The Man With No Face Read online

  ‘How the hell can I get that kind of money to you over a weekend? The banks are all shut.’

  ‘Just do it, Bannerman. Cash in bank before the records office reopens on Monday morning.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘I’ll be here till midday.’

  The line went dead and Bannerman dropped the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Shit!’ His voice resounded in the stillness of the room.

  *

  In Edinburgh it was raining, as it nearly always does. The grey and red sandstone tenements were dark and streaked with wet. The wind blew and rattled empty washing lines against rusted poles. In suburban Morningside big houses stood silent and solid behind long sloping lawns and trees that bent in the wind.

  Tait lay safe and warm in his bed listening to the rain battering against his window. Outside, the streets were empty and only a few sodden leaves, remnants of the autumn, stirred in the gutter. He liked to lie in on Saturdays, though he had been awake for some time. Now he heard the phone ringing distantly in the house and he cursed. When the phone went it was always for him.

  He lay listening for his wife’s footsteps on the stair, but he missed them and was surprised by the gentle creak of the door as it opened.

  ‘Are you awake?’ Her voice came in a breath.

  ‘Yes. Who is it?’

  ‘It’s someone from the paper.’ His wife seemed distressed. ‘A Neil Bannerman. Long-distance. I told him you were still asleep, but he was very rude.’

  ‘There’s no need to whisper. I am awake.’ He threw back the covers and sat up. What the hell was Bannerman after?

  He pulled on his dressing gown, pushing his feet into slippers, and followed her downstairs to take the call in the living room. The children had their own playroom at the back of the house, and as he lifted the phone he heard his wife telling them to keep the noise down. ‘What in God’s name do you want, Bannerman? You realize it’s only just gone nine, and it is Saturday!’

  ‘I need ten grand. Today if possible, tomorrow at the latest.’

  It took several seconds for Bannerman’s words to sink in. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Tait’s first reaction was anger. But then he realized that Bannerman would not phone and ask him for ten thousand pounds at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning unless he had a bloody good reason. He almost resented the fact that Bannerman was as good as he was. It made it all the harder to get rid of him. Although it made no impression on his resolve to do so. No one could speak to Tait the way Bannerman had. ‘Why?’

  ‘To prove that Robert Gryffe, René Jansen and Michel Lapointe were selling arms to Rhodesia and South Africa.’

  Tait ran the implications through his mind with a practised professional detachment. Then he felt the first buzz of adrenalin. ‘Who gets the pay-off?’

  ‘A guy called Hector Lewis. He has a business based in Switzerland. Does company searches, among other things. I got hold of some information and asked him to check it out. When it turned up what it did he got greedy. He wants a certified cheque in his bankers’ hands by nine on Monday morning at the latest, or he’ll sell the story elsewhere.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘How reliable is he? Can you trust him?’

  He heard Bannerman’s bitter chuckle. ‘Oh, I think so. He’s good, very good, a real pro. The fact that he’s a twenty-four-carat bastard is merely incidental.’

  Tait felt the irresistible creep of a smile. So Bannerman was fallible too, and it hurt him like it hurt anyone else.

  ‘Well?’ Bannerman was impatient.

  ‘Where does Slater fit into all this?’ The question was inevitable. To Tait it was almost more important than the story itself. Just how embarrassing was it going to be for the Post, even if they were the ones to break the story?

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Bannerman said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But I will.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Bannerman! Can’t you just leave Slater out of this?’

  ‘Do I get the money or not?’

  ‘Yes, you get the fucking money. But how the hell are we supposed to do it when the banks are shut?’

  ‘That’s your problem. I’ll call you back with the relevant details when I’ve spoken again to Lewis.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. What arrangement have you come to about Slater’s kid?’

  ‘Arrangement?’

  ‘For getting her on the plane tomorrow.’

  Bannerman frowned. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! I had a telex sent yesterday to your office asking you to put her on the Edinburgh flight on Sunday morning. The Brook Clinic in Edinburgh has agreed to take her.’

  For the first time Bannerman was confronted by what he had known all along. That whatever he might feel, Tania was going to spend the rest of her life in an institution. His mind swerved away from the thought. ‘I didn’t go into the office yesterday.’ Some protective barrier raised itself. He had taken enough of an emotional battering already. ‘I’ll arrange it.’

  ‘Good. Someone from the clinic will meet her at the other end. At least no one can say the Post is shirking its responsibilities.’

  Bannerman hung up and then immediately redialled. Lewis answered promptly. ‘Well, well, that was quick, Neil. Good news I trust?’

  ‘You’ve got your ten grand.’

  ‘Excellent. I knew you’d come through.’

  Bannerman’s voice was very controlled. ‘I’ll not waste my breath telling you what’ll happen if you fuck me over on this, Lewis.’

  ‘Neil, Neil, would I do a thing like that?’

  ‘All we need are your account details. You’ll get your cheque. Just make sure the results of that search are telexed to Edinburgh by midday on Monday.’

  ‘It’s as good as done, Neil. Just as soon as the money’s in the bank. Do you have a pen handy?’

  ‘No. You can arrange the details with my editor.’ He gave him Tait’s home number. They deserved each other.

  He hung up and sat for some minutes trying to resolve his conflicting emotions, the struggle between his personal feelings and his professional instincts. He needed a clear mind to steer him through the day ahead, and his thoughts turned to Platt. Platt was a problem. Bannerman had promised him a share of the story. He would have had no scruples about welching on that promise, but for the material Platt had unearthed on Lapointe’s nominee company. He needed Platt. It would take him too long to collect the data himself and the pressure was now on to run an early story. He couldn’t trust Lewis to sit on it if he held it back, even for a few days. And the stuff Platt had so diligently compiled completed the circle. It was within his grasp to prove beyond doubt that Gryffe had been involved in selling arms to rogue states in contravention of UN sanctions.

  Even now he found it difficult to grasp the full enormity of the story. One thing he didn’t yet know was who had ordered the execution of Gryffe and Slater. Or who had shot at him in Flanders. There was also the riddle of Slater. That he had been blackmailing Gryffe seemed beyond doubt, but Bannerman had no proof. And how had Slater come by his information? It was not the kind of thing that you stumbled on by chance.

  Again Platt wormed his way into Bannerman’s thoughts. There was no escaping it. He would have to take Platt into his confidence. With great reluctance he dug out the grubby business card Platt had given him at the party – how long ago that seemed now – and dialled.

  ‘Platt.’ The voice was thick with phlegm. The call had clearly woken him.

  ‘Bannerman.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Platt was wide awake now and fumbling for his bedside clock. ‘What time is it . . .?’

  ‘Time you and I had a talk.’

  ‘What about? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m at the Rue de Commerce. I suggest you g
et over here. I’ll expect you.’ The line went dead on Platt’s confusion.

  Bannerman thumbed through his notebook until he found the unlisted number he had copied from Slater’s contacts book. There was a sense of urgency bubbling to the surface now. He picked up the phone again and dialled. It rang three times before a voice answered in Flemish.

  Bannerman said, ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to René Jansen.’

  ‘Who wants him?’

  ‘Neil Bannerman.’

  There was a long wait before the voice returned. ‘Herr Jansen is not available.’

  Bannerman said calmly, ‘Tell him I intend to expose a company which is selling arms in breach of UN sanctions. I think he knows who I am.’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘No one’s asking you to think. Just tell him.’

  There was another long wait before the voice returned. Then, ‘Herr Jansen will speak to you at his home this evening. If you will be here for eight-thirty.’

  Bannerman hung up and wondered fleetingly if the toxic information now in his possession made him the next target. He shrugged the thought aside and turned his mind elsewhere before reaching for the telephone directory. He found the number of the Hotel Regent in the Avenue Louise in a matter of seconds.

  Schumacher picked up the call, then handed over to his wife when Bannerman told him why he was calling. She seemed surprised, but pleased. He said unnecessarily, ‘I thought that since you were flying to Edinburgh on Sunday anyway you wouldn’t mind. It’s just that she can’t travel alone.’

  ‘Mr Bannerman, there’s no need to apologize. Of course we’ll take her. That poor, poor child.’

  He spent an uncomfortable few minutes on the phone with Laura-Lee sorting out the details and wondering if he was right to entrust the child to these eccentric Americans. Was Mrs Schumacher’s concern for Tania genuine, or was it just one more story of European adventure with which she could regale her social circle back home?

  When, eventually, he got her off the line he called the airline and booked a seat for Tania on the Schumachers’ flight.

  Now it only remained for him to inform the clinic here in Brussels. The news would have to be broken to Tania herself. For a long time he sat looking at the phone. It would be too easy simply to phone Dr Mascoulin and ask him to tell the child. He knew he owed it to her to tell her himself, but didn’t know that he could face the consequences. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes, and sat back to wait for Platt.

  *

  It was almost half an hour before he heard footsteps on the stairs. He eased himself out of the settee and went through to the hall. Platt stood flushed and breathless on the landing.

  ‘I got a taxi straight over,’ he said, and followed Bannerman through to the living room. ‘What’s happened? I thought after yesterday . . .’

  ‘You’re back in business, Platt,’ Bannerman interrupted and sank back into the settee.

  Platt stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that the stuff you dug out on Lapointe’s Corniche company has turned up trumps – in the light of further evidence. And I’m prepared to do a swap. Documentary evidence. Your information for mine. A simple exchange, and then we’ve both got a story.’

  ‘But . . . but what have you got?’ Platt was suspicious. Why the sudden change of heart?

  Bannerman sighed. He knew that he would have to tell Platt everything; his conversations with Lewis, the information unearthed in Switzerland, the deal he had been forced to make.

  Platt sat down on the edge of a chair and listened in astonished silence as Bannerman spelled it out. He was barely able to conceal his excitement, mopping his fat flushed face repeatedly with his soiled red handkerchief.

  ‘What about Jansen?’ he said when he’d had time to process it all. ‘We’ll have to put it to him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight. I’ve already fixed a rendezvous. But I’m seeing him alone.’

  Platt didn’t argue. In fact he was quite relieved. He would not have relished a confrontation with a man like Jansen. He knew his own limitations. And, anyway, why not let Bannerman do the dirty work? Hadn’t he dismissed Platt’s efforts so disparagingly only yesterday? Let him do it on his own and then make him eat dirt. Finally he had Bannerman right where he wanted him. Platt could hardly believe his luck. The euphoria of the day before returned and he beamed happily. ‘How about a drink to celebrate?’

  Bannerman shook his head and looked at Platt with faint distaste. ‘I agreed to share the story. I don’t feel obliged to drink with you.’

  Platt’s smile never wavered. I’ll show you, he thought. ‘Can I borrow Slater’s car?’

  Bannerman was surprised. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘There are things I need to do. I’ll have to go to the office and take copies of my notes from the Tribunal de Commerce, and then I can bring them round to you tonight. After you’ve seen Jansen.’

  Bannerman felt in his pocket for the keys and threw them across to Platt. ‘Don’t wreck it.’ This way, at least, he had an excuse for not going to the clinic.

  Platt scurried off with his happiness and his dark secrets, leaving Bannerman to face the phone call he knew he must now make. An image came to him of Tania standing at the window, watching for him to come. She would be expecting him today, and he did not have the courage to face her, or tell her of the plans other people were making for her future.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Across the city Kale lay fully clothed on his bed as he had done throughout the hours of darkness. At first it had been the thump of music from the nightclub next door that kept him awake, pounding through his head until after five. But by then he had been beyond sleep. He had left the shutters open, and a neon sign in the street outside flashed every few seconds to bathe the room in a warm red glow. Now, many hours later, the smoke from his cigarette drifted lazily towards the ceiling where a thick pall from all the cigarettes that had gone before hung in the grey light of late morning.

  He had reached a decision. All these days of torment, of discovery and self-doubt, were behind him. Tomorrow he was leaving. Tomorrow he was walking away from all this. He didn’t care about the remainder of his fee, or his reputation. He didn’t care about anyone or anything. He was simply leaving. It seemed so easy now. Now that he had finally admitted to himself that killing the child in cold blood was not an option. He had discovered in himself, quite unexpectedly, a potential for love. Or, at least, a hate less corrosive. No longer was he haunted by the compulsion to follow her, to confront himself with the failure that was his own humanity.

  Tomorrow morning a taxi to the airport, a flight that would take less than an hour, and he would be back in London. Safe and sound.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  You could not see the house from the road. It lay somewhere behind a high stone wall in secluded darkness. The avenue was broad and well lit, sloping gently uphill, past the mansions that wealthy men had built here in this exclusive quarter of the city over more than a hundred years.

  The taxi drew up at the gates of the Jansen place and Bannerman climbed out. It was a cold night and the sky was hard and clear.

  ‘Wait,’ he told the driver. He pressed a buzzer set into the carved stone gatepost and leaned forward to the speaker grille. ‘Neil Bannerman for Monsieur Jansen.’

  Almost at once a soft hum filled the air and the gates swung soundlessly inwards. Bannerman climbed back into the taxi and they drove through the gates along a driveway that ran between ancient trees whose intertwining branches formed a canopy overhead. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness beyond this tunnel of trees and the reach of the headlamps.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, they came out into a wash of naked moonlight lying across a fla
t snow-covered lawn. The drive divided the grass into two squares beyond which the arched windows of a three-storey mansion rose into the night sky. Not a single light showed in any one of them. This, Bannerman thought, was the end of the road. And he felt his excitement rising. A tiny stab of apprehension.

  The driveway opened on to a gravel strip that ran the length of the house, and the driver pulled in at the foot of a short flight of steps leading to a grand porticoed entrance. Again Bannerman told him to wait, and as he climbed the steps double doors swung open ahead of him. A soft yellow light split the darkness, throwing his shadow back down the steps and across the gravel. An elderly man wearing a neatly pressed suit and starched white collar beckoned him into a vast circular hall panelled in oak. Bannerman’s shoes resounded on mosaic tiling and he found himself facing a broad marble staircase that swept upwards in a curve to the first floor whose balcony repeated the circle before yet more stairs spiralled to the floor above. He craned his head up to see a dome of stained glass crowning the atrium. It would be magnificent in sunlight, showering shards of coloured light on to the stairs and landings. Dark, anonymous portraits stared down at him from the walls.

  The man at his side coughed discreetly. ‘Your coat, sir.’ Bannerman slipped it off and Jansen’s butler draped it carefully over his arm. ‘Please follow me.’

  The sound of their footsteps on the marble stairs echoed off into the vastness. The first-floor balcony was carpeted in a rich, dark blue. They walked around half of its circumference before the butler stopped to open one of the many doors leading off it. Why, Bannerman thought, when a man has all this, does he need to sell illegal arms?

  He walked into a high-ceilinged room, its windows hung with velvet and looking out on to gardens at the rear of the house. An enormous marble hearth simmered in darkness. There was no fire in it, although the room was not cold. A crystal chandelier threw its almost perfect mirror reflection on to the surface of an oblong dining table of highly polished mahogany. There were places set at either end of it. A tall man in a claret smoking jacket stood waiting by one of them. The door closed behind Bannerman and the man extended his arms towards the place opposite.