Bitter End Part 5

Buchanan had a firm hold of her elbow so she had to leave gracefully, for the moment -but only for the moment. The minute she could get shot of Buchanan she'd be back. In point of fact, as soon as he had made the decision to

follow his conscience, Buchanan felt instantly better. It

was as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

To call it an onward-Christian-soldiers feeling might have

been putting it too strongly, but not much. Now that his

future was in the lap of the G.o.ds, all he had to worry about

was bearding Ghengis Gra.s.sick in his den and thai

encounter, distasteful as it would certainly be, wasn't going

to deflect him from performing what he saw as his duty.

He knew himself to be non-confrontational to the last cell

in his body but he also knew he couldn't be bullied. First thing Monday morning he phoned Gra.s.sick's chambers for an appointment and was somewhat abashed to be squeezed into the great man's lunch hour, a privilege that reflected the esteem -largely earned by Buchanan pere -in which he held the firm. Buchanan's father and Ghengis Gra.s.sick were not exactly buddies but they went back a long way together and had always treated each other with mutual respect. Since the old boy had retired, however, Buchanan had known he was on probation.

Gra.s.sick had risen in the profession the hard way and made no secret of his disdain for those 'daddy's boys' who inherited a career.

All morning, as he got on with his other work, a part of 33. Buchanan's brain was rehearsing what he was going to say.

Fizz wasn't much help, popping in and out with hawkish suggestions, and as he left the office for the appointment, she grinned at him fiendishly and whispered, Nos morituri te salutamusT

Buchanan gave her a gladiatorial salute but, if he were about to die, it wasn't bothering him unduly. In fact a sort of madness had taken hold of him, opening his eyes to the boredom of long hours spent behind a desk and to the repet.i.tiousness of much of his workload. So, what if he did find himself no longer able to attract the cla.s.s of business he'd been used to? It wouldn't be entirely catastrophic. He still had his health and strength, G.o.ddammit, and in the long run he might be infinitely happier working his way around the world, doing any job that came along, as Fizz had done for seven or eight years. She'd had some hair- raising experiences, if half of what she told him was true, but she'd lived more in those eight years than Buchanan had in thirty-two.

Gra.s.sick had his chambers in a newly refurbished building in Chambers Street, a stone's throw from the law courts but a good fifteen-minute walk from Buchanan's office. At that time of day, however, the traffic was such a bind that it was six and half a dozen whether he took the car or walked, so he chose the latter to get a bit of exercise.

It was the first time he'd been in Gra.s.sick's chambers since the firm had moved there a few months back, and he was struck by the stark modernity of the decor which contrasted sharply with the traditional wood panelling and heavy furnishings of his previous lair.

When Buchanan had pa.s.sed through several pairs of secretarial hands he found Lawrence Gra.s.sick relaxing between sessions. His wig and gown were suspended from a hanger on the back of a cupboard door and his flyaway collar and white tie were undone. For all he had made time to see Buchanan, he didn't look all that welcoming, and by the time they'd got through all the formalities of 34. commiseration at his recent bereavement he was already beginning to show signs of impatience.

'Something to do with the will was it, Tam? No problems, I hope?'

Buchanan took a slow breath and tried to break it to him gently. 'Not in the normal way, no. The bequests are perfectly straightforward. Apart from a small gift to a local charity your wife's entire estate goes to her business partner Joseph Rudyard.'

'Yes, yes. I'm aware of all that.' Gra.s.sick shifted the position of the papers on his desk and tapped them impatiently. 'So? "Not in the normal way"? What does that mean?'

'It means, I'm afraid, that I have reservations about the efficiency of the police inquiry into your wife's death. I'd like the opportunity, before winding up her estate, to satisfy myself that a proper--'

'What sort of nonsense is this?' Gra.s.sick interrupted, snapping down his eyebrows in a long bar above his nose.

'I've no complaints against the police. They conducted a very intensive investigation into the cause of the fire and concluded -well, you know all that yourself if you've seen a paper recently. The Evening News had a field day on the strength of it.'

'Yes, I've read the reports,' Buchanan said, 'and I'm quite sure that what you say is, on the whole, true. There are, however, one or two minor points I'd like to clarify, merely to put my own mind at rest before I wind up your late wife's estate.'

'And what minor points are we talking about?'

Gra.s.sick's voice was still calm, dangerously so, but his thin, aesthetic face appeared to be not only reddening, but swelling.

Buchanan allowed a moment to pa.s.s before answering, in the hope that Gra.s.sick would get a grip on his temper, and then said quietly, There's no explanation in the police report as to why Mrs Gra.s.sick should have arrived at the 35. house in the middle of the night. Nor have I seen an explanation as to how a close neighbour came to be involved. Also, there are . . .'

He broke off, involuntarily, without being aware that he had done so, silenced by the realisation that he was about to witness one of Gra.s.sick's famous rages. It didn't start with a bang: it built up silently but with an appalling sense of power, like a tidal wave, and then it broke about Buchanan's ears with such violence that he was momentarily stunned.

'You what, you d.a.m.n fool interfering imbecile? You think you're going to start sticking your snout into my personal affairs, rooting about for some sort of scandal that you can use to make a name for yourself? Oh no you don't, my lad. You won't be using me to claw your way up the ladder. That's the way it's done these days, isn't it? Not by being good at your job -oh, no! -by becoming a household word! You think you're setting yourself up as Edinburgh's Miss Marple, don't you? Totally exceeding your remit, interfering with police business, getting your face in the papers, arsing about like an idiot in the middle of the Festival parade, for Christ's sake! Oh, yes! I heard about that disgraceful business and it didn't do you any credit, let me tell you . . .'

The last cut was a little too close for comfort, since the memory of that episode had barely faded into a mental bruise, but Buchanan was determined not to let it show. He kept his eyes steadfastly on the twisted and engorged face and stopped listening. Gradually, the pitch of Ghengis's delivery lessened and the torrent of words ebbed to a strong current. The personal abuse mutated into a more divergent diatribe but the delivery was just as deafening.

'I've had the police and the fire brigade and the b.l.o.o.d.y media d.a.m.n near living in my pockets for days, pestering my staff both here and at home, tramping my garden into a quagmire, taking photographs, measuring, nitpicking and making b.l.o.o.d.y nuisances of themselves to prove what 36. everybody knew in the first place: that Vanessa died as the result of an accident that could have happened to anyone.

And now, not content to take their opinion as read, I'm supposed to put up with a d.a.m.n daddy's boy who knows nothing about anything, swanning in where he's not wanted and raking out the whole business again.' His bullet-hard brown eyes bored into Buchanan's as though he believed he could face him down. 'Well, you can forget it, laddie. If you thought I'd give my blessing for that sort of exercise, you were wrong!'

Buchanan cleared his throat and sat up as though he were rousing himself from suspended animation. 'With respect, sir, I didn't come here to ask for your permission. I came, as a matter of courtesy, to inform you of my intentions. My inquiries -my entirely proper inquiries should not take more than a day or two and I don't antic.i.p.ate inconveniencing either you or your staff.'

He got to his feet and Gra.s.sick rose with him, leaning across the desk on his two clenched fists. 'You're a fool, boy!' he bawled in a voice no longer pitched to the back row of the G.o.ds but still painfully loud and shaking with uncontrollable fury. 'Carry on the way you're going and your reputation won't be worth a tinker's cuss. You'll end up the laughing-stock of Edinburgh. I just hope your father's proud of you!'

'Thank you, sir. I believe he is. However, I still have my work as a solicitor to accomplish and I intend to do so to the best of my ability.'

Buchanan no longer had to work at appearing calm.

Much as he admired Gra.s.sick as a lawyer, he could only despise his use of personal abuse and intemperate shouting as a preferred means of expressing an opinion. OK, he'd just lost his young wife in a horrific accident so you had to cut him a little slack, but it wasn't easy to witness such a performance without losing a large slice of one's respect for the man.

'I'm truly sorry,' Buchanan said as he moved towards 37. the door, 'to have to add to your afflictions at this time, but I see it as my duty to make sure there are no serious repercussions at a later date.'

'Serious repercussions?' Gra.s.sick snarled. 'By Christ, you'll know what serious repercussions are all right, if I've anything to do with it. Don't think you'll be instructing me next time you need counsel, you d.a.m.n c.o.c.ksure young brat! Now get out of my sight!'

Buchanan inclined his head slightly. Thank you for seeing me, sir. Good morning.'

He'd meant to exit on that line but a sudden madness intervened. Maybe it was his disappointment at discovering his idol had feet of clay; maybe it was the realisation that he had already signed his own death warrant and could sink no deeper, but some demon goaded him into scanning Gra.s.sick's purple face and remarking, 'You know you're killing yourself, don't you?'

There were several more people in the outer office than there had been when he went in and he was aware of their awestruck stares as he pa.s.sed through. No doubt Gra.s.sick's half of the conversation, and his own momentary insanity, had been clearly audible to the entire staff and would be common knowledge throughout Edinburgh's legal fraternity by this time tomorrow.

Fame at last. 38.

Chapter Four.

Fizz was seriously unsure whether to laugh or cry when

the news reached her. The first time she heard it, which

was from a messenger delivering a packet of deeds, she

didn't believe it for an instant. 'Somebody's got it wrong,' she a.s.sured a gobsmacked Beatrice. The bit about Gra.s.sick yelling at Buchanan that I can swallow. The bit about Buchanan letting him do it: okay -I could more easily imagine him getting up and walking out, but -sure, fine, I don't have a big problem with that either. But, trust me Beatrice, he would never tell Ghengis Gra.s.sick to watch his blood pressure. Absolutely no way. He's never ever rude. Not to anybody.'

'If he lost his temper he--'

Fizz raspberried that without reserve. 'You are being facetious, I take it? When did you last see Buchanan lose his temper? Have you any proof that he actually has a temper to lose?'

'No,' Beatrice muttered unhappily, folding the two wings of her cardigan protectively across her motherly bosom as she habitually did when she felt the foundations of her existence teetering. 'But, Lawrence Gra.s.sick! Surely you know what people say about him, Fizz. He can be quite offensive. I've heard him myself -in court -and he would goad anyone into retaliating.'