wondered where Adekunle was, thankful for his discretion.
    He heard his name called from the stoop. Walking out on to it he saw Adekunle’s bulk at the far end, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.
    “Ah, Mr. Leafy,” Adekunle said again, coming to meet him with his arm outstretched. “I think we will have rain tonight.” Morgan shook hands with him and concurred nervously. Adekunle was a big man with bulging apple-cheeks and a well-padded jowl. He was a distinctive figure; images of his moustachioed face currently regaled hoardings throughout the Mid-West. Tonight he looked even larger than usual as he was in his full traditional costume, an embroidered, loose, knee-length cream tunic with prodigious wide sleeves that were folded back over his shoulders, matching cream pyjama trousers that tapered to the ankle and a black velvet, gold-threaded tarboosh that, in the Kinjanjan fashion, was crushed lopsidedly down on his head. The evident wealth and splendour of his outfit, plus his considerablegirth, made him seem like some all-powerful native potentate, an African Henry VIII.
    “Forgive the paraphernalia,” he said. His voice was deep and educated, with a near-perfect English accent modulated by hints of American tones he’d picked up while studying at the Harvard Business School. “But I’m going on to a party rally.”
    “I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Morgan ventured, his voice sounding unnaturally husky and at least two registers higher. “Did you have a good trip?”
    Adekunle smiled broadly. “An excellent trip, thank you, most fruitful. London was cold and very crowded.” Adekunle paused, and when he continued the genial note was missing from his voice. “I wanted to see you … urgently. So you can imagine how delighted I was to spy you out here. I am the bringer of bad news I am afraid.” He puffed cigarette smoke out into the night. “As I feared, we have a problem. A problem with Dr. Murray.”
    “I’m glad,” Morgan cleared the catch from his throat. “I mean I’m glad you were so discreet. My colleagues are out there.”
    “Don’t mention it,” Adekunle said urbanely. “I fully understand your position.”
    “Listen,” Morgan croaked, “would you mind if I got another drink?” He paused, unsure if he could form the following words. “Before I hear your problem.” He went into the bar, shook the steward awake and was given another whisky. He took a large gulp and rejoined Adekunle on the stoop. Adekunle lit another cigarette and asked in his unperturbed, sonorous voice, “Talking of Murray, how is your friendship with him progressing? Is everything going as planned?”
    Morgan swallowed; he was glad at least to report some success. “Going quite well,” he said weakly. “As you suggested I’ve been trying to mix with him socially which is … a little difficult as he’s not the most