Du Maurier shrugged. ‘Nothing that means anything to me.’ He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a large polythene bag full of Kale’s personal effects. ‘He was carrying these about his person. There was nothing in his case but clothes.’ He emptied the contents onto his desk and Bannerman pulled his chair closer in.
There was a holster, a wallet with some money and a cheque book, a passport, a pen, keys, some loose change, a pack of cigarettes, a tattered map of England, a lighter and a scrap of paper. Du Maurier lifted the piece of paper and handed it to the reporter. Bannerman read the three words and dropped it on the desk with a sick feeling inside him. And in that moment there was just a glimmer of understanding of Kale’s behaviour. ‘We’ve checked it for prints. Clean, except for Kale’s.’
Bannerman surveyed the killer’s personal things with a kind of stultifying hopelessness. They did not seem any different from the things he might carry himself. The Inspector opened out the map. ‘You might take a look at this.’
It was a large scale map, well thumbed, tearing at the folds. Bannerman’s eyes were drawn by a red line connecting two circles drawn in with a felt pen. The first circle was drawn around a small Lancashire town near Southport from which the red line followed the A565 north past a place called Crossens before veering off in a short stroke to the west and the second circle. The words ‘big house’ were written in small letters beside it, followed by ‘farm track, bridge over water’. In the margin, written in green ink, was the word, ‘Lamb’, followed by a question mark. For a few seconds Bannerman stared at it without understanding. Then suddenly he made the connection. He felt his heart quicken and his face flush. He looked up at du Maurier who raised an eyebrow. ‘It means something to you?’
‘Can I use your phone?’ he needed to double-check.
‘By all means.’ The policeman got him a line.
Bannerman dialled, du Maurier watching him with interest. ‘News desk,’ he heard him say. Then, ‘George. Neil Bannerman. Do me a favour. Dig out a copy of Who’s Who and look up Lord Armsdale. Armsdale is a place name. I want to check the man’s real name, before he got the Peerage.’ While he waited he fumbled to light a cigar and glanced at du Maurier. ‘Hello. Yes. Lamb. Thomas Walter Lamb. What’s his address?... Armsdale House, Lancashire... That’s near Southport, isn’t it?... Yes... No... I’ll be in touch.’ He hung up and sat back in his chair, adrenalin pumping. There was a wild look about his eyes. Everything, quite suddenly, seemed to fall into place. It left him with a strange, empty feeling inside.
‘Well, Monsieur?’
Bannerman seemed suddenly weary. ‘Thomas Walter Lamb, or Lord Armsdale as he is now, is the retired Chairman of Gryffe’s Party. In many ways he is, or was, the Party. He was its Chairman for nearly thirty years. He, more than anyone, made it the force it is today. Gryffe was his protégé, his golden boy. Being groomed by the old man as a possible future Party Leader. The intellectual that the old man never was.’ He thought about the cuttings he had read in Slater’s office and wondered why it had not occurred to him before.
Du Maurier sighed and lit yet another cigarette, leaning back in his seat and gazing at Bannerman with big, watery eyes. He understood the implication. ‘Can you be certain?’
‘I think so.’
‘And how will you prove it?’
‘I don’t know. But I will. I’ll get the first flight to London tomorrow.’
The policeman seemed to be staring into space. Finally he broke the silence between hem. ‘I feel sorry for you, Monsieur. You have to carry a burden that no one man should have to bear.’ Bannerman’s head dropped a little. He knew it. ‘When you write your story you will bring down your Government, whether they were involved in it or not.’
Bannerman bit hard on the end of his cigar. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Chapter Thirteen
I
Sally watched how her fingers trembled a little as she toyed with her cup, waiting for the Brussels flight to be called. Some coffee had spilled into the saucer and it dripped across the table from the bottom of the cup as she lifted it to her mouth. The coffee was sweet and dark and strong, and its hotness filled her mouth. It took a bit off the edge of her tension. She shivered, though the airport cafeteria was hot and airless. All around her, voices prattled gaily in that melodic, aggressive way the Italians speak. Rome. Monday morning. Mild and sunny, only a little chill in the air outside.
She had slept badly, and her face was pale, the skin drawn tightly across her cheeks. The morning had come like a relief, the sheet damp and twisted around her. The hours of darkness had tormented her with all the questions, all the doubts. But she knew she had made a mistake; even as she had left the flat in the Rue de Commerce with the silent tears on her cheeks she had known.
But it had taken a headline on the front page of one of the Rome dailies to make her turn back, back to the man she should never have left. The job, the money, the security meant nothing now.
The paper had been lying on her table at breakfast at the Hotel Vittoria in the Piazza Mastai where she had booked in only the night before. For a moment the headline had meant nothing to her. Then she realised. GIRL (11) GUNNED DOWN AT EURO-AIRPORT. And in smaller type. GUNMAN SHOT DEAD BY SECURITY POLICE.
Du Maurier felt the heat of the sun through the glass. The warmth seemed such a deceit when outside it was cold and raw. He was down to his shirt sleeves and he screwed up his eyes against the brightness that streamed in the window of his office across the desk. In front of him lay Lapointe’s statement, typed and signed. The boys in the commercial branch had already begun going through the suitcase full of manilla folders. He had put in his request to start extradition proceedings to bring Jansen back from the Bahamas. That might prove difficult. At least the examining magistrate, Judge Markelbach, was sympathetic for once. But a man like Jansen would be difficult to convict, especially with friends in high places. And doubtless the old woman would have a few strings she could pull. How much, he wondered again, did she really know about it all? How much control had she really had over her son, over Lapointe? She was something of an enigma.
The phone rang and he snatched the receiver, anxious for some distraction. ‘There is a young lady here to see you, Inspector. A Mademoiselle Sally Robertson.’
‘Send her in.’ He leaned back in his chair to light a cigarette and wait for the knock on his door. ‘Come in.’
She came in, pale and hesitant, the cold winter air still clinging to her clothes. Du Maurier stood up and indicated the seat at the other side of his desk. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I am happy to see you again. Please sit.’ Sally sat gingerly on the chair opposite the old policeman and looked at his weary, kindly face. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I,’ she began self-consciously. ‘I only heard this morning about Tania. I’ve come straight from the airport.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve just come from Rome. The child... is she, will she...?’
‘It’s still in the balance,’ du Maurier said. ‘I’m expecting a call any time.’
She nodded. ‘I tried to phone Neil Bannerman from the airport. He’s not at the flat or his office. Do you know where he is?’
Du Maurier smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid, Mademoiselle, that you have missed him. He took the ten o’clock flight to London this morning.’ The phone rang and he lifted it quickly. She watched him closely. The droop of his shoulders. ‘When?’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. And she feared the worst.