‘No, no. You just wait one minute. None of this is for free. I want a certified cheque within twenty-four hours. When that cheque is in the hands of my bank you will get your documentary evidence. And if the cheque hasn’t shown by nine o’clock Monday morning, at the latest, I’ll sell the story elsewhere. You understand?’ The tone had changed. It was a hard statement of terms.
‘How the hell can I get that kind of money to you over a weekend? The banks are all shut.’
‘It can be done. No way am I going to let you get the stuff together for yourself when the records offices open on Monday morning.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘I’ll be here till midday.’
The line went dead and Bannerman dropped the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Shit!’ His voice resounded in the stillness of the room.
In Edinburgh it was raining, as it nearly always does. The grey and red sandstone tenements were dark and streaked with wet. The wind blew and rattled empty washing lines against rusted poles. In suburban Morning-side the big houses stood silent and solid behind long sloping lawns and trees that bent in the wind.
Tait lay safe and warm in his bed listening to the wind battering rain against the windows. Outside, the streets were empty and only a few sodden leaves, remnants of the autumn, stirred in the gutter. He liked to lie in on Saturdays, though he had been awake for some time. Now he heard the phone ringing distantly in the house and he cursed. When the phone went it was always for him.
He lay listening for his wife’s footsteps on the stair, but he missed them and was surprised by the gentle creak of the door as it opened inwards. ‘Are you awake dear?’
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘It’s someone from the paper dear.’ She seemed distressed. ‘A Neil Bannerman. Long distance. I told him you were still asleep, but I’m afraid he was rather rude.’
‘There’s no need to whisper. I am awake.’ He threw back the covers and sat up. What the hell was Bannerman after?
He slipped into his dressing gown and slippers and followed her down the stairs to take the call in the living room. The children had their own playroom at the back of the house, and as he lifted the phone he heard his wife telling them to keep the noise down. ‘What in God’s name do you want, Bannerman? You realise it’s only just gone nine, and it is Saturday!’
‘I need ten thousand pounds. Today if possible, tomorrow at the latest.’
It took several seconds for Bannerman’s words to sink in. ‘Jesus Christ!’ His first reaction was anger, but then he realised that Bannerman would not phone and ask him for ten thousand pounds at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning unless he had bloody good reason. He almost resented the fact that Bannerman was as good as he was. It made it all the more difficult for Tait to get rid of him, though it did not weaken his resolve to do so. No-one was so good that he could usurp his, Tait’s, authority. ‘Why?’
‘To prove that Robert Gryffe, in association with René Jansen and Michel Lapointe, was selling arms to Rhodesia and South Africa.’
Tait ran the implications rapidly through his mind with a well-practised professional detachment. Then he felt the adrenalin. ‘Who gets the pay-off?’
‘A guy called Hector Lewis. He has a business based in Switzerland that does company traces, among other tilings. I came in possession of certain information and asked him to check on it. When it turned up what I just told you he got greedy. He wants a certified cheque in the hands of his bankers by nine a.m. on Monday at the latest, or he’ll sell the story elsewhere.’
‘Damn!’
‘Quite.’
‘How reliable is he? Can you trust him?’
He heard Bannerman chuckle bitterly. ‘Oh, I think so. He’s good, very good, a real pro. The fact that he’s a twenty-four carat bastard is merely incidental.’ Tait felt an irresistible smile creep up on him. So Bannerman was as fallible as the rest of them, and it hurt him like it hurt anyone else. ‘Well?’ Bannerman was impatient.
‘Where does Slater fit into all this?’ The question was inevitable. To Tait it was almost more important then the story itself. Just how embarrassing was it going to be for the Post, even if they were the ones to break the story?
‘I don’t know. Yet,’ Bannerman said.
‘Good.’
‘But I will.’
‘God damn you, Bannerman! Can’t you leave it at that?’
‘No.’ Pause. ‘Well, do I get the money or don’t I?’
‘Yes, you get the bloody money. But how the hell are we supposed to do it when the banks are shut?’
‘That’s your problem. I’ll call you back with the relevant details when I’ve spoken again to Lewis.’
‘Hang on a minute. What arrangement have you come to about the child?’
‘What arrangement?’
‘For getting her on the plane tomorrow.’
Bannerman frowned. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! I had a telex sent yesterday to your office asking you to put her on the Edinburgh flight on Sunday morning. The Dr. George Brook Clinic in Edinburgh has agreed to take her.’
For the first time Bannerman was irretrievably confronted with what he had known all along. That the child would spend the rest of her life in an institution. His mind swerved away from it. ‘I didn’t go into the office yesterday.’ Some protective barrier erected itself. He had taken enough of an emotional battering already. ‘I’ll arrange it.’
‘Good. Someone from the clinic will meet her at the other end. At least no-one can say the Post is shirking its responsibilities.’
Bannerman hung up and then immediately re-dialled. Lewis answered promptly. ‘Well, well, that was quick, Neil. Good news I trust?’
‘You’ve got your ten thousand.’
‘Ah, excellent. I knew you’d come through. A man of your good sense.’
Bannerman’s voice was very controlled. ‘I’ll not waste my breath telling you what’ll happen if you do the dirty on me, Lewis...’
‘Now Neil, would I do a thing like that?’
‘Just the name of your bank, Lewis, and your account number and your documentary evidence telexed to Edinburgh by midday on Monday.’
‘It’s as good as done, Neil, just as soon as the money’s in the bank. You’ll have a pen handy, I take it...’
‘No. You can arrange the details with my editor.’ He gave him Tait’s home number. They deserved one another.
He hung up and sat for some minutes trying to sort out his conflicting emotions, the struggle between his personal feelings and his professional instincts. He needed a clear mind to steer him through the day ahead, and his thoughts turned to Platt. Platt was a problem. Bannerman had promised him a share of the story. He would have had no scruples about welching on that promise but for the material Platt had unearthed on Lapointe’s nominee company. He needed Platt. It would have taken him too long to collect the data himself and the pressure was now to run an early story. He could not trust Lewis to sit on it if he held it back, even for a few days. And the stuff Platt had so diligently compiled completed the circle. It was within his grasp to prove beyond doubt Gryffe’s involvement in arms sales to South Africa and Rhodesia.
Even now he found it difficult to assimilate the enormity of the story. The one thing he did not yet know was who it was who had ordered the execution of Gryffe and Slater, or who had shot at him in Flanders. There was also the thorny problem of Slater. That he had been blackmailing Gryffe seemed beyond doubt. But Bannerman had no proof. And there remained the question of how Slater had come by his information. It was not the kind of thing you stumbled on by accident.
Again Platt wormed his way into his thoughts. There was no escaping it. He would have to take Platt into his confidence. With great reluctance he dug out the grubby business card Platt had given him at the party — how long ago that seemed now — and dialled.