The Man With No Face Page 19

  Bannerman knew now why the name Jansen had seemed familiar. He was one of that two per cent who own ninety-five per cent of the world’s wealth. Men who exist in billionaire bubbles, lavishing themselves with private jets, executive suites and country estates. Their pictures appear on the covers of fashionable magazines, dining with Royalty, on safari with film stars. They are never seen without a beautiful woman at their side. Jansen’s was the kind of lifestyle to which Robert Gryffe had aspired.

  ‘How does he structure his companies?’

  Platt filled his cup again. He offered the bottle across the table but Bannerman shook his head. ‘Everything comes under the umbrella of the parent company, I.V. Internationale, which is headquartered in the Boulevard Bischoffsheim.’ Platt paused. ‘If you’re trying to find skeletons in his cupboard you’ll be hard-pushed. It’s been tried before. Everything’s above board. All I.V.’s activities are on record and can be checked. Business registration in this country is as accessible as it is in the UK. Companies are registered at the Tribunal de Commerce and there is one of those in every commercial court in the country. They are all linked to a central register held here in Brussels by the Ministry of the Middle Classes. And you or I or anyone can examine that register. You can find out the names of a company’s directors, its capital holdings, just as easily as you can obtain the same information at Companies House in London or Edinburgh.’

  ‘Financial state? Shareholders?’

  Platt shook his head. ‘Companies are not required to divulge that information. But that’s hardly important, is it?’

  Bannerman shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Go on.’

  Platt drained his second cup. A little colour had returned to his cheeks. ‘He’s not married, he’s in his late forties and lives with his mother in a vast mansion in its own estate just outside Brussels. He’s got no overt political affiliations, although it’s said he contributes funds. Generally he keeps a pretty low profile, but he’s widely known as a bit of a philanthropist. Apparently he contributes large sums every year to worthy causes. But his private life is private.’

  Bannerman frowned. It was not necessarily what he had been expecting. The philanthropic billionaire who steers clear of public politics and jealously guards his spotless reputation by keeping it out of the glare of publicity. All very virtuous. And yet this same man had sent a hoodlum to break into the Post’s office in the IPC building and steal an innocuous folder of newspaper cuttings. He checked the time and then drained his cup quickly. ‘And Lapointe? Make it quick. I have to go.’

  Platt was in no hurry, remembering how Bannerman had made him late for his deadline that morning. He filled his cup for the third time and sank back again in his chair. ‘Lapointe,’ he said at length, ‘is the legal brain behind I.V. Internationale. He’s a short, stout man in his middle fifties. Very grey and very proper. Wears neatly tailored suits and carries his wealth discreetly. Old-fashioned, conservative. A widower with one grown-up daughter. Divorced, I believe. He began his career in criminal law and went on to specialize in company and commercial law. He worked for Jansen’s father before he died and has been associated with the family for many years. He’s not a man in the public eye in any way, but a key figure in the company.’ Platt sipped his whisky. ‘And that’s about it. Although perhaps a little surprisingly he’s a Walloon, a French-speaker.’

  Bannerman stood up suddenly and Platt blinked at him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve got to go. You can let yourself out.’ He lifted his coat and headed out into the darkness of the hall.

  Platt heard the front door closing, and a few minutes later Bannerman’s car coughing to life in the street below. He smiled, satisfied with his day. And the whisky was having its effect. He would show them! Especially Bannerman. His eyes wandered towards the Brueghel snow scene, reminding him of how it was outside. That, and the dull ache of his ulcer, were the only things that troubled him now. He took a tablet from his pocket, crunched it between bad teeth, and prepared to pour himself another whisky to wash away the taste.

  II

  The Palais de Justice took on a sinister air at night. During the day it was one of those vast blackened buildings whose pillars and ornate façades seem somehow eternal, if now a little shabby. Odd pieces of scaffolding had been erected by artisans on a crusade to restore its original dignity with limited civic funds.

  Through a small window Bannerman saw a night watchman pouring himself coffee from a flask at a desk pushed against the wall of a tiny office. Behind him a stove glowed brightly and warm yellow light fell out across the snow.

  The Place Poelaert was deserted. Night traffic rumbled past in the Boulevard de Waterloo two hundred metres distant. At the far side, where Bannerman waited, snow crusted along the top of a high wall beyond which the city shimmered below him in the cold. A floodlit church, steeply sloping snow-covered roofs. The tail lights of traffic on the boulevards. And in the misted distance, the Martini neon on the Manhattan Centre at the Place Rogier.

  Footsteps on cobbles echoed in the silence, coming from the shadowed lee of the courthouse where the snow had not fallen. Bannerman turned to see the tall, slightly stooped figure of du Maurier step from the shadows and into the feeble light of the streetlamps. He seemed older, his coat hanging loose on his lean frame. A cigarette glowed at one corner of his mouth and his breath billowed around his head like smoke in the cold. His hat, tilted forward, threw a shadow over the top half of his face. Hands pushed into his pockets, he walked slowly to the wall, brushed away the crusting of snow and leaned on it to stare out across the city. Bannerman smelled drink on his breath.

  Without looking at him du Maurier said, ‘Five years ago I was up for promotion. Principal Commissaire. One of my contemporaries, a Fleming, got the job.’ He paused. ‘You see, Monsieur, this great country of ours is really an uneasy alliance of two very different cultures. Two countries, you might say. The Flemings in the north and the Walloons in the south. The language of the north is Flemish and in the south it is French. But our differences go much deeper than language. They are cultural, historical. Brussels may have been crowned the new political capital of Europe. A great cosmopolitan city.’ He snorted his derision. ‘But it is pure veneer, Monsieur Bannerman. All the old hatreds, all the old prejudices fester still beneath the surface. They say that Belgium is bilingual. It is not true. Outside of Brussels, where we all pretend, we are a nation of two one-language communities. The language and culture of north and south prevail over the nation. It is expected. In the schoolroom, in the boardroom, the officers’ mess, the law courts, the tax office, the Church.’ He lit a fresh cigarette from his old one and seemed lost in thought. Bannerman shuffled impatiently, but said nothing.

  ‘It was my misfortune to reach the point of promotion at a time when the balance of power was shifting. For years French-speakers held sway. It was they who had power and influence in government and all its institutions. Then a conscious political decision was taken to reverse the tide, to bring about what they called balance. It was the turn of the Flemings.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Ironically I had always been opposed to discrimination against the Flemings. I had always believed that a man should be judged on his abilities. But you see, I lost my chance because I spoke French at a time when the political climate was against me. Not because I didn’t merit the job.’ He turned to Bannerman. ‘Why should I feel any allegiance to such a system?’

  Bannerman wondered how many absinthes the policeman had consumed. He said, ‘You didn’t have me meet you here in the middle of the night to complain about political discrimination, I hope.’

  Du Maurier pursed his lips. ‘No-o.’ He stretched the word out thoughtfully and then lowered his head. ‘I had information for you.’

  Bannerman’s breath billowed into the night air. ‘But now you’re having second thoughts.’

  The Inspector looked up and searched Bannerman’s face. ‘What makes you say
that?’

  ‘Because you’ve been all fired up since they passed you over for promotion, and when the politicians descended to take away your murders at the Rue de Pavie you saw your chance to hit back. You saw that they were vulnerable. Now you’re not so sure if you’re doing the right thing.’

  Du Maurier wished he had not drunk so much, for his head was fuzzy and he found it difficult to think clearly. He felt foolish for having unburdened himself like this to the Scotsman. He had only made himself vulnerable.

  Bannerman said, ‘The trouble is, you’ve already committed yourself. There’s no going back now, Inspector. I could blow the lid on our little tête-à-têtes any time I choose.’

  The years sat heavily on du Maurier’s bony shoulders and he seemed to age twenty years. ‘And would you?’

  Bannerman let that hang for several long moments. ‘No.’

  Du Maurier stared at him. ‘Why not?’

  Bannerman shrugged. ‘No self-respecting journalist would ever reveal his sources.’ Then he said, ‘So what you want to say to me tonight is that you’ve changed your mind? Is that it? That you no longer feel able to pass me information from the inside?’ Du Maurier nodded.

  Both men stood in silence then, one staring out over the city, the other with his back to the wall staring across the darkness of the cobbled square. Neither spoke for several minutes. Finally Bannerman said, ‘What was the information you had?’

  Du Maurier turned his head slowly. ‘Mon Dieu! You really expect me to tell you now?’

  ‘I believe in what I’m doing, Inspector.’

  The other man shook his head. ‘I wish I had that kind of belief in anything any more.’ He closed his eyes and hesitated for several long seconds before drawing a folded sheet of notepaper from his coat pocket and pushing it at Bannerman. Bannerman opened it up and squinted at the paper in the bad light. There was an address written across it in a tight, neat hand. ‘That’s the address linked to the phone number you gave me. A country house in West Flanders near Torhout, about seventeen kilometres south-west of Bruges. Monsieur Gryffe, it seems, had been renting it for about two years. The property is owned by a Brussels-registered company, a subsidiary of I.V. Internationale.’ There was irony in his smile.

  Bannerman said, ‘Jansen’s outfit.’

  ‘Perhaps you were right after all, Monsieur.’

  Bannerman’s fingers tightened on the slip of paper. No matter how tenuous, it was the first real lead to emerge from this whole bloody mess.

  Du Maurier said, ‘What will you do?’

  Bannerman let his head fall back so that he was staring up into the falling snow, big flakes catching cold light. ‘I shall go to Flanders.’ Pause. ‘And you? What will you do?’

  Du Maurier surveyed the chewed wet end of his cigarette. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I will need to think about that.’ He threw the cigarette over the wall. ‘Goodnight, Monsieur.’ And he turned away to cross the cobbles and start down the narrow steps to the Rue des Minimes below.

  Bannerman watched him disappear into the shadows before pushing himself away from the wall. He stood for a moment, lost in thought, then set off across the Place Poelaert.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I

  The first grey light of dawn hung in the sky. In the waiting room the electric light burned white and hard. Slatted benches were cold and uncomfortable. The sounds of the train station drifted in the open door with the fog that smothered the city. An elderly couple sat close and quiet, staring bleakly through the windows at porters passing with their trolleys of luggage and mail. Occasionally they exchanged a word or two in whispers. There was no reason for anyone to speak in whispers, but a voice more raised would have seemed somehow inappropriate.

  A plump businessman, prosperous in his navy coat, camel scarf and dark homburg hat, stood puffing impatiently on a long cigar. He kept wiping the window where it was misting and staring down the line for signs of the train. It was not due for another five minutes. His premature impatience was annoying Bannerman.

  The journalist’s eyes were gritty and stinging from lack of sleep. His mood brittle. He was tense without knowing quite why. The weather had changed overnight, the snow turning to rain, and a fine drizzle was drifting down the tracks towards the platforms that stretched away on either side. The damp seeped into everything, chill and raw.

  Bannerman had risen early, the sound of his alarm drilling into a confused dream that dispersed with waking consciousness. The windows of the bedroom were milky white with condensation, and outside it had still been dark. In the living room the smell of stale smoke and alcohol hung in the air, the bottle of malt standing empty on the table like a reproach. The first cup of coffee had been good.

  He shoved a few items into a holdall to see him through, in case he had to stay overnight. When he was in the hall the phone began to ring. He frowned and checked the time. Just after seven. He hesitated briefly before deciding not to answer. It was still ringing as his footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Had he taken the call he would not have been sitting in this station waiting room.

  More than a dozen people stood now on the platform below the mist that eddied in the lamplight. It was still dark, despite the traces of light in the sky. A tall man with short, sandy hair stooped to peer into the waiting room. His eyes lighted on Bannerman for a second and he turned away quickly as the reporter became aware of him. The lights of the train came out of the blackness of the tunnel beyond the station, and with a clatter and grinding of metal on metal, it came to a halt along the length of the platform. Doors were flung open and people who had travelled through the night from Germany stepped down pulling suitcases behind them.

  Bannerman left the waiting room, pushing past several people on the platform, and climbed up into the train. At the far end of the corridor he caught sight of the man with the sandy hair. He was carrying a polished wooden case. Bannerman slid open the door of an empty compartment and slipped into its welcome warmth. He threw his holdall into the overhead rack and took a seat by the window with his back to the engine. He watched figures pass in the corridor. The elderly couple who had been in the waiting room, a thin man in a dark suit with a Gauloise clamped between his lips and a briefcase under his arm. They all passed. There was no sign of the man with the sandy hair. Bannerman wondered why he had expected to see him, anticipating that he might even step into the same compartment. Something about his rabbit eyes, perhaps, or the way he’d looked at Bannerman through the window in the waiting room.

  The raised voice of the platform guard sounded in the dark, and then the slamming of doors. A whistle breathed hoarsely into the morning and with a slight groan the train began dragging itself out of the station, gathering speed, wheels clattering across a confluence of rails at the junction.

  II

  The early afternoon air was clear and bright, sunlight lying in patches on snow that stretched away across the flatness of West Flanders. The distance was broken only by the occasional hedge or row of poplars. The mist had lifted and the heavy grey of the sky was clearing to reveal a pale blue behind it. The road was wet and black, a dirty slush piled along its verges where it had been thrown up by the wheels of cars. The snow was still wet, but if the sky continued to clear then it would freeze again tonight.

  A deep silence lay across the land. Only the birds could be heard greeting the return of the sun. The road was deserted, stretching emptily away towards a belt of trees. Beyond them the spire of a village church rose sharply against the clearing sky. Bannerman had walked nearly two kilometres from where the Bruges–Kortrijk bus had dropped him on the main road. In that time he had not seen a single vehicle or a single human being. The small town of Torhout lay somewhere to the east, but whatever town or village lay beyond the belt of trees, it was not important enough to appear on the Michelin map.

  The house was set on its own, surrounded by a few gnarled
trees, leafless and black, their branches crusted with white. The track that led off the road across half a kilometre of open field to the house was obliterated by snow. Only two crooked wooden gateposts gave clues to its existence. A crow sat one-legged on the faraway post, grooming black feathers beneath its wings. It stopped and watched suspiciously as Bannerman approached. It had seen him coming for some time, waiting until he was within a few metres before taking clumsily to the air with a loud caw-cawing. Somewhere across the fields another crow answered its call, and then silence descended again.

  Bannerman paused for a moment before turning on to the track and ploughing through snow that had drifted two to three feet deep along the ridge. It took him nearly ten minutes to reach the house. It was a long, narrow building with a steeply sloped red-tiled roof. A greying whitewash flaked off the walls and the green of the shutters had faded and cracked. A rusted rone pipe had stained the wall blood-red down one side where it ran from the guttering. It was an old house, a survivor of the last war, and it bore the scars of neglect.

  Against the north wall the snow had drifted several feet deep, and on the protected south side weeds poked up through the patchy skin of snow that covered the gravel path. In summer it would be a fine place to live. Bannerman stood staring up at it, listening to the quiet. Sunlight fell at an oblique angle through the trees, dappling the south wall. All the shutters were closed tight and the storm doors locked.

  He walked around the house trying each of the shutters in turn. At the back there was a yard and a crop of crumbling outbuildings. A slab of snow slid from the glistening tiles on the roof and fell with a thud behind him. The stab of fright that shot through him made him conscious for the first time of a growing uneasiness. He cast his eyes over the surrounding countryside, looking – for what? He didn’t know. There was nothing to be seen. Not a movement, not a sound. And yet he had the strangest sensation of eyes upon him. Watching him. It was foolish, he knew. He was just tired.