‘Bannerman, Bannerman!’ There was a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Platt at his back. ‘Good God!’ Platt exclaimed. ‘You look as though you’ve been in the wars. What the hell happened to you?’
Bannerman glared at the small, shabby reporter who beamed at him with such false bonhomie. ‘None of your fucking business,’ he said. But Platt would not be deterred.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We could maybe work out something together on this story. You knew Slater. I know Brussels.’
‘Piss off.’ Bannerman turned to go.
‘I’ve got good contacts,’ Platt shouted after him. But Bannerman was gone. Platt turned away angrily. Cocky bastard, he thought. He’ll come to me yet. He wondered again what Bannerman had been doing in Brussels. He couldn’t have known. And yet... he must know something. It would be a good idea to keep an eye on him. Yes, a good idea.
Outside, the temperature was still falling. The wind blew the wet sleet up the Rue des Quatre Bras into the darkness of the Place Poelaert, swirling around the foot of a tall, black monument. Bannerman stepped out across the cobbles, pulling his collar up, and headed down towards the lights of the Boulevard de Waterloo, crossing the tramlines, past a group of people huddled below a shelter at the tram stop. The cold reached him even through the thickness of his coat. He thought about the child, and felt deeply depressed. He remembered the night, only two days before, when she had come into his room, standing there in her nightdress watching him and then leaning over to touch his face. What horrors were there locked up inside that little head?
Inside a large fashionable restaurant, prosperous people were seated at tables round a huge open fire, drinking wine, laughing, untouched by it all. Bannerman looked in at them through the wide window and saw his drawn white face, patched with bruising, reflected in the glass. He turned away and crossed the boulevard and walked up to the Metro at the Porte de Namur. He rode the underground to Arts Loi and then changed for Schuman where he came out under the shadow of the Berlaymont. For several minutes he stood looking up at the endless rows of darkened windows, wondering if the answers might lie behind them. Then he began with heavy steps down the Rue de la Loi towards the Rue de Commerce.
Slater’s apartment was dark and still when he let himself in, and he half expected to find Slater sitting in the half-light of the living-room as he had two nights earlier. That seemed a long time ago now. The living room was cold and empty. He went into the child’s room and stood in the darkness. An old rag doll lay in the armchair by the dead fire. He bent over and picked it up. It was soft and pliable and he lifted it to hold against his face. Life was so unfair to those who deserved more. He threw the doll back in the chair and returned to the living room. He switched on the light and lifted the phone and began dialling wearily. The number rang three times. It had that distant hollow ring of an international call. ‘Edinburgh Post.’ The voice was polished thin by all the miles in between.
‘Neil Bannerman. Give me the editor.’
‘One moment Mr. Bannerman.’ A phone lifted a few seconds later.
‘Tait.’
‘Neil Bannerman.’
‘Jesus Christ, Bannerman! Why the hell have I not heard from you before now?’
III
Kale opened the shutters on the first light of morning and looked out on the cold, grey mist that hung over the city. He had his coat on already and his bag was packed and sitting on the end of the bed.
It had been a bad night with little sleep. He had dreamt of the long, cold dormitory, the voices of little boys crying huddled under the covers. The harsh discipline, the loneliness of the place; both had left their mark on him. But he had never cried as the others had. He had never bent to the authority of the housemasters. Rather, it had strengthened in him that which set him apart from others. The boys had known it, and so had the masters. He sensed their fear of him. They did not know how to cope with his sullen, silent rebellion against their establishment. The beatings, the solitary confinement, the withdrawal of privileges had all met with the same silent acceptance that so baffled them. The dark eyes that blazed such hatred; a boy who was only nine. Yes, it had all left its mark, and none of it had been without pain. But they would never know it.
He turned away from the window and lifted his bag from the bed. He was unsettled, anxious now to be away. However, there were still four hours to pass before he could collect the remainder of the money from the locker at the Gare du Midi. He left the room and got into a lift that hummed and clattered its way slowly down to reception. The desk clerk looked up as he swung the lift gate open.
‘Your bill, Monsieur?’ Kale nodded and laid his bag on the floor beside the desk. The clerk lifted the bill off a shelf behind him and pushed it across the counter. ‘Are you not having breakfast?’ Kale shook his head and the clerk shuffled uncomfortably as Kale counted out the notes from his wallet. The clerk had seen them come and go in an establishment like this, but this one was different. He created some kind of space around him. Something dark and vaguely sinister. But nothing you could put your finger on. His wallet was amply filled, but the clothes did not suggest money. The clerk noticed these things. When there is so much time in a day to get through, you begin to look for them. The button missing from the coat, the slightly frayed cuff.
Kale lifted his bag and turned away, but stopped as he noticed a rack with the morning papers. ‘How much?’ he asked nodding towards the rack.
‘Fifteen francs, monsieur.’
Kale lifted the top paper off the pile and felt a touch like icy fingers on the back of his neck. He stared numbly at the drawing that filled the top quarter of the front page across four columns. The doorway, the painting, the chair, the figure in the foreground. There was no face, but he recognised himself with a curious dry horror. The bold headline across a further four columns, read: L’HOMME SANS VISAGE — EST-IL L’ASSASSIN? He looked up to see the clerk watching him curiously. He dropped the paper on the desk. ‘Fifteen francs?’ The clerk nodded. Kale fished in his pocket for the money. He was loath to make conversation, but he had to know. ‘What’s the big story?’ he asked.
The clerk seemed surprised. He glanced at the paper and shrugged. ‘Two men were shot here in Brussels yesterday. The police think the man in the drawing may have been involved. It was drawn by a child in the house where it happened. But she is — what would you say — not right in the head. The police are not saying whether they think it was murder or not. But the papers don’t seem to have any doubt.’ He paused. ‘What’s your interest?’
Kale glared at him and dropped the fifteen francs on the counter. ‘None,’ he said. He lifted the paper and crossed the lobby, pushing open the glass doors and vanishing out into the street. The clerk watched him go and frowned as a tiny nagging thought entered his mind. He rounded the desk and lifted another paper, peering closely at the drawing. The figure was suddenly familiar. There was a button missing from the coat. Quite clearly it was intended. The gap was much bigger than the others. The same button that was missing from the Englishman’s coat. But how could the child have noticed such a small detail? The clerk scratched his head and returned to his seat behind the counter, taking the paper with him. He looked at it some more then looked at the card he had filled out with details of the Englishman’s passport. James Ross was the name he had written. A salesman. Again the clerk frowned and scratched his head. But then, he thought, it was none of his business.