‘Where is he?’
‘Who? Monsieur Lapointe?’
‘Yes.’
‘At his office, I imagine. He likes to work on Sundays’.
Bannerman moved towards the door. As he opened it the old woman said, ‘Who is the child you spoke of?’
‘Timothy Slater’s daughter. She was shot this morning at the airport. But then, you’ll know all about that.’
‘No,’ she said calmly, ‘I am sorry.’
‘Sure.’
She raised one of her withered hands. ‘Before you go, Mr. Bannerman, let me warn you that should you attempt to harm my son I shall fight you.’
‘Then you shall lose,’ he said and shut the door behind him.
Lapointe dialled the combination with trembling fingers and the door of the safe swung open. There was no money in here, just large manilla folders tied round with red ribbon to contain their bulging contents. They were all his records, the companies, the deals, statements of accounts, going back nearly twenty years. It was a large safe, but his records filled it. He had been meticulous and his memory was such that he could pinpoint almost any deal, any company, within minutes. It would take someone not familiar with his system hours, perhaps days, to make any sense of it all. There was nothing here that would convict him in a court, but in the wrong hands they could destroy him.
As he lifted them out one by one to the suitcase he had opened on his desk, he felt the sick fear he had lived with for the past fifteen hours turning again in his stomach. Why had Jansen been so weak? Surely he could have bought off the journalist, Bannerman. Damn the man’s mother. He saw her, frail and delicate in her wheelchair, heard her voice, supercilious and condescending. What power was it she had over them all? She was, after all, only an old woman. But it didn’t matter any more. He would not have to see her again, or her weak, ineffectual son who had, as usual, left him to do the dirty work. Now it was all over. When Jansen came back from the Bahamas he would be gone. To live out his last years in comfort and warmth on his farm in Malta, enjoying the fruits of his years of labour. The Jansens would be all right, but damn them, he didn’t care any more. He had committed his final act of loyalty, as much for himself as for them, and now he was going.
He was almost finished packing his case when the phone rang. ‘Lapointe. What is it?’
‘This is security at reception, sir. There is a gentleman down here who wishes to see you. A foreigner. He says he has a message from Madame Jansen. Shall I send him up?’
‘No. Ask him to leave his message with you and have someone bring it up.’
‘I’ve already suggested that, sir. But he’s most insistent that the message should be delivered personally.’
Damn the old lady! What was she up to now? ‘All right, send him up.’ Lapointe was nervous. Surely the fool hadn’t told his mother. He hurriedly finished packing his case and checked the time. His flight was not until late afternoon. There was a knock at the door. ‘Entrez.’ A stocky, powerful-looking man with a mop of curly, dark hair and cold blue eyes stepped into his office.
Bannerman looked quickly around the room. A large mahogany writing desk and three phones and a clean blotter. An ashtray stuffed with fat cigar ends. There was a suitcase open on the desk, packed with large manilla folders. The carpet was thick and soft underfoot and the walls were hung with copies of old Flemish masters, or perhaps they were originals. The windows, along one side behind the desk, went from floor to ceiling and gave out on a breathtaking view across the city from this tenth floor.
Lapointe himself was a short, thick-set man, probably in his late fifties. A few strands of grey hair were plastered back across his bald pate. His face was flushed and he stared insolently at Bannerman from behind steel-rimmed glasses. He spoke abruptly in French. ‘Well, what is it?’ Bannerman did not reply, but took his time lighting a cigar and strolled across the office to look out across the damp mist that blotted out the distance. Lapointe’s voice rose with irritation: ‘For God’s sake, man!’ Bannerman turned and looked boldly at the Belgian.
‘You had better speak English. I don’t speak French or Flemish, and I don’t want there to be any confusion between us.’
‘Well, what do you want?’ Lapointe growled. ‘You have a message from the old lady?’
Bannerman drew a folded morning paper from his coat pocket. It was damp from the rain. He threw it onto the desk with a front page story face up and ringed in red ink. Lapointe glanced at it and felt a stab of fear. JOURNALIST SHOT DEAD IN CAR. He looked up abruptly. ‘What has this got to do with me?’ He was patently agitated.
‘Take a look at the name,’ Bannerman said. Lapointe’s hand shook as he lifted the paper to read of the discovery early that morning of the dead body of a journalist called Richard Platt in a car near the Gare du Nord. The paper fell from his hands and he looked up again at Bannerman.
‘Who... who are you?’ he stammered.
‘I’m Neil Bannerman.’
The colour drained from Lapointe’s cheeks and he began backing off. ‘It... it was Jansen. It was his idea. I swear.’ Then he steadied himself. ‘You can’t prove anything.’ But his defiance was fragile.
Bannerman walked slowly round the desk. ‘Let me tell you, Lapointe,’ he said, ‘that I am sick of playing the game according to the rules, rules that protect rich bastards like you from any real justice. I am way beyond the point of caring about what happens to me any more, and I’m going to break you.’
Lapointe yelped as Bannerman grabbed his lapels and hauled him round the desk, forcing him up against the window. The reporter’s face was very close to his, and Lapointe could smell the other man’s hatred. ‘It’s a long way down. You’re going to make a hell of a mess on the pavement.’
‘No!’ Lapointe screamed. ‘I’ll tell you. Anything!’
‘You tried to have me killed last night.’
‘Yes, yes. It was Jansen. He phoned me last night, after you had been to the house. He said we had to get rid of you and I should attend to it. He was going to the Bahamas until things cooled off.’ He broke into French and Bannerman slapped his face.
‘English! Speak in English! Did the old woman know?’
‘No.’
‘She told me her son tells her everything.’
‘She... she’s an old fool. He only told her what he wanted her to know. There are a lot of things she knows nothing about.’ But he knew that was only half the truth.
‘Who killed Gryffe and Slater?’
‘I don’t know.’ Bannerman pushed hard and the glass creaked. ‘Jesus, God, I don’t know! I swear. We knew nothing about it until after. My God, please believe me.’
Bannerman felt his frustration inside like a coiled spring. ‘I don’t!’ His raised voice seemed to fill the room. He pushed harder and the glass cracked from top to bottom. He was within a fraction of an inch of killing this man.
‘I swear it!’ Lapointe screamed in terror and was then reduced to a pitiful hysterical sobbing. Bannerman eased off and let him go, and the man slumped to his knees. Bannerman’s voice cracked as he spoke and he felt tears welling in his eyes. He thought about the child lying bleeding on the concourse at the airport, her hand slipping into his in the car. He needed an outlet for all that. A target for his hate and anger and bitterness, and not even Lapointe could provide that.
‘What about the gunman in Flanders?’
Lapointe’s head came up slowly, tears coursing down his cheeks. It was plain that he did not know what Bannerman was talking about. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘Please, I’m so sorry.’
The door opened and Bannerman looked round to see the weary figure of du Maurier standing in the doorway. ‘Madame Jansen said you might be here,’ he said. He looked at Lapointe. ‘What has he told you?’