Peter May
Hidden Faces
For Bryan
The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.
Chapter One
I
Thursday. And it was raining. Not a particularly auspicious day. It had rained yesterday and it would probably rain tomorrow.
Bannerman remembered a cartoon he had seen once in an old Punch magazine. Two crocodiles basking in a jungle swamp, heads facing each other above the muddy waters. And one of them was saying, ‘You know, I keep thinking today is Thursday.’ Bannerman smiled. It had amused him then, as it amused him now. What bloody difference did it make... today, tomorrow, yesterday, Thursday? It was ironic that later he would look back on this day as the day it all began. The day after which nothing would ever be quite the same again.
But at the moment, so far as Bannerman knew, it was just a day like any other. He gazed reflectively from the window a while longer, out across Princes Street, the gardens beyond, and the Castle brooding darkly atop the rain-blackened cliffs. Even when it rained Edinburgh was a beautiful city. Against all the odds it had retained its essential character in the face of twentieth century change. There was something almost mediaeval about it; in the crooked hidden alleyways, the cobbled lanes, the tall leaning tenements. And, of course, the formidable shape of the Castle itself, stark and powerful against the skyline.
In the office the day had barely begun. Reporters sat around reading the morning papers, sipping black coffees and nursing hang-overs.
‘Morning Neil.’
Bannerman turned from the window in time to see the news editor drifting past and heading for the news desk. ‘Morning,’ Bannerman called after him. He watched the retreating figure and felt some sympathy for him. Gorman was a dapper little man, good at his job without being inspired, very nervous under pressure. A nice man, just waiting for the axe to fall.
It had already fallen on a number of his colleagues: John Thompson in features, Alex McGregor in sport. And there had been casualties in the re-shuffle on the subs desk. It had been inevitable really, ever since it was announced that Wilson Tait was being brought up from London to take over as editor.
The Edinburgh Post had never been able to boast a particularly high circulation. For years it had lived off its reputation as a serious newspaper of quality and reliability. It was read by politicians, members of the legal and medical professions, teachers, academics. But their patronage alone was no longer enough to balance the books. Profit was more important than prestige. Hence the appointment of Tait, a hard newspaperman of the old school; a Fleet Street-toughened Scot returning to his old hunting grounds and bringing with him his personal hard core of hatchet men whom he was moving into key editorial positions.
And blood was being spilled. Only the approaching General Election — just three weeks away — had provided a stay of execution for Gorman. When it was over, he would receive a quick sideways promotion to make way for one of Tait’s rising stars. And while Gorman was allowed to vegetate quietly in some out of the way office with an ambiguous brief from the editor, the paper would move slowly, but surely, downmarket where it was easier to pick up new readers.
It was then, Bannerman thought, that he would have to consider very seriously his own future with the paper. Though that, he reflected, was already in doubt. He and Tait had clashed only a week before over Bannerman’s role with the Post. And there had been no love lost between them.
The phone on his desk rang and Bannerman lifted the receiver. ‘Bannerman.’
‘Good morning, Neil. I didn’t really think you’d be in yet.’
Bannerman smiled. ‘What is it, Alison?’
‘The editor wants you.’
‘You mean he’s actually in at this hour?’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Okay. I’ll be right in.’
Alison smiled up at him from her desk when he came into the office. ‘Set your alarm an hour early by mistake did you?’
Bannerman looked at her, amused. She was a good-looking girl, easy going but very efficient. ‘Actually I came in specially early to ask you if you would be free tonight.’
‘Oh, how nice. I am actually. But you’re not.’
Bannerman frowned. ‘Oh? You know something I don’t?’
‘Only that you’ll be too busy packing. I’ve just booked you on the first flight to Brussels tomorrow morning.’ She nodded towards the editor’s door. ‘Orders from his Imperial Highness.’
She watched him go through into Tait’s office and wondered what it was that was attractive about him.
Tait, hunched over his desk in shirt sleeves, glanced up momentarily from his papers as Bannerman knocked and came in. ‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Bannerman sat down and watched the other man patiently. Tait always liked to make it appear that he was seeing you on sufferance, that you were interrupting more important matters. Bannerman was not impressed.
Tait was a small man and had that arrogance and puffed-up sense of self-importance that many small men develop. A compensation for lack of height. He was a man of indeterminate age and could have been anything between forty and sixty. His hair was steely grey, cut short above a squat, ugly face.
He gathered together several printed sheets and slipped them into a folder before looking up again. He surveyed Bannerman with an inner caution. He disliked the man, felt intimidated by him, by his calm, powerful presence, by his obvious self-confidence. Bannerman didn’t jump, as the others did, on Tait’s command. And that annoyed him.
‘I’m sending you to Brussels for a few weeks,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Bannerman showed no surprise.
‘We need some good stuff on the EEC in the couple of weeks after the election. Corruption, fraud, political back-stabbing, that kind of thing. Particularly when Common Market issues have been given such high priority in the election speeches of the major parties.’
Bannerman took out a cigar and lit it slowly. ‘Why so keen to get me out of the way?’ he asked.
Tait leaned back in his seat and eyed Bannerman coldly. ‘Because I need time to consider what I’m going to do with you,’ he said bluntly. ‘You’re a troublesome bastard, Bannerman. A rebel. I want to build a team here and there’s no room for rebels.’
Bannerman took a moment to think about it and Tait watched him closely. Bannerman wasn’t a big man, about five feet nine or ten, but he was stocky, broad, and gave the impression of being a big man. Tait knew from the records that he was thirty-five, but it would have been difficult to judge had he not known. He could have been younger, or older. The man had dark, wiry hair that fell carelessly across his forehead. He was certainly not what Tait would have thought of as good-looking, but he had a certain presence, and there was something compelling in the gaze of his hard, blue eyes.
Bannerman said, ‘Maybe you would rather I got a job elsewhere, Mr. Tait.’ His voice was flat and almost toneless.
Tait grinned maliciously. ‘Trouble is, Bannerman, you’re too bloody good just to ditch. You’re probably the best investigative reporter in Scotland, very highly regarded south of the border, and I’d like to keep you, but on my terms.’
‘Oh, I’m flattered. Maybe I should be asking for a rise.’
‘God, you’re an insolent bastard!’
‘Good,’ Bannerman said. ‘So long as we both know where we stand.’ And he knew that he was going to have to think about his future sooner than he had expected.