The Man With No Face Page 14

  To kill the child would be to kill himself. He knew it with a dreadful clarity. You choose your own road to hell and you think you know every twist and turn in it. Then you discover that hell is not the end of the road. He was a human being, after all, and there was a point beyond which you could not go. It is no use, he thought. I will think about it whether I stand here punishing myself, or whether I lie awake in my room. The man whose head he had cracked, whose ribs he had kicked, would lead him eventually to the child. He was no longer in control of his own destiny. He was being drawn towards his own destruction as helplessly as the man being swept into the vortex of a whirlpool. For somewhere in all his lack of humanity, he had discovered a conscience.

  He moved stiffly away from the wall against which he had sought some shelter and began walking along the Rue de Commerce. Somewhere he would find a bar to spend time in before he could face the room he had taken across town, and the long hours before morning.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I

  People hurried by without even glancing at the solitary figure sitting at one of the red-painted metal tables under the awning. The market stalls were being removed. The early morning trade had been poor because of the weather. Piles of snow were dotted about where it had been swept up to make way for the stalls. Lines of cars stood at the far side of the square gleaming in the morning sunshine, and snow was melting on the black flagstones where great slabs of sunshine fell between the buildings. The sky was a clear, pale blue and reminded Bannerman of the sky in the painting over the mantelpiece back at the apartment. It was still cold, though, out of the sun.

  He sat at one of the tables near the end of the awning, where the sunshine still splashed in beneath the yellow canvas, warming the air. The coffee, too, warmed him inside. He wasn’t thinking too much about anything, just watching the men and women moving the stalls.

  The Grande Place was dominated on one side by the ornate splendour of the Town Hall, with its tower and tall tapering spire. It was an impressive square, the heart of the city, full of life and colour and gaiety. The old guild houses, medieval gabled buildings, lined the other three sides. Now they were fronted by souvenir shops, restaurants and cafés, though you could still tell which trades they had once represented; the boatmen’s guild house with its roof shaped like the stern of a seventeenth-century vessel; the archers’ house with its carved statue of St Sebastian holding a bow; the weigh-house with a pair of scales above a balcony supported by two figures.

  Across the square, several workmen on ladders were washing down the walls of one of the houses, and repainting its gold decoration. Bannerman took it all in, enjoying it. The sun had lifted him and he felt almost relaxed for the first time in forty-eight hours. He might have been a tourist basking in the winter sun without a care in the world.

  But now, as the sun rose higher, the shadow of the awning moved across the table and he felt the cold creep over him. He finished his coffee, then stood up and checked his watch. It was a little after ten. He dropped some francs in a saucer and stepped out across the square. His day seemed clearly mapped out for him. The press conference at the offices of the Judicial Police at eleven. Then his meeting with Tait at the office, and the funeral in the afternoon. And in the evening he would go and see Tania. He found himself thinking about the child often, and with an odd affection.

  Then there was Jansen, and of course Lapointe. He would have to decide about them today. And there was some unfinished business with Palin. He thought, too, about Platt. It did not please him to have to think about Platt. For here he might be forced into an alliance. And he preferred to work alone. But on this, he would need someone who knew his way around.

  II

  There was a great expectancy in the conference room. Reporters and photographers, television crews, radio journalists with recorders slung over their shoulders. Television lights, and the pall of smoke that hung above it all, caught in sunlight that slanted through narrow windows along the back wall. Many of the journalists had been here on Sunday night, their numbers swelled now by newsmen who had arrived from all over the world.

  Bannerman pushed his way through the crowd and found a seat. A uniformed gendarme stood by swing doors beyond the podium through which bureaucrats and their boss from the Ministry of Justice would shortly enter. A small, rotund figure plumped itself into the seat next to him.

  ‘Hello, Neil. Any idea what this is all about?’ Platt was flushed and perspiring. His grey flannel suit fitted no better than his dinner suit of the other evening. The grubby collar of his once-white shirt was curled up at one side and the knot of his tie was too tight. Short stubby fingers fidgeted endlessly with the corners of his notebook. ‘I thought I might be late.’ He seemed breathless. Bannerman glanced at his watch. It was ten past eleven. He said nothing. ‘Well?’ Platt persisted.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And?’ Platt was impatient.

  ‘You’ll learn soon enough.’ Bannerman hesitated. ‘I’ll let you buy me a drink afterwards, though. There are some things I think we should discuss.’ Without looking at him, Bannerman was aware of a change in Platt’s attitude. The older journalist turned himself in his seat.

  ‘What things?’

  Bannerman was saved from replying by the entrance of the ministerial entourage. Three pinstriped civil servants flanked the Minister of Justice. The Minister himself was a slight-built man, but gave a bigger impression. Power could do that, especially on camera. Bannerman guessed he was about sixty. Remarkably unlined skin on a thin face, dark hair cut short and greying at the temples. His eyes in the television lights seemed black, and shone as they raked across the gathering of journalists.

  He seated himself centrally behind the rostrum, and Bannerman was annoyed that he was unable to see his hands. The things a man did with his hands were often a reflection of what was going on in his head. His face was implacable. The pinstripe immediately to his right sat beside him while the others remained standing. There were some moments of hesitation as journalists settled in seats. Reporters without them stood or sat in the aisles.

  One of the civil servants who had remained standing cleared his throat and began in French. He spoke for less than a minute in short, rapid bursts. Then paused and said in English, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I am happy you could attend. The Minister regrets that it has been necessary to convene this meeting today. He wishes to make a brief statement regarding the unhappy events of Sunday past. His statement will be delivered in both French and English. There will be no questions. Copies of his statement have been prepared in both languages and will be available immediately after the conference. Thank you.’ He bowed towards his boss. ‘Minister . . .’ And he sat as the Minister rose to his feet.

  The man the Belgian Prime Minister had appointed to oversee the country’s justice system produced a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, slipping them on with a single easy movement. His voice was unexpectedly sonorous for so small a man. A smooth, persuasive voice, rich in its French fluency. Bannerman watched him carefully, but there was nothing to be gleaned from his demeanour. He read from a prepared statement, eyes lowered, spectacles perched near the end of his long nose. When he completed his delivery in French he raised one hand to still the buzz of incredulity soaring among the French-speaking journalists.

  Platt squirmed excitedly beside Bannerman, scribbling furiously in his notebook all through the statement, then glancing at Bannerman. But Bannerman kept his eyes on the Minister as he began again in English. Bannerman did not bother to take notes. He watched and listened as the politician peddled his platitudes:

  ‘I have been advised by the Judicial Police . . . no evidence to suggest . . . after close consultation with the British government . . . who are in complete agreement . . . regret that the press should have made such an issue of this drawing . . . mentally disturbed . . . all par
ties are in no doubt . . . full and frank discussions . . . decision . . . the case has been closed. Thank you, gentlemen, for your patience.’

  He turned at once, stepping down from the podium to head for the swing doors, followed by his entourage. A number of journalists were already on their feet and he was mobbed even before he could reach the doors. The single gendarme was hopelessly outnumbered, and the pinstripes had to push and shove to clear a way through for their master.

  There wasn’t a journalist in the room who didn’t understand that this was a blatant whitewash. They also knew there wasn’t a hope in hell of getting the Minister to add anything to his statement, though it wouldn’t be for want of trying. Flashlights fizzed and dazzled. TV cameramen jostled for position. This, they knew, would look good on-screen. Minister of Justice mobbed by pressmen following controversial statement on the deaths of Gryffe and Slater.

  At the centre of the undignified scrum Bannerman caught a glimpse of the Minister’s face, tight and grey. Angry. Maybe even frightened. His head was bowed, his hand raised defensively, before finally he disappeared through the doors.

  Platt was on his feet and could no longer contain his impatience. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  Bannerman rose slowly. ‘More or less.’

  Platt stared at him, his face flushed with excitement. ‘How?’

  ‘What about that drink?’

  *

  The big clock on the wall behind the counter at the Café Auguste showed eleven forty-five. The press conference had lasted a remarkably short time. It had seemed longer. And the walk from the offices of the Judicial Police to the café in the Boulevard de Waterloo had taken only a few minutes.

  Platt wore a battered old checked hat well back on his head, and a dark blue Burberry that had seen better days. He sat uncomfortably in a chair opposite Bannerman and began chewing dirty fingernails. Bannerman infuriated him. He had said nothing during their walk from the Rue des Quatre Bras and now he was flicking abstractedly through his notebook. No doubt he would say what he had to say in his own good time. But Platt did not have time. His second-edition deadline was pressing. By now his news desk would know everything about the Minister’s statement. It was hard to beat radio for instant news. He was going to get his ear chewed when finally he called in. The waiter from the previous day approached their table and nodded acknowledgement to Bannerman.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Two whiskies.’

  ‘I am sorry, Monsieur, it is forbidden to sell spirits in cafés.’

  Bannerman raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘But you served me whisky last night.’

  The waiter permitted himself a stiff smile. ‘Last night, Monsieur, you were drinking with the Inspector. Today you are not.’

  Bannerman looked at Platt. ‘Beer?’

  The reporter nodded, a smile dawning on fat lips.

  ‘Two beers.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur. I am sorry, Monsieur.’

  Platt watched the waiter go and his smile broadened. ‘So you were drinking with the Inspector last night. Du Maurier?’ Bannerman made no reply, which Platt took as a yes. ‘And that’s how you knew what the Minister was going to announce today. What else did the Inspector tell you?’

  Bannerman sat staring at his hands. He was annoyed that Platt should have discovered his source of information so easily. It had been a mistake to come here. Finally he looked up and said in a hushed voice, ‘Quite a bit, Platt, quite a bit.’ Then leaned forward on the table. ‘But that’s confidential. Just between you and me.’

  Platt shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘You’ll see fuck all if you start getting clever!’ Bannerman paused for emphasis. ‘The only reason I’m talking to you at all is because I need someone who knows this city and the people who make it tick.’

  ‘In return for . . .?’

  ‘A share of the story. If I can make it stand up.’ He sat back as their beers were delivered to the table. Platt was containing himself with difficulty. He took a mouthful of beer and waited for Bannerman to go on. But Bannerman kept his own counsel and enjoyed Platt’s discomfort.

  ‘Well?’ Platt barked finally. He was like a dog anticipating walkies.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s between me and me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Platt almost knocked over his glass. ‘What do you mean, between you and you?’ He glanced anxiously at his watch.

  Bannerman lifted his beer and took several long, slow pulls. He drew the back of his hand across his lips. ‘When’s your second edition go to bed?’

  Platt’s face was a mixture of misery and frustration. ‘Twelve.’ He glanced again at his watch. It was ten to.

  ‘I’ll make it brief, then,’ Bannerman said. But he was in no hurry. He took another mouthful of beer. ‘You work in the dark until I start putting things together. I will need certain information on certain individuals. The facilities you have here and your knowledge of Brussels could save me a great deal of time. If and when the story stands up I’ll consider sharing it with you – if you have contributed anything of value.’

  Platt glared at him angrily. ‘What kind of deal is that?’

  ‘The only one I’m prepared to make.’

  ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve, Bannerman. Suppose I provide you with all this information.’ He glanced towards the clock behind the bar. ‘What’s to stop you from cutting me out? I’m supposed to take you on trust, is that it?’

  Bannerman smiled. ‘I don’t know anyone else I would rather put my trust in.’

  Platt gulped down the remainder of his beer then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His hat seemed to have slipped even further back on his head. ‘No deal.’

  Bannerman stood up. ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘No, hold on! Wait a minute!’ Platt was lost in an agony of indecision, and the imminent passing of his midday deadline. ‘Sit down, for Christ’s sake.’

  Bannerman sat down.

  ‘All right. Okay. You’re a real bastard, Bannerman, you know that?’ He hesitated and stole yet another glance at the clock. It was now two minutes to twelve.

  Bannerman said, ‘You’re going to hold up your second edition.’

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘All right. I want to know all about a man called René Jansen. Anything and everything you can get. Personal life, business interests. Also a man called Michel Lapointe. Give me a call first thing tomorrow at the IPC building.’

  Platt was confused, curious, but also conscious of the time. And anticipating the fury of his news editor. He stood up, aiming his most contemptuous look in Bannerman’s direction. ‘Bastard!’ he said again, and hurried off to find a telephone. Bannerman took his time finishing his beer, then settled up and made his way to the door.

  When he stepped out into the boulevard the sun was no longer shining. Dark clouds had rolled in from the east, heavy with the threat of more snow.

  III

  Mademoiselle Ricain looked up from her keyboard and smiled when Bannerman came in. Bannerman wondered what it was she always seemed to be typing. Palin was slumped at his desk, still in his coat, going through his shorthand notes. He had not been at the press conference in the Rue des Quatre Bras and must only just have returned from the midday press briefing at the Salle de Presse. Palin glanced at him, then buried his head again in his notes. Bannerman sat down and threw his notebook on the desk.

  ‘Your editor telephoned,’ Mademoiselle Ricain said. ‘His flight’s been delayed and he said for you not to expect him before one.’

  Bannerman looked at his watch. It was a little after twelve-thirty. ‘Fine. Thanks.’ He paused. ‘Listen, could you pop down to the bakery on the corner and get me a sandwich? Seems like I’m not going to get lunch.’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled and sto
od up, apparently happy to run an errand for him. ‘What filling would you like?’

  Bannerman shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. Whatever they’ve got.’ He drew out a note. ‘Thanks.’

  She took it from him, smiled again, then lifted her bag and coat and was gone, leaving a swirl of perfume in her wake. He had not been aware of the perfume yesterday, but it was making its presence felt today. He frowned.

  He sat for a full minute after she had gone and then glanced at Palin. ‘You and I need to talk.’

  ‘Do we?’ Palin pushed himself back in his seat and looked at Bannerman coldly. In eyes clouded by alcohol there was a hint of apprehension which he was doing his best to disguise. ‘What about?’ He stuck a match in the corner of his mouth and began chewing on it.

  Bannerman waited, allowing Palin’s apprehension to take root and push out shoots. ‘About the phone call you made to René Jansen yesterday.’ Palin paled visibly and Bannerman knew he’d guessed right. It could easily have been Lapointe. Fifty–fifty. He’d struck lucky.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Bannerman retained a studied calm. ‘I don’t know if it’s possible to see that you never work in newspapers again, Palin, but I’ll make damn sure your editor is in full possession of the facts. I can only imagine what his reaction will be. As for the union, well, they’re not quite as predictable, but I would think there’s a good chance you’ll be expelled. And then there’s the Judicial Police. I wouldn’t swear to it, but it’s quite possible that you’ve actually broken the law.’

  A deathly pallor washed across Palin’s face. He was silent for a very long time. Then, ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  So he was not even going to deny it. Bannerman kept his anger in check. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But you and I both know that Slater was blackmailing Gryffe.’