Bitter End Part 15

'We've missed out on the Pringles,' Giles said, reclaiming her attention. 'Trying to locate them would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. The way I see it, either they've vamoosed of their own free will or somebody leaned on 96. them to go and, if the latter is the case, the first person I want to talk to is Lawrence Gra.s.sick.'

'No, Giles,' Fizz was forced to say. 'You don't want to talk to Lawrence Gra.s.sick. You really don't. I can tell you now that you'll get no help from him -back me up here, Buchanan -and, even if he were the person who chased off the Pringles, he's much too smart to let anything slip.

Believe me, you'll learn more by keeping a low profile.'

'Fizz is right,' Buchanan agreed, as Giles waved to the waiter for refills. 'If Gra.s.sick finds out that you're digging into the matter deeper than he considers necessary he'll crib like h.e.l.l. He has the okay from the police now, which would normally have closed the matter, and I dare say he'd use that justification to have your head office take you off the job. I'd keep out of his hair as long as there's a different line of inquiry open to us.'

Giles flashed his white teeth in a quizzical grin. 'We're not exactly snowed under with leads, Tam. In fact, if we're unable to trace the whereabouts of Poppy Ford we might as well throw in the towel and pay up.'

'Mm-mm. I've asked a friend in Lothian and Borders police to take a look at the police report for me. We might get something out of that. Also, we've just heard that Vanessa Gra.s.sick was possibly about to cross swords with a local landowner called Menzies. The Menzies family own an estate locally which they are currently trying to sell

Seeing that she was unlikely to hear anything she didn't know already, Fizz took the opportunity to pay a visit to the ladies. It turned out to be one of the 'powder room'

variety, with boxes of tissues and scented soap and little gold chairs to sit on as you used them. It reminded her suddenly of similar rooms in several countries where she used to wash her smalls, surrept.i.tiously drying them under the hot-air hand-dryer.

On her way back to the table she noticed the ex-centurion type at the bar and decided to have a word with him. She was curious to know where she'd seen him 97. before and surmised that, if he were indeed a local, he might be worth chatting to for a minute. OK, the Pringles had disappeared but they had done plenty of gossiping before they went and they might have been saying a whole lot more than they'd told Giles. Probably the whole village knew what they'd seen -or imagined.

She squeezed herself into the small s.p.a.ce beside the centurion and gave a virtuoso performance of someone trying to catch the barman's eye, simultaneously taking very good care that he didn't actually notice her.

'Is it always as busy as this?' she asked her target, with just a touch of pseudo-impatience.

The centurion pretended he was deaf.

'I said,' Fizz repeated, poking him in the side and making him jump, 'is it always so busy?'

'Uh . . .' He looked at her as though she were accusing him of being responsible for the crush. 'Uh ... I don't know. I've never been in here before.'

'Really? I thought I'd seen you here. Maybe it was in the village. Are you a local?'

'No.' He shook his head in case she wasn't familiar with the word and then repeated it just to make absolutely sure she got the message. 'No.'

'Right.' Fizz nodded complete understanding. 'So, you're on holiday?'

He looked distinctly uncomfortable and Fizz could see his tongue moving in his cheek as though he were checking the accessibility of a suicide pill. 'On holiday. Yes. Just a few days.'

'Doing a bit of fis.h.i.+ng?'

'Yes.'

'Any luck?'

'Uh . . . No, not yet.'

It was like drawing teeth. The poor b.u.g.g.e.r was either painfully bashful or thicker than yesterday's lentil soup and it was unlikely that he was the repository of the least sc.r.a.p of information that would be of interest to anybody. 98. Abandoning hope, she bought a packet of crisps and returned to her table.

Both Giles and Buchanan regarded her with curiosity.

'A friend of yours?' Buchanan murmured, his expression asking the same question but with a good deal more criticism.

'Nope. I just remembered seeing him somewhere recently and couldn't remember where it was.' Fizz noticed with gratification that someone had bought her another G&T during her absence and made appropriate noises. She opened her bag of crisps and offered to share them but got no takers.

'So where did you meet him before?' Giles asked, grinning at her as though he were strangely entertained by her gall.

'Probably just around the village,' she said, and laughed at the thought of the poor guy's embarra.s.sment: he'd probably inferred that she was trying to pick him up. 'He's just here for a fis.h.i.+ng holiday and I suspect his mummy told him to beware of strange women because he didn't want anything to do with me!'

She glanced over at the bar but the centurion had beaten an ignominious retreat.

'By the look of him,' Giles said, catching Buchanan's eye for confirmation, 'it would be a very strange woman who would try to pick him up. Do you do that sort of thing often? Chat up men in bars, I mean?'

Fizz pretended to consider that one for a moment: Buchanan didn't. He resisted the temptation to comment but he burst out laughing fit to split his drawers, more amused than she'd seen him for some time. She did her best to ignore him but it was difficult to appear demure in front of a witness who knew you'd speak to anybody, any time, and anywhere without even thinking about it.

Giles, however, gave every sign of being enchanted which was just fine by Fizz, as long as it didn't get out of hand. The kiss on the cheek he gave her, as they prepared 99. to depart in their separate cars, was decorum itself, but the close hug that went with it held the promise of better things to come. Buchanan was tired and disheartened when he got home

some time after nine-thirty. Not even the sight of Selina

waiting for him behind the fanlight worked its usual

magic. He could see her through the stained gla.s.s, pacing

up and down the ledge and mewing impatiently at the

sound of his footstep on the stair, but he scarcely registered

the warmth of her welcome as he opened the door. Throwing his briefcase on the couch, he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on and then checked his phone messages, Selina retaining her perch on his shoulder throughout. There was the usual harangue from his mother about nothing in particular, more excuses from the decorator who was supposed to be redecorating his lounge, and a curt news flash from DCI Fleming to the effect that he had nothing to report. The police inquiry, he claimed, had turned up nothing at all to suggest any cause other than carelessness.

'b.u.g.g.e.r,' Buchanan muttered, wondering which would be the next lead to be nipped in the bud. He sat down for a minute but Selina instantly stopped rubbing her cheek against his and gave him to understand that, although his company was a delight to her, a little nourishment would not go unappreciated. He couldn't think properly with four agitated paws marching all over him so he had to feed her and make himself a coffee before he could give Fleming's message his consideration.

It struck him as unusual for Fleming to be so brusque, even on an answering-machine. There had been something very official in his phraseology, almost as though he had been reading from a prepared statement... or perhaps he had been taking care not to say anything too specific in case the wrong person were to hear the tape. Curious, Buchanan re-ran the tape, listening more closely to the stilted delivery. 100. 'Ian here. Just wanted to let you know 1 drew a blank.

The other guys did a great job and everything's a hundred per cent okay. Nothing to worry about. Cheers.'

'Uh-huh?' Buchanan said aloud, staring sceptically at the answering-machine as though it were Fleming's lying face. 'That was no report, Ian. That was a brushoff.'

Why? That was the question. Had Ian really discovered that there was nothing odd about the police procedure, or had he found a stick to beat Inspector Virgo with and wanted to keep it to himself? Why had he chosen to leave the message here rather than contact Buchanan at his office as he normally did? Had he hoped to find Buchanan not at home so that he could avoid talking to him directly?

A third re-run of the message tape afforded the information that it had been received less than an hour ago and that -evidence the sound of a siren in the background Fleming had been phoning from work. OK. If he was on late s.h.i.+ft he'd still be there.

Buchanan found himself grinding his teeth again as he dialled Fleming's number. He wasn't angry, he told himself, just annoyed at Fleming for giving him the run-around.

'Fleming here.' His voice, on the telephone, sounded like an unusually articulate silver-backed gorilla, whereas he was actually barely five-seven and weedy with it.

'Buchanan.'

Fleming drew an audible breath. 'Hi, Tam. I left a message on--'

'Yes, I got it. I just haven't a clue what you intended it to mean.'

'Mean? Couldn't you hear it?'

'Sure I can hear it and, frankly, it sounded like a load of codswallop to me. What are you trying to tell me, Ian? To p.i.s.s off?'