The day had not fulfilled its early promise. Snow was falling. This time, there was a wind to drive it in, and it was not a wet snow. It would lie, and if it snowed for some hours it would lie deeply. People in the street retreated into their winter shells, hats, coats, scarves, boots, heads bowed, tilted against the wind.
Bannerman and Tait could see them passing outside the window from where they sat in a small bistro in the Rue des Patriotes, less than half a mile from the Berlaymont, and just round the corner from the Sacré Coeur church in the Rue le Correge. Hams, gourd-shaped cheeses, sausages and chitterlings hung from the ceiling, and in the window there were enormous flat loaves. It was a quiet, dark place. There were a few others seated at the half-dozen tables with their fresh, checked table cloths.
They had not intended to eat as there had been so little time. But Tait had spotted the bistro as they drove through the quiet streets trying to find the church where the service was to be held. He had said very little since they left the International Press Centre. He ordered for both of them after glancing at a menu handed him by a wizened old man in shirt sleeves and a pair of baggy, black trousers. Fillet of veal with lentils and a bottle of Moselle. Bannerman watched him light a cigarette. He was obviously still in a state of great agitation and turned his eyes on the reporter. He tightened his mouth. ‘I ought to sack you on the spot,’ he said suddenly. Bannerman said nothing. ‘Don’t you care?’ Tait seemed quite exasperated.
‘Not particularly. I could survive without you or the Post. And besides, I think the union might have something to say about it.’
Tait blew out his cheeks. ‘Oh, and when did you start allowing the union to fight your battles for you?’
Bannerman shrugged. ‘The union has a habit of championing causes whether anyone wants it or not.’
Tait puffed at his cigarette and thought about it for a while. ‘Okay, tell me.’
‘He’s a drunk, half demented. His paper’s pulling him out of here, promoting him sideways so he can die quietly in some corner somewhere where he won’t be an embarrassment to them. He knew I was interested in a man called René Jansen, a man on whom Slater had kept a file. So the bastard tipped him off with the foolish idea that he might get some money out of it. I clocked him.’
Tait was frowning. ‘Jansen... I know the name.’ He seemed to have forgotten about Palin.
‘Yes, it rang a bell with me too. A power in the Belgian business world, it seems. A man with money and influence.’
‘And why were you interested in him?’
Much as he disliked it, Bannerman told him. About the folders of cuttings and the theft of them, his conversations with du Maurier, what Palin had told him. But he left out his deal with Platt.
‘Just what are you trying to do to this paper,’ Tait barked. ‘Blackmail! Oh, come on. How the hell do you think that would look for the Post?’
Bannerman had expected it, but he was still angry. ‘If it’s true then people ought to know it. They also ought to know who killed Slater and Gryffe and why people in high places are trying to stop us from finding out. I take it you do know about this morning’s statement by the Minister for the Interior?’
‘Of course.’ How could he have known? He would still have been in flight when the statement was being made.
‘Since when?’
‘Since last night. I was informed of the situation, naturally, since it was one of our people that was involved. On the understanding we adhered to the embargo.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Naturally.’ Tait was getting uncomfortable.
‘And, of course, it never occurred to you to put me in the picture.’
‘You knew already.’
‘No thanks to you.’
The fencing stopped as the old waiter, probably chef and proprietor as well, brought their veal and their wine. Bannerman checked the time. They would have to make it quick. The funeral service began in less than twenty minutes. Tait poured the wine in silence and they began eating. Neither man spoke throughout the meal, and it seemed odd to the old man, now behind the bar, that two men should eat together and say nothing. They had been so animated earlier.
Tait finished first and poured the last of the Moselle into his glass. He lit another cigarette and looked coldly at Bannerman. ‘I want you off this story, now,’ he said quietly. ‘Whatever I may think, as a newspaper man, as an editor there are other considerations.’
Bannerman ate on without looking up. When he finished, he washed down the last of his wine and leaned back to light a cigar. He said without a trace of emotion, ‘If you are prepared to allow other considerations to take priority over the basic principles of good journalism, then in my very humble opinion that makes you a pretty duff editor.’
Tait stubbed his half-smoked cigarette out angrily in the ashtray and stood up. ‘I don’t have to take that from you or anyone else, Bannerman. I’m telling you that you are off the story. You can fly back with me tonight.’
‘Goodbye,’ Bannerman said, his face still impassive.
‘What do you mean, goodbye?’
‘I mean I’ve just resigned.’
‘Like hell you have. You’ve got a contract of employment that requires you to give me three months’ notice.’
‘Stuff your contract of employment.’
Tait’s face had gone white. His hands were trembling at his sides. The old waiter was watching them with interest and a couple of workmen at a nearby table turned their heads. Tait became aware of them and sat down again. Bannerman leaned forward now and said in a low voice. ‘Now get this, Tait. No bastard’s ever pushed me around and you’re not going to be the first. Whatever Slater may have done, however that may tarnish the image of the Post, it’s going to look a hell of a lot better for the paper if it comes out first with the full story. Make no mistake, if you force me to carry through my resignation, it won’t stop me going after the story and I can assure you, the Post will be the last paper to get it. There are plenty of other papers both in Scotland and in Fleet Street that would pay plenty for it and just love to rub your face in the dirt.’
Tait was ashen, and just for a second, Bannerman thought he was going to hit him. Then suddenly he seemed to go quite limp. He was beaten and he knew it. But his pride was sticking in his throat. He spoke in a voice that was barely a whisper. ‘All right, Bannerman. You go on with the story. And when you deliver, if you deliver, then we’ll run it. Then you can empty your desk and get out. You have no future with this paper and, if I have anything to do with it, any other paper.’
Bannerman nodded. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘Slater’s daughter...’
Tait interrupted. ‘Whatever you may think of me, Bannerman...’ He stopped himself. ‘We are making arrangements for the child to receive the best possible care back in Scotland. Until the arrangements are made she will be staying where she is in Brussels. A few days at the most.’ He looked at his watch. It was almost two. ‘We had better go. I shall walk round to the church. You can pick up the bill.’ He stood up abruptly and walked stiffly to the door, vanishing through it, out into the snow.
Bannerman sat on, chewing his cigar gently. It had been inevitable really, and he had known the first day Tait arrived that his days with the Post were numbered. He thought of it with only a little sadness. And yet, still there were doubts. Was the principle involved really that important? Of course, it was. He knew it. And yet... ‘Garçon! L’addition.’
III
It was many years since Bannerman had stood at a graveside. It seemed such an anachronism in these modern days of conveyor-belt cremation. There was something mediaeval, almost primitive, about it. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. The priest was a small man, bald, silver threads of hair plastered sparsely across his pate. His gown flapped in the wind, a flash of purple in the lining. His face was pink, stung by the snow. He read from a Bible whose pages were wet and he laid one of his big hands across the lower half to stop the pages from lifting in the wind.