Then there was Jansen, and of course Lapointe. He would have to decide about them today. And there was some unfinished business with Palin. He thought, too, about Platt. It did not please him to have to think about Platt. For here he might be forced into an alliance. Always he preferred to work alone, but he would need someone who knew his way around. But yet, he was pleased with the clearness of his thinking. It was good to be able to shrug off the dark depressions of the past few days.
There was a great expectancy and excitement in the conference room. Reporters and photographers, television crews, radio journalists with their recorders slung over their shoulders. The television lights, the pall of smoke that hung above them in the light from the windows along the top of the back wall. There were many of the same faces that had been there on the Sunday night.
Bannerman pushed his way through the crowd and made sure of a seat at the front. There were only two or three seats unoccupied and several groups of journalists standing around in the aisle. A uniformed gendarme stood by the swing doors. A small, round figure emerged from the other bodies and plumped itself into the seat next to Bannerman. ‘Hello, Neil. Any idea what this might be about?’
Platt was flushed and perspiring as he nearly always seemed to be, his face eager and intent. His grey flannel suit was too large for him, as his dinner suit had been the other night. It was baggy and creased and fitted only where it touched. The grubby collar of his once-white shirt curled up at one side and the knot of his tie was too small and tight. Short stubby fingers fidgeted endlessly with the corners of his notebook. He seemed breathless. ‘I thought I might be late.’ Bannerman glanced at his watch. It was ten after eleven. He said nothing. ‘Well?’ Platt persisted.
‘Well, what?’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And?’ Platt was getting irritated.
‘And nothing. You’ll learn soon enough.’ Bannerman hesitated. ‘I’ll let you buy me a drink after. There are some things I think we should discuss.’ Without looking at him, Bannerman was aware of a change in Platt’s attitude. The little man had pushed himself back in his seat and was watching him closely.
‘What things?’
But Bannerman was saved from answering, for then the swing doors pushed open and the Ministerial entourage breezed in, a pin-striped civil servant flanking the Minister on either side. The Minister was a short, slightly-built man. Bannerman guessed he would be about sixty. He had a smooth, thin face, dark hair cut short and greying at the temples. His eyes, in the television lights, seemed black; wet sharp eyes that twinkled and shone as they raked quickly across the gathering of journalists. His suit, too, was black or very dark blue. He wore a white shirt and black tie. His clothes were well-cut to fit him and he gave the impression of being dapper rather than elegant.
He sat himself centrally behind the rostrum, and Bannerman was annoyed that he was unable to see the man’s hands. The things a man did with his hands were often a good indication of what might be going on in his mind. His face was quite expressionless and would give away nothing. The pin-striped creature on his right hand sat beside him while the other remained standing. There was a moment’s hesitation as the remaining seats were filled. Reporters without seats stood or sat in the aisles.
The civil servant who had remained standing cleared his throat and began in French. He spoke for less than a minute in short, rapid bursts. Then he paused and said in English, ‘Good morning gentlemen. I am happy you could attend. The Minister regrets that it has been necessary to call this conference of the press. He wishes to make a brief statement regarding the unhappy events of Sunday past. His statement will be delivered in both French and English. There will be no questions. Copies of his statement have been prepared in both languages and will be available immediately after the conference. Thank you. Minister...’ He opened his hand as a sign for the Minister to begin, and sat down.
The Minister stood up quickly, producing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and slipping them on with a single easy movement. His voice was unexpectedly deep for so small a man. It was a smooth, persuasive voice, even if you could not understand the words. Bannerman watched him carefully, but there was nothing to be learned. He was reading from a typewritten statement on the bench in front of him, head bowed, spectacles perched about halfway down his long nose. His hands were hidden behind his back. He finished the statement amid a buzz of incredulous voices and he looked up and smiled reassuringly, raising one hand to indicate silence. His manner was confident, dominating, and the buzz died away.
Platt was squirming excitedly beside Bannerman, glancing first at his notes, then at the Minister and finally at Bannerman. The Minister began again in English. Bannerman did not bother to take notes. He knew what would be said and anyway, the text would be available afterwards. He lit a cigar as the Minister spoke. ‘I have been advised by the Judicial Police... no evidence to suggest... after close consultation with the British Government... who are in complete agreement... regretted that the press should have made such an issue of this drawing... mentally disturbed... all parties are in no doubt... full and frank discussions... decision... the case has been closed. Thank you, gentlemen, for your patience.’
He withdrew his glasses and sat down. Still no indication of what kind of pressure the man had been under. Just a cold efficiency. He gathered his papers and all three men stood up. He smiled and nodded towards the journalists, and the entourage climbed down from the rostrum and headed for the doors. A number of journalists were already on their feet and the Minister was engulfed by bodies and questions. The single gendarme was hopelessly outnumbered, and the two pin-stripes, tempers frayed, were shouting for a way to be cleared. It was strange eruption of journalistic instinct and aggression. The whole thing stank of cover-up and they knew it. They knew, too, that there was not a hope in hell of getting the Minister to add anything to his statement, but it was necessary to make the effort. News desks would ask. And the scene would look good on the television screens. Minister for the Interior mobbed by pressmen following controversial statement closing the case on the Slater/Gryffe murders.
Bannerman could see one of the TV reporters in the thick of it, his microphone thrust threateningly towards the Minister, the double humps of the camera. The flashing of electronic flash units gave the whole scene a flickering unreality. There was a brief glimpse of the Minister’s face, tight and grey, angry, perhaps frightened. His head was bowed slightly and then he was shaking it and raising his hand, and then he was gone from view.
There must have been about fifty media people crammed in the doorway. A number of others were hanging back, realising that there was little point. The strange thing was that no-one had moved until the Minister had actually finished speaking and was on his way out. No-one had spoken. There had been no questions. The reactions had been delayed, perhaps they had found it difficult to believe what they were hearing. Bannerman had remained seated, pulling thoughtfully on his cigar. Oddly enough, Platt had not moved from his side, though Bannerman sensed that it had been Platt’s instinct to join the melée. He could feel the man’s impatience. He pushed himself out of his seat and leaned over the rostrum to lift off two English copies of the Minister’s statement. He sat down again and handed one to Platt.
There were a number of gendarmes in the doorway now and in the corridor outside. Voices raised in anger. A baton was used and someone yelped. Then the Minister was gone. Platt could no longer contain his impatience. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’