Bitter End Part 10

earning a crust. You could scarcely count either Buchanan

or Dennis, the junior partner, who, on the surface, were

both quite dishy, since Dennis was a complete p.i.s.s artist

and Buchanan was . . . well, Buchanan was Buchanan. No

half measures for Buchanan. Start anything with him and

you were liable to find yourself being dragged up the aisle

in a dress like an explosion in a meringue factory. Giles, now, he was just Fizz's type: not so tall he'd make her look like a pigmy, clever-looking but not starchy, and wickedly s.e.xy. More importantly, he was probably not going to be around for more than a week or so, which meant that things were unlikely to get too complicated.

Life was complicated enough right now and a meaningful relationship could -almost certainly would -cost her the grades she wanted in her LL B, but a transient interest as cute as Giles was irresistible. She finished her gin and tonic in a modestly explicit manner that encouraged Giles to suggest another round.

Buchanan looked at his watch and said, 'N--'

And simultaneously, Fizz said, 'Thanks, I'd love one.'

'But then we must be on our way,' Buchanan stated, in a voice that brooked no argument. 'We were planning to talk to the Gra.s.sicks' neighbours this evening, but it's almost 65. too late already to be knocking on anybody's door.'

'Ah . . .' Giles rubbed a hand across his delightfully square jaw. 'Actually,' he said, 'it might be better if you left that for a day or two. I'm afraid I've spiked your guns a bit by quizzing them this afternoon. I imagine you wouldn't really want to be wading in again this evening. Sorry about that. If I'd known you were planning . . .'

'Not your fault,' Fizz said quickly. 'It just proves what you were saying: that we have to coordinate our efforts.

You spoke to the other neighbours, the Armstrongs, did you?'

'Just Mrs Armstrong. Usually she and her husband are out at work all day but, luckily, she had a lousy cold and had taken the day off. However, neither of them had spoken to the Gra.s.sicks other than to pa.s.s the time of day and they were the type to keep themselves to themselves unlike the Pringles who, I suspect, keep a pair of binoculars on the living room windowsill. The other house was empty. I'm told the owner was the man who died with Mrs Gra.s.sick in the explosion.'

Fizz let Buchanan reply to that because, sure as shootin', if she gave away any of their information she'd be doing the wrong thing.

He said, 'I'm surprised you didn't hear the Pringles'

story about that. We met up with Mrs Pringle last weekend and she told us that Ford's wife was taken to hospital suffering from cuts from flying gla.s.s. However, when Mrs Pringle and Mrs Armstrong went to visit her a couple of days later, she had discharged herself and disappeared into the blue. No-one has seen her since.'

'Now, that's interesting,' Giles said, locking on to the information with an enthusiasm that Fizz entirely approved of. None of Buchanan's 'don't get fixated on one unsubstantiated clue' for him: he was in there like a terrier.

'Mrs Pringle wasn't at home when I called round and possibly Mr Pringle didn't think it relevant. But I must say, this opens up possibilities, doesn't it? The woman whose 66. husband was with Vanessa Gra.s.sick in the middle of the night disappears immediately after his -and her -violent

death. Does that strike you as suspicious, or is it just me?'

'Just what / thought,' Fizz put in, but Buchanan had to whip out his wet blanket.

'Presumably, the police had plenty of time to question Poppy Ford in hospital,' he said, swirling the ice in his double tonic water and looking as if, had he been wearing a judicial gown, he would have clasped its revers. 'If they allowed her to disappear -if, indeed she has disappeared, and not simply gone to stay with a friend -they must have been pretty well convinced she had nothing to do with the explosion.'

'You think so?' Giles said doubtfully, and then smiled.

'I know how cynical this sounds but, when you've been in the insurance business as long as I have, you don't trust anybody, not even the police. I've met more than a few bent coppers in my time and I've also known information damaging to a public figure to be suppressed.

From what I hear of Lawrence Gra.s.sick he'd be very averse to having this story -if it's true -hit the tabloids. "Wife of Premier Scottish Advocate in Fatal Explosion with Lover." Whether it turned out that the perpetrator was the lover's wife or whether it was a suicide pact that went wrong, it's still something he'd want hushed up.'

'It's not likely that it was suicide, surely?' Fizz asked.

'If I thought there was no chance of it being suicide I wouldn't be here,' Giles said, lifting his brows in a you'd- better-believe-it way. 'Mrs Gra.s.sick doesn't get a penny unless she died as the result of an accident, or murder, or from natural causes.'

Fizz was astounded. 'You've got to be joking! n.o.body could be so tired of living that they'd choose to blast themselves into garden fertiliser.'

'No, probably not, but I have to be sure that Mrs Gra.s.sick wasn't trying to gas herself and simply made a 67. mistake. She may even have been dead before the explosion, had you thought of that? What better way to cover up a suicide than to blow up the body? At the moment, I admit, things are not pointing that way but there's a lot of money involved so I have to be sure.' He looked thoughtfully at his pint. 'However, even if it turns out to have been an accident, pure and simple, it's received very little media coverage, don't you think? Just one small paragraph in the Scotsman, which was far from specific, and a few brief reports in the evening papers. It's clear to me that Gra.s.sick wanted it all hushed up and -tell

me if I'm wrong -Lawrence Gra.s.sick isn't short of clout, right?'

'He isn't,' Buchanan admitted. 'In fact I'm sure he'll be on first name terms with the Chief Constable, the Procurator Fiscal and half the Scottish executive. He's been a strong Labour activist all his adult life so, no doubt, even the Prime Minister owes him a few favours. But honestly, Giles, I can't believe that even he would have the influence to cover up a murder, or even a botched suicide. The occasional parking ticket, even a drunk driving rap, but not anything serious.'

Giles pursed his lips, something he could do without lessening his perfection. 'Well, you're probably able to judge the set-up here better than I am, but I reckon I'll make finding Poppy Ford one of my priorities all the same. If anyone is able to tell us what was going on between her husband and Vanessa Gra.s.sick, she's my number one hope. Which hospital was she taken to?'

'Mrs Pringle didn't say,' said Buchanan, clearly annoyed with himself for not quizzing the woman properly while he had the opportunity. 'It could have been any one of three or four, I imagine.'

'No matter. I can pop in and see the Pringles again tomorrow morning. You don't have any leads on where Mrs Ford might have headed when she checked out?'

'No,' Fizz admitted, planning to rectify that as soon as possible. 'We haven't really started our investigation yet.

Buchanan wouldn't raise a finger till he'd told Gra.s.sick what he planned to do. Like you, we have to be careful not to give him legitimate cause for a complaint against us.'

Giles broke into a grin. 'So, that's how you got your b.u.m bitten?' he asked Buchanan, who looked unamused.

'I can imagine it wasn't a pleasant interview, especially as his goodwill would, I guess, be important to your career.'

This remark seemed to cheer Buchanan up, for some reason that wasn't apparent to Fizz till he said, 'You know, Giles, it's just possible that we could work together very effectively. If you would be willing to deal with the sensitive parts of the investigation -the chatting to neighbours, the poking around the site -in short, the parts that might get back to Gra.s.sick, I could reciprocate by talking to contacts in the Lothian and Borders police, and by following up any leads that extend beyond Gra.s.sick's immediate sphere.'

'Suits me,' Giles said, toasting the arrangement with his last inch of beer.

It suited Fizz too, she decided. She didn't want to be seen around too much with Buchanan in case it got back to Gra.s.sick, but she had no objections to being seen around with Giles. None whatsoever. The Wonderful Beatrice, the following morning, was in

one of her moods. Buchanan spotted it right away when,

instead of greeting him with her usual bright smile and

comment about the weather or whatever, she blinked

stupidly at him and muttered the briefest of greetings. Margaret, too, seemed even more irritating than was her supercilious wont and, to crown it all, it later became obvious that Dennis was determined to be as obtuse as he could possibly be without provoking a slap round the head. If Fizz had been present instead of attending a lecture, no doubt she would have hit on the reason for this ma.s.s provocation right away and taken steps to 69. clarify matters, but Buchanan took half the morning to work it out.

He was washing his hands when he happened to catch an unexpected glimpse of his face in the mirror and was suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps it was his own ill humour that was making everyone appear so b.l.o.o.d.y annoying. Up to that point he had barely registered the fact that everything looked black this morning.

Mornings were never his favourite time of day, with the prospect of eight hours behind a desk to look forward to, but he would normally have accepted the inevitable by the time the Wonderful Beatrice had fed him his first coffee, some ten minutes after he came in. Today was infinitely worse.

Fizz had once told him never to give in to depression because, if you did, it could become chronic. He had no idea whether there was any truth in this or whether it was just another of Fizz's dubious aphorisms, but he felt it was excuse enough to shelve the remainder of his morning's workload and toddle down to police headquarters. He knew a few people there who might give him the lowdown on the Gra.s.sick case and, h.e.l.l, at least it would give him something to keep his mind occupied.

Ian Fleming was the obvious person to hit on. He and Buchanan -or more accurately, he and Fizz -had had their differences in the past but relations just at present ought to be at an all time high. It was only a few months since Buchanan and Fizz had handed him the head of the long-sought Mr Big on a plate: a service which had earned him promotion and a move to headquarters. That should have wiped out Buchanan's overdraft on his generosity, but whether Ian would be willing to get even remotely involved with what he considered a seriously disreputable alliance, was anybody's guess.

He seemed, to Buchanan, to be not displeased to see him and even met him at the elevator to conduct him along the corridor to his office. 70. 'You're looking fit, Tam. No residual effects of that crack on the head, I hope?'

'No, I'm fine. And you? Enjoying your new job?'

Fleming chatted amiably for the length of time it took to get settled and organise coffee, and then said, 'But I take it this isn't a social visit, so what can I do for you, Tam?'

'I'm hoping for some inside information,' Buchanan told him frankly. 'Don't worry, it's nothing too privileged, just a small matter that has got my antennae twitching.'

'Yeah? Nice to know there's life in the old dog yet.'