For the first time Bannerman felt compelled to speak. ‘If you deny the right of any one man to live, simply because he does not conform to your ideas of what is good for all, then you are denying the rights of all men, weak and strong, to the freedom of humanity. What gives you the right to play God?’
‘Ah, Mr. Bannerman, we all have our ideals. We would all like to achieve them at the snap of a finger. But one has to be realistic. Sacrifices must be made, the end has to justify the means.’
‘Even if that means usurping the principles of democracy, the right of people to choose? Even if it means murdering a mentally handicapped child whose only crime against your ideals has been to see her father shot to death by a man you hired?’
The old man sighed. ‘It is something we will disagree about. If I had time, I believe I could make you understand. But we have no time, and there would be little point to it. I have devoted my life to the Party, Mr. Bannerman. A Party which has done more to improve the lives of ordinary men and women in fifty years than was achieved in the previous five hundred. Do not think it did not pain me to do the things I did, but I could not let the work of a lifetime — this country’s only real hope for the future — be destroyed by a man devoured by greed and deceit. A man who deceived not only myself and my Party, but many millions of people in this land who saw in him the same qualities we all did. Qualities that could have made him great, qualities that could have brought so much to so many. Except that behind them lay a sickness and a corruption that made a nonsense of all the trust we placed in him.’ He had become agitated. He stood up and paced across the room to the window and looked out into the blackness beyond.
‘How did you find out?’ Bannerman asked. ‘About Gryffe’s involvement in the sale of arms?’
Lord Armsdale chuckled ironically. Bannerman could not see his face. ‘He came to me for help. I can still hardly believe his nerve, nor, I think, will I ever understand his motives. You can live, even to my age, and life still has its surprises, its mysteries.
‘He told me he was being blackmailed by a journalist in Brussels. Slater. At first he wouldn’t tell me why. But finally I got it out of him. He was desperate. Slater had taken him for nearly one hundred thousand pounds over a period of several months and was pushing for a final pay-off of another hundred thousand in a lump sum. Gryffe said he just didn’t have that kind of money available and he was worried that Slater was going to blow the whistle on him.
‘He degraded himself, Mr. Bannerman. Promised to do anything if I would help him, even resign his seat. He had obviously weighed up the advantages and disadvantages. He must have reckoned he could have continued to live in the style to which he had become accustomed by continuing his arms deals and his associations with the Jansen empire. Perhaps he even believed that after I had helped him he could hold onto his seat and his post at the Ministry, banking on my being unable to face the humiliation of exposing him to our colleagues. He had been my protégé, after all. Of all those he had taken in, I was the biggest fool. So I promised him half of his requirement and then set about destroying him before he could destroy my Party. I was not prepared to leave anything to chance.’
He stooped and opened a drawer in his writing desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers clipped together. ‘This,’ he held it up, ‘is, if you like, my full confession. I spent many hours composing it last night. I had hoped that perhaps I might not need to use it until after the election. Just ten more days. But, of course, that is not possible.’ He crossed the room and handed it to Bannerman. There were six foolscap pages closely typed. It was dated and signed. ‘The point that I make in it, Mr. Bannerman, the point that I would like to stress, is that the Government itself, and the Party, were in no way implicated or involved in this affair. The responsibility is mine and mine alone. Perhaps, perhaps it will salvage something. It is the last and only sacrifice I can make. Myself.’
Bannerman flipped through the sheets without looking at the old man. He did not want to feel any pity for him. He wanted only to feel contempt, disgust, to remember the child lying bleeding on the concourse at Zavantem. ‘I don’t think that is strictly true,’ he said. His voice was cold and hard. ‘The cover-up after the killings was too speedy for there not to have been a great deal of political haggling in the wings immediately the deaths became known. Diplomatic pressures on the Belgian authorities. And, of course, there was the SIS agent who shot at me in Flanders.’
The old man was silent for a very long time. ‘What I shall tell you is for your own information only. Not, you understand, for the record.’
‘I’ll make no guarantees.’
‘You make it very difficult for me, Mr. Bannerman.’
‘Then I shall write it as I see it. But if you can tell me something that will lend it a little understanding then tell me.’
The former Party Chairman made his way back to his chair and sank his thin, bony frame into its softness. He relit his pipe and said, ‘Gryffe was being investigated by MI5 on Government instructions. They had not fully uncovered his activities at the time of his death, but were on the brink of doing so. I knew nothing about this until afterwards. A day or so after the killings the Prime Minister called me to London. It is not unusual for the Party Leader to ask my advice. We have been good friends for many years and he had often consulted me, even after my retirement. He told me then, and asked me what he should do.
‘Of course, he did not know of my own involvement, and for my part I have told him nothing so as not to compromise him in any way. He told me of the investigations into Gryffe’s activities, their attempts to have the shootings played down as much as possible. He also told me they had put a man in the field in Belgium and that he had discovered about Gryffe’s arms company.
‘He was a man in a state of extreme shock, Mr. Bannerman. He saw quite clearly what it would mean if it ever got out. That is why he was worried about you, about your investigations. It was my suggestion that they try and frighten you off. Looking back, I suppose it was bad advice. It misfired rather badly, didn’t it?’
Bannerman remembered the nightmare of that flight across the dark, snow-covered fields, the chill of approaching death, the human mess in the mine crater. ‘Yes,’ he said. He folded the statement and slipped it into an inside pocket. He lit a cigar and stared without emotion at the old man. A frail old creature, a man destroyed by his own misguided philanthropy. And yet, he retained a certain dignity about him. Bannerman wished he could feel hate for the man, but it was not in him. The sad, watery eyes stared back.
‘I’ve done what I can,’ the old politician said suddenly. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s enough. You can never undo your mistakes. They will fall, won’t they? The Government.’
‘I imagine they will.’
His head dropped and he gazed at his hands resting in his lap. His pipe had gone out again. ‘I think...’ he said, but could not finish. When he looked up again Bannerman saw that there were large, silent tears running down his cheeks. ‘I... excuse me.’ He rose unsteadily, drawing a handkerchief out and wiping away his humiliation and shame. He rounded his chair and disappeared through a door behind it.
Bannerman closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He would go back to Edinburgh and tomorrow he would write a story that would destroy a Government. The irony lay in its injustice. He thought back on the last ten days. Slater, the child, Marie-Ange Piard. Gryffe, Jansen, Lapointe. Platt, the old woman, du Maurier. Sally. What did he know about any of them? And now the old man.