A face hovered darkly behind a cloakroom counter away to his left and a flunky in a black suit and white starched collar approached on tiptoe, smiling with the ease of a professional smiler. ‘Monsieur?’ Bannerman held out the battered invitation card which the flunky took between thumb and forefinger as though it might bite him. ‘Ah, bien. May I take your coat?’
The newspapermen were in the bar with the Minister, a junior member of the Foreign Office staff and a Government press officer — another professional smiler. There was a distinct lull in the conversation as Bannerman came in. Without exception every face was turned in his direction. It was a moment that passed quickly and after it everyone pretended not to have noticed. All except the press officer who pushed forward to greet him. ‘Neil Bannerman, isn’t it?’ The well-practised smile had broadened and a dimple on his right cheek threatened to swallow up the rest of his face.
The reporter took the limp hand offered by the smiler. ‘I’ll have a whisky,’ he said.
‘Of course, of course,’ A few of the faces at the bar were familiar to him. Others he did not know. He recognised Willis, and Kearney who turned away when he saw Bannerman looking at him.
‘Here you are.’ The PR man handed him his whisky. ‘My name’s Holt, Harold Holt.’ He was a young, mouse-brown-haired man of around twenty-five. He oozed confidence and an ersatz buddiness that was the hallmark of his profession.
‘Well, Harold, how would you like to tell the Minister that I would like a word with him?’
Holt’s face darkened a little, though the smile never wavered, ‘I don’t think the Minister will want to discuss...’
‘Just a chat, that’s all. Off the record.’ He watched Holt approach the Minister, touch him lightly on the shoulder and utter a few words close to his ear. The Minister half-turned and smiled in Bannerman’s direction, raising one finger to indicate that an audience would be granted in just a few moments. Holt scurried off to the bar to fetch some more drinks. Bannerman took a mouthful of whisky, swilling it slowly before swallowing.
‘Well, Mr. Bannerman. I don’t believe we’ve met.’ The Minister approached with an outstretched hand. ‘You have quite a reputation. It seems such a pity that you spend most of your time buried away up there in Scotland.’
Bannerman smiled. ‘Maybe you ought to put it on your list of countries worth visiting. I’m sure it would not be beyond a man of your abilities to re-open diplomatic relations.’
‘Very amusing, Mr. Bannerman. Another drink?’
Bannerman shook his head. ‘No. Thanks. I’d like to talk.’
‘That would depend what you want to talk about.’ His manner was impeccable. A man of sixty years, he had met with almost every head of state in the world that was worth meeting, and a few that weren’t. He was not a man to use words carelessly. His smile was almost beatific. Bannerman was sure that when the face adopted its mask of concern or sympathy or understanding, it would be faultlessly convincing. Gryffe would have been the obvious successor. Perhaps that was why the two men had never got on too well.
He had a good head of suitably distinguished greying hair and shrewd brown eyes that held you mercilessly in their gaze. A man of gentle but firm persuasion, the ultimate diplomat. He had a reputation as a hard man, but fair, good at his job. At a glance you could see why, and Bannerman thought, there is no point in staying for the meal. ‘I’d like to talk about Robert Gryffe and Timothy Slater.’
The Minister smiled patiently. ‘Our of bounds, I’m afraid, Neil. Unfortunate, of course, the whole affair. After the meal I shall be releasing details of our plans for having Robert’s body flown back to England. And for the memorial service.’ He put a friendly arm around Bannerman’s shoulders and steered him gently back towards the bar. ‘Of course, after the election, when...’ he grinned, ‘when my Party is returned to office, we can perhaps get together for lunch some day and have a little chat about it, hmmm?’
Bannerman shook his head and returned the Minister’s smile. ‘Not good enough, sir. Of course, I can understand your reluctance to say too much to the press before the election. A nasty business. Can’t have the voters getting the wrong idea. All the same, I’m sure many people would like to know why the murders of Gryffe and Slater have been hushed up by the Belgian authorities with, I hesitate to add, the connivance of the British Government.’
‘Oh, come now, Mr. Bannerman.’ The diplomatic smile was becoming a little frayed around the edges, and he had lapsed from ‘Neil’ back to ‘Mr. Bannerman’. ‘There is no evidence to suggest that either man was murdered. A quarrel...’
‘Bullshit! All the evidence points quite clearly to murder,’ The Minister was steering him away again from the bar. Bannerman went on, ‘The trouble is that most of that evidence hasn’t been made public. Yet. But you and I both know, don’t we? The left-handed Slater with the gun in his right hand. The quarter of a million dollars in the suitcase. Slater’s air tickets to the States. The break-in at Slater’s flat within half an hour of the murder. Perhaps you forget that I was there.’
For the first time the Minister was looking uncomfortable. ‘Really, Bannerman, you have no evidence to support all this... this journalistic fantasy.’ Now he had even dropped the ‘mister’.
Bannerman laughed. ‘You cannot be so naïve, Minister. I don’t need evidence. If I am satisfied I have the truth all I need do is write it. So long as I slander no-one then there is nothing to stop me. And no amount of denials can make a story like that go away. It will need to be disproved. And that might prove difficult if it’s true.’
It was Bannerman’s turn to place the friendly arm around the Minister’s shoulder and steer him further from the bar. ‘You know what I think, Minister? I think that your Robert Gryffe was into something that might prove embarrassing to quite a number of people. I think Timothy Slater was onto him and was blackmailing him.’
The Minister was frowning, but superficially he had lost none of his composure. He had donned his mask of sincerity and now adopted a different tack. ‘Just how good is your information, Neil?’ He looked searchingly at the reporter.
‘Good enough.’
‘Because if what you say is true then it may be that we shall have to take another look at the whole case. About the murder, I mean. It may be that we have been misinformed by the Belgian authorities. Perhaps we should get together, discuss the source of your information.’
‘Now, Minister, you know I would never discuss my sources. And if you are so misinformed, you will be of little help to me.’ Pause. ‘But I’ll tell you what. When I’ve got my story together I’ll give you a call and you can give me your on-the-record reaction. Hopefully I will have things tied up and out of the way before the election. Either way, I promise you, you’ll be the first to know.’
Bannerman admired the Minister’s control. He would give nothing away despite the somersaults he had been forced to make in the last few minutes. ‘Oh, and I do apologise,’ Bannerman said. ‘I shan’t be able to stay for the meal. I hope it goes well. Goodbye, sir.’ He leaned across and laid his empty glass on a table and left quickly.
From the comparative dark of the hallway he glanced back into the bar. The reporters were uneasy. They knew that something had passed between Bannerman and the Minister, although the Minister would do his best to smooth things over.
The Minister himself was muttering thoughtfully to Harold Holt, whose agitation was obvious. The press officer nodded and began towards the door as the Minister turned back to the journalists and beamed beatifically. ‘I think we might eat now, gentlemen.’