A quick anger rose in Bannerman. ‘Somebody tried to kill me in that house and damn near succeeded. I don’t see any reason to believe that you had nothing to do with any of this. You set up a network of companies to sell arms worldwide. You sell to Rhodesia and to South Africa, in defiance of the United Nations embargo. That makes you as responsible for the deaths of the people those guns kill as the ones that pull the triggers. Why then shouldn’t you have some part in the death of your partner and his blackmailer, some part in the attempt to prevent me from finding out? Morally there is no distinction.’
Jansen laughed. ‘How refreshingly naïve, Mr Bannerman. Morality has not the least interest for me. Do you think I care about the blacks in South Africa or, indeed, about Gryffe or Slater, or you for that matter? Self, Mr. Bannerman, is what life is about. Self. Not even the ones we love, or like to think we love, are as important as oneself. It is what all human matters are about, and is unfortunately what most of us feel ashamed to admit. I do not understand why, for selfishness is the essence of existence. What, for example, determines the way we vote in a political election? Naturally, it is what we adjudge will bring the best advantage to ourselves. Why do we weep when a loved one dies? Because of the loss to ourselves of course. All motivation is selfish, even religious motivation where the rewards for a life of goodness are the eternal delights of the promised Utopia. And so am I motivated. When I think of selling arms to South Africa I weigh up the advantages and the disadvantages. The rewards are high, and the risks low, so I proceed. But, as I have told you, when it comes to murder... If I had considered murdering Gryffe I would have decided against it. Because although the advantages might have been considerable in the circumstances, the risks would have been too great.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you see?’
Bannerman nodded. He saw only too well. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I see. I see that you are a man who cannot ever have known love, either as something given or received. Of course people are selfish. That is an instinctive thing, self-preservation, perpetuation of the species. But we have other qualities also, or at least, most of us do. There is a balance in the design of us. For each part of us there is an opposite, as in all natural things; night and day, light and dark, summer and winter, rain and shine. In people the contrasts are more subtle, but they are there; love and hate, anger and forgiveness, greed and generosity, selfishness and compassion. The thing is, Jansen, that without one the other does not exist. Without night there is no day. Without hate there is no love. Without compassion there is no self. What you are is an aberration. One of nature’s rare mistakes. My problem is that I’m not quite sure whether I believe you or not.’
Jansen had been listening in silence, his face immobile, stiff like cardboard. Then his face cracked into a repeat of his earlier smile. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘I had hoped you might be corruptible. I should not have asked you here otherwise. Perhaps I was wrong. A man like you can’t be bought... can he?’ He paused expectantly and Bannerman stared at him for a moment.
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
Jansen smiled his first genuine smile. ‘Oh, how clever you think you are, Mr. Bannerman.’
‘Yes,’ Bannerman said. ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with the meal.’ He stood up and drained his glass. ‘Good whisky. Scotch, of course.’
Jansen’s eyes followed him to the door. ‘Of course you realise, Mr. Bannerman, that should you quote anything I have told you here tonight I shall sue you.’
Bannerman held the door half-open and looked back. ‘I doubt it. It’s amazing the amount of unsubstantiated shit that can get flung around in an open court. I wonder if you would risk all your splendid isolation.’
Outside the night was a little colder and the glitter of stars seemed a little harder. The frost glistened on the snow as the headlights of the taxi swept through the tunnel of trees. Bannerman glanced back out the rear windscreen and the receding house was still in darkness. The gates were open when they reached the end of the drive and after they had gone they shut again with a soft electronic hum.
Inside the vast empty house Jansen climbed to the second floor and walked around to his study without looking down. The room glowed faintly in the moonlight and he crossed to his desk and switched on a small reading lamp. It threw a sharp, bright pool of light on the desk, plunging the rest of the room beyond its halo into a thick blackness. Jansen lifted the phone.
III
Platt was waiting in Slater’s car with the engine running outside the apartment block in the Rue de Commerce. He had been waiting for about half an hour, his stomach fluttering with nerves and excitement, and a strange, gnawing fear.
He saw Bannerman’s taxi draw up in the rear view mirror and he switched off the engine and jumped out on the pavement. ‘Well, did you see him?’ He trotted up the stairs after the younger man. But Bannerman said nothing. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’
In the flat Bannerman drew a bottle of whisky from his pocket and threw his coat over the settee. He screwed off the top, got two glasses and poured out stiff measures. Platt watched him apprehensively and snatched the proffered glass. He didn’t drink it immediately, but watched Bannerman knock his back in one and then pour himself another. ‘Well?’
‘I saw him.’
‘And?’ Platt felt the dull growing ache of his ulcer and sipped gingerly at his whisky.
‘First the company stuff.’ Platt laid his glass on the table and took out a folded manilla envelope that he thrust at Bannerman. Bannerman opened it and glanced over the photostats of clumsily typed sheets inside. He dropped them on the table and poured the second whisky into himself. ‘He wouldn’t say anything.’
‘What do you mean?’ Platt glared at him suspiciously. ‘He must have said something.’
‘What did you expect?’ Bannerman snapped. ‘That he would break down and confess it all? The man is quite safe. He has all his layers of bureaucracy and fall-guys to hide behind. He’s just going to sit quiet. No comment. Why don’t you phone and ask him?’
Platt sat down on the edge of the settee. What, indeed, had he expected? Of course the man would say nothing. He should have known that. Still, it would do just as well... ‘Last night Jansen refused to comment’. He looked at Bannerman. Damn the man. He was holding something back. Platt didn’t want to miss out on anything. ‘And that’s it?’ Bannerman nodded. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Then maybe you should leave.’
‘Now look here, Bannerman...’
He was not prepared for the suddenness with which Bannerman grabbed his lapels and pulled him out of the settee. ‘Get out!’ His voice was quiet and tense. Platt pulled away from him and straightened his coat with as much dignity as he could muster. In that moment he hated Bannerman as much as he had hated anyone or anything in his life. But he controlled himself. His time would come.
‘When do I get my copy of the stuff from Lewis?’
‘Whenever I get it. Monday or Tuesday.’ He turned away towards the window, and Platt allowed himself a smile. By then it would be all over. And yet, somehow, that didn’t seem revenge enough. He wanted to hurt Bannerman now.
‘You don’t care about anyone, or anything, do you?’ he said.
‘Get out!’ Bannerman still had his back to him.
‘And that girl, all those years ago. You didn’t care about her either. It was me that got you the sack you know. I told the editor what you’d done to that girl. And I was right, wasn’t I? You never even turned up for the funeral. You just didn’t care.’