Part 34 (2/2)

of interest -a fact that was central to Buchanan's

opposition -really didn't count for a great deal. She might

find something the original searchers -who had had a

different objective -had ignored. It would be great if she

did but she was also hoping for something that would be

of a.s.sistance on a more subliminal level. The largely

mindless task concentrated her thoughts -or rather, it

disengaged them like transcendental meditation while, at

the same time, keeping them focused on Vanessa Gra.s.sick.

It wasn't the sort of thing you could explain to a man certainly not a man like Buchanan who was a Martian to

his toenails. 213. She could have done with a lot longer than fifteen minutes, of course. Five minutes into her search she was still thinking of other things while she rifled the shrubbery, raked under bushes, read sc.r.a.ps of paper, hunted down anything that might give her a name or a lead, however tenuous, to follow.

Buchanan had disappeared from her consciousness as though he had never been, leaving only the ghost of an expectation that he would tell her when it was time to go.

That was probably why, when the sound of a car engine penetrated her engrossment, she filed it under 'Buchanan'

instead of 'run for it'.

She was still making the most of the last few seconds of scrutiny remaining to her when a pair of very s.h.i.+ny black shoes appeared at the corner of her vision. This was totally in keeping with her expectations so she sat back, clawed her hair out of her eyes and looked up, with a horrible jolt, at Lawrence Gra.s.sick.

At the debate, where she had been enthralled by his rationalism, she had found him almost handsome but there was nothing appealing in the face that glared furiously down at her, nor did there remain a trace of his persuasive reasoning in the voice that barked, 'What are you looking for?'

Fizz was struck dumb with shock, her mind scrolling fast through a list of possible answers to his question: a contact lens, a four-leafed clover, frog sp.a.w.n, mushrooms, fossils, flatworms, badger tracks. . .

Feeling at a serious disadvantage, she stood up but even then he seemed to tower over her, blotting out the light.

His eyes narrowed on her face.

'I've seen you before,' he said. 'That's right. You were in the audience last week when I was speaking ... I saw you jumping up and down in your seat as if you were about to start throwing something at the panel, but you never opened your mouth.'

'Yes, that was me,' Fizz exclaimed, light-headed with 214. relief, and started gabbling nineteen to the dozen, steering him off down this unexpected avenue of escape. 'What a wonderful debate. I really really enjoyed it. And you spoke so compellingly that you totally changed my mind about the issue. In fact, I've decided I really must get more actively involved in social issues like that. If more people--'

He was only half listening to her and, as she twittered on, his eyes did a quick recce of the street. Luckily Buchanan's Saab was out of sight in the turning bay beyond the Armstrong house.

'Ah, yes,' he interrupted, in a swift return to the harsh voice he had used for his first remark. 'You're Tam Buchanan's little girl, the one Niall Menzies mentioned.

Helping your boss snuffle around in my private affairs, are you? Rooting for something to get his face in the papers again, eh? What d'you call that -work experience?'

'I'm not Tam Buchanan's little girl,' Fizz said, with a rush of blood to the head. She could see nothing of Buchanan and concluded that he was keeping a low profile. Lower than the nearest garden hedge, probably, and d.a.m.n right too. 'I'm n.o.body's ”little girl”. I'm--'

'Right,' Gra.s.sick snarled, supremely uninterested in who she claimed to be. Then I'll tell you what I told Buchanan: mind your own business! If I see you snooping around my property again I'll call the police and have you charged.'

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