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and steadied it, immediately. His jaw had dropped, too. He was trying to pull himself together. Mr Burns, with the white skin, appalling haircut and ill-fitting clothes, was the man he had seen hurrying by in his ungainly way earlier in the morning. His hair still stood up in tufts and his shirt, on closer glance, was frayed at the collar.
    The cuffs were invisible since the sleeves of his jacket were long enough to cover his knuckles, giving the impression of long, thin fingers attempting to escape over the desk. The desk itself, partner sized, had once been magnificent, not an epithet Henry could have applied to the man, but the leather top was worn from red to dusty pink and looked as if Burns, or a pet of his, devoted some of each day to chewing it.
    There were two coasters, strategically positioned for the placing of cups, a precaution against further wear and tear which was redundant since the surface was already pitted with circular scars and the evidence of spills.
    Henry made sure his mouth was shut and tried to look Burns in the eye, man to man, but his gaze was distracted to above his head, where a large, stuffed fish was posed inside a glass tank, petrified against a background of alarmingly green weed. Burns caught Henry's eye.
    'I didn't catch it, oh dear me, no. The original Mr Chisholm probably did. One of my predecessors anyway, probably about 1910. It's lasted fairly well. They existed for that kind of sport, the lawyers, just as many of my contemporaries seem to exist for golf. Very good golf round here. I suppose you've come to work at Fergusons?'
    'Why, yes. That was another good guess, Mr Burns.'
    'Simple deduction, dear boy. You see an American in Warbling, and he's either working for Fergusons or being a tourist, and we don't get too many of those in winter, unless they're insane. I suppose you're looking for a house.'
    Henry's chair wobbled dangerously. He remembered to lean forward rather than back.
    There was something delightfully disingenuous about Mr Burns. There would have to be, for him to let himself out into the world, looking like that.
    'No, sir. I'm not looking for a house, not yet anyway. 1 don't have to start at Fergusons for a week or two yet and I don't know how long I'll be staying, but-'
    'Pioneering another drug, are you? New, improved Viagra?'

    Burns laughed. People always sniggered at the mention of the most famous drug Fergusons distributed, Henry thought with irritation; it was like kids discovering rude words. He waited for a few seconds, anticipating the next question so frequently asked - Have you got any spare? - but then decided Mr Burns was not vulgar enough for that. Henry was struggling to equate this gargoyle with attorneys of his own strata, beautifully suited, booted and spurred with power hair. He leaned further forward. The chair creaked again. The room reeked of cigarette smoke.
    'Mr Burns, I'm not buying anything. Truth is, I'm looking for someone. A woman. She was born and raised in this area and I knew her, what. . .' he coughed, embarrassed, '. . . oh, about twenty years ago. We were both kids, met backpacking in India. We were pretty good friends for a couple months, lost contact, you know how it goes. But I know she came back here. She said she'd never live anywhere else.' He coughed again awkwardly and directed his gaze at the fish. 'I got the impression that her family were in the upper bracket, A-grade sort of people, called Chisholm, like your firm. Francesca Chisholm. Does that ring any bells with you? Or if it doesn't, could you find out for me? I just thought, being an attorney in a town this size, you're all set to know who lives where.'
    His voice trailed away. There was a sudden image of Francesca in her shawl, passing by him in that ramshackle bus, missing him by minutes. He had dithered, said his stiff goodbyes, made for the station and the train as planned because Henry could never change a plan, and then he found the courage to do just that, run