It had become obvious, even then, that he was destined for great things in the Party. He was appointed private secretary to the then Shadow Prime Minister. During the next five years he gained experience in a number of important positions before finally winning his coveted post as an Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, shortly after his Party won the General Election. However, within a year of that appointment, his mentor, Lord Armsdale, the Party Chairman, suffered a coronary and was forced to retire from active political life. Many political commentators had seemed convinced at that time, that Gryffe’s dramatic rise in the Party would come to an end. The now-retired Chairman, they hinted in their comment columns, had been the architect of his success. Without him to pull the strings that mattered Gryffe would slide back into obscurity. And yet Gryffe had confounded all their predictions, not only by hanging onto his post, but by consolidating it, extending his circle of influence, becoming a figure in the public eye. A populist, he seemed to have brought a breath of fresh air to the tarnished world of British politics — a grey world bereft of figures of colour and imagination.
Even the commentators appeared to have been converted, and within two years they were describing him as the natural successor to the Foreign Minister. Some even went so far as to predict that he might one day lead the Party itself — a future Prime Minister.
Bannerman rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He was left with a very hazy impression of the man. But it was an impression of a man not only of great ability, but of great cunning. A manipulator of men, of the media, who had climbed to political success on the back of the Party’s former Chairman and then shown he could probably have done it on his own.
It was now nearly six. Bannerman looked again at the note Mademoiselle Ricain had left for him, then picked up the phone. He dialled and leaned forward on his elbows listening to the monotonous series of single rings. This would be a direct line to du Maurier’s office.
He was about to give up when the receiver lifted at the other end and there was a moment’s silence. ‘Du Maurier.’
‘Bannerman. You were looking for me.’
‘Oui.’
‘I was at the funeral.’
‘Ah yes. I had forgotten.’ He sounded tired. ‘Can you meet me?’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘No, I’m going to see the child.’
‘Later then.’
‘Okay. At the Café Auguste?’
‘No. In the Place Poelaert. At the far end of the Rue Des Quatre Bras. At the far side of the Palais de Justice. It is quiet there.’
‘Can you not tell me on the phone?’
‘No. When can you be there?’
Bannerman thought for a moment. ‘Eleven?’
He heard du Maurier sigh. ‘All right. Eleven.’ The line went dead and Bannerman hung up. He swung round in his chair and saw the invitation to the Minister’s dinner lying crumpled in the bin. He lifted it out, smoothed it on the desk and stuffed it in his pocket.
Chapter Seven
I
The hospital was set back from the road and screened by trees and thick evergreen shrubbery behind a high stone wall. The road that ran round the side of the hill that overlooked this outlying suburb was narrow and treacherous in the snow. It was poorly-lit and on the left side there was a steep drop down to a disused railway line. Set in several acres of its own grounds, the hospital was one of several stone-built villas that clung obstinately to the hillside. This had once, perhaps, been an exclusive part of town, a retreat for the rich. Now the large ornately-carved stone gateposts were blackened and chipped. Heavy old wrought-iron gates were rusted, in need of paint, and hung lamely, opening onto driveways where weeds poked up through the light covering of snow beneath the trees.
From the road, most of the houses seemed to be in darkness. They might have been derelict. The only building that showed signs of life was the hospital, fragments of light shining from windows through the trees. There was the same seedy air about the gateway of the hospital that there was about the whole street, a quiet, decaying street that you seemed to come on unexpectedly as your car whined up the steep curve of the road from the housing estate below. A corner of the city forgotten by time.
The brightly polished brass plaque on the gate seemed out of place: HOPITAL DES ENFANTS. Very discreet. A residential clinic for mentally disturbed children. Bannerman swung the Volkswagen into the driveway and they wound up through the trees where the drive broadened in front of the house and levelled out across a terrace. From here you had a stunning view out over the city which lay swathed in cloud.
Thick flakes were still falling around them as Bannerman and Sally stepped out of the car. Half a dozen other cars were parked tight against the house, ledges of snow accumulating on the roofs. The house itself looked well cared for. Sand-blasters had restored the sandstone to its original honeycomb yellow, the window sashes and shutters a freshly-painted green. It was an impressive building with turrets at each of the four corners, and steep grey-slated roofs.
They climbed the steps to double swing doors and pushed them open into a bleak, tiled hallway. A nurse in a white, starched uniform was coming out of a room at the far end. She didn’t notice them at first, preoccupied with charts on a clipboard. Then she looked up and seemed momentarily surprised. She spoke a few words in French and Bannerman was surprised to hear Sally reply fluently in the same language. But, of course, if she taught English she must speak French. The nurse smiled and nodded and asked them to wait.
The two stood in the hall, scuffing their feet impatiently, both disinclined to make conversation. In the stillness of the house, the only sounds to reach them were distant voices and the muffled closing of doors. The place smelled of disinfectant and old age. Then there came the clatter of footsteps from the corridor that opened off to the right at the far end of the hall below the staircase. A man in a dark suit appeared and began towards them. He shook both their hands solemnly and addressed himself to Bannerman in English. ‘You’ve come to see little Tania. I am Doctor Mascoulin.’
‘Neil Bannerman. This is Sally...’
‘Yes, we’ve already met,’ said Mascoulin, and Bannerman glanced at Sally, a little taken aback. He had not known that she had been already. And he realised how little he really knew about her. ‘Some of the older children are still in the playroom. Perhaps you would like to observe her first. She has not integrated well, but maybe it is to be expected.’
He led them along the corridor from which he had emerged and opened a door about halfway along that led into a small observation room where there were six or seven seats. It was only about eight feet by four feet. The left hand wall was a one-way screen that let them observe the children without being seen. A half-light filtered through the screen from the playroom and they found themselves looking in on a large square room where eight or nine children were involved in various stages of play. The walls of the room were covered with paintings and drawings made, obviously, by the children themselves. There were various games spread out on a long, oblong table and two of the children sat on tubular steel chairs playing with a pile of wooden bricks. There were other pieces of apparatus and more chairs scattered about the floor, seemingly at random.
Tania sat alone on one of them, apparently watching the others, but without interest. Her hands were clasped in her lap and her face had a wooden, dispassionate look, distant, as though she were somewhere else. There was one adult in the room with them. A nurse in jeans and a white tee-shirt. She was encouraging the children in their activities and from time to time she would go and speak to Tania. But it was as though the child did not hear her. In the observation room they could not hear the children, or what the nurse was saying. Doctor Mascoulin said, ‘What we are doing here is employing an integrated team approach. One person, usually a nurse, will work with the children in the playroom and attempt to introduce various methods or approaches by which both she and we in the observation room can learn about the child. Of course, in here we normally have sessions where the parents are present and we can learn about the child from them also. Unfortunately, in the case of little Tania there are no parents and so it is much more difficult. Particularly in the light of recent and... er, regrettable, events. However,’ he turned and smiled at Sally, ‘the mademoiselle has proved most helpful already in this respect.’