by Peter May
He lifted out Slater’s contacts book, shut the drawer and picked up a phone. He got an outside line, found the number he wanted and dialled. A woman answered and he spoke in slow, clear French. ‘I’d like to speak to Monsieur Jansen.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘He won’t know me,’ Palin said. ‘Just tell him I worked with a man called Tim Slater and that I have some information to sell him. I think he’ll speak to me.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I
The Boulevard de Waterloo was thick with people wrapped in heavy coats and brightly coloured rainwear. They clutched umbrellas and briefcases and shopping bags. Hurrying, heads bowed, through the darkness and the big white flakes of snow that fell brightly through the lights from cafés and shops. The snow was wet and was not yet lying on the pavement. It came drifting lazily over the tops of tall buildings that stood dark against the orange glow reflected in the thickly clouded sky, turning white in the light of the streetlamps, slapping softly against faces like the merest touch of icy fingers.
The rush-hour traffic on both sides of the boulevard crawled noisily in frustrated fits and starts, carrying weary breadwinners home after long, noisy, dissatisfying days in anonymous offices. It was just another dark winter evening in Brussels.
Bannerman walked west from the Métro at the Porte de Namur, brushing the shoulders of people hurrying the other way, getting wet from the snow and catching the drips from passing umbrellas. It was odd, he thought, how you were no more a stranger in a busy street at the rush hour in a foreign city than you were in your own home town. They were the same faces you passed anywhere. The same people you didn’t know that lived the same lives in which you played no part. He might have been just like them.
There was a time when perhaps he would have married, raised a family, mortgaged a house in the suburbs, taken a safe job in the city, and been hurrying home like everyone else with nothing more to worry about than what TV show he would choose to while away the evening. There had been that time, but it had long since passed. He had made his choices, and some of them had been made for him. He hardly ever regretted them, though there were times when he lay alone in the dark listening to dogs barking in the night and wondered how it might have been if he had followed the well-worn path, how it might have been to have had someone to come home to, someone to share a life with. But thoughts like those came only in the darkest hours, and usually he would decide it was as well things had turned out the way they had.
A newsboy was standing under the awning of the Café Auguste, a bundle of evening papers under his arm. He had no need to shout. Business was good. News was bad. They were still carrying the story of the shooting and the girl’s drawing. People liked to sit back in comfortable armchairs in front of warming fires after their evening meal and read about the horrors of life from the safety of their own little boxes. So long as it didn’t touch them directly.
Bannerman bought a copy of La Belgique Soir and glanced briefly at the front page. There were pics of the death house, single-column pics of Gryffe and Slater and a reproduction of the drawing. The byline was Richard Platt’s.
He folded the paper under his arm and walked into the steamy warmth of the café. The place was full of people and noise, a strong aroma of coffee and cigar smoke. It was a big barn of a place, crammed with tables and chairs, mirror tiles behind the bar, and big, scarred pillars supporting an ornately corniced ceiling almost obscured by a fog of smoke and damp. Two waiters in white jackets and black trousers darted among tables conveying endless orders of coffee and beer on brightly coloured trays.
Du Maurier was sitting at a table at the far side of the café, behind a square-panelled pillar. He raised an arm to wave Bannerman over.
‘What will you drink, Monsieur?’
Bannerman eased himself into a chair opposite. ‘Whisky.’
Du Maurier barely moved his head and one of the waiters was at his arm, a thin, dark-skinned man with a small black moustache and a permanent scowl.
‘Inspecteur?’
Du Maurier ordered a whisky and an absinthe. When the waiter had gone the policeman tugged at his nostril hair and lit a cigarette. He sat back and regarded Bannerman with sharp, watchful eyes. ‘Well?’
‘So they’re going to pull the plug on you tomorrow.’
He smiled sadly. ‘They already have. This case is consigned to history. Tomorrow is just an exercise in public relations. The dirty work is done. I have to admit, I did not expect them to move quite so quickly.’
Bannerman thought about it. ‘Then there is more to it than embarrassed politicians?’
Du Maurier seemed so relaxed he was almost liquid. ‘For them to know and you to find out.’
‘And you?’
Du Maurier leaned forward and placed his elbows carefully on the edge of the table, clasping his big-knuckled hands below his chin. ‘Not me, Monsieur Bannerman. The case is closed.’
‘Is it?’
‘Officially I can do nothing.’
‘And unofficially?’
Their waiter arrived with drinks on a tray and left the bill in a saucer. Du Maurier reached for a jug on the table. ‘Water?’ Bannerman shook his head and the Inspector poured some into his absinthe and watched it turn cloudy. He picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘The case,’ he repeated very deliberately, ‘is closed.’ He took a mouthful, then, of his absinthe and studied Bannerman thoughtfully. ‘What do you need to know?’
Bannerman took his first sip of whisky and kept the glass close to his mouth. ‘Michel Lapointe and René Jansen.’
Du Maurier shook his head sadly. ‘You are on the wrong track, Monsieur. Like you, we found those cuttings yesterday. But there is no connection that I can discern with Monsieur Gryffe, or what happened in the Rue de Pavie.’ He paused to consider his words. ‘René Jansen is a very powerful man in this country. His business interests are extensive, as is his bank balance. He wields influence, yes, but not that much. He is a big man, but not that big. The decision to close this case is political, and Jansen is not a political animal. This is not his affair.’
‘And Lapointe?’
‘A company lawyer. Look, Monsieur, there is no connection here.’
‘But any connection could do them harm?’
Du Maurier sighed. ‘Perhaps.’
Bannerman emptied half his glass. ‘So why are you trying to protect them?’
Du Maurier was annoyed, and his annoyance seemed genuine enough. ‘Perhaps I have made a mistake,’ he said curtly. ‘I thought you were an intelligent man.’ He drained his glass.
‘Me too,’ Bannerman said. ‘But I’m just naturally suspicious. Like you. And I can’t for the life of me think why you are talking to me at all.’ He put a hand on du Maurier’s arm to stop him from standing up. ‘Oh, I know what you told me yesterday. Justice, morality, the law. All very noble. But I’m just a little too cynical to believe all that. Forgive me. As I said, I have a suspicious mind.’
Du Maurier’s years seemed deeply etched in the lines of his face. He sighed and sank back in his seat. ‘Okay. There’s no reason you should believe me, Monsieur. My motives are my own. And perhaps they are not very noble, but they are real enough. And I don’t see why I should share them with you.’ A mantle of what looked very much like defeat settled heavily upon his shoulders. ‘Of course I was not mistaken. You are a very astute young man. But you should know that the last thing I would want to do is protect someone like Jansen. He would fit neatly into the category of what one of your political leaders once described so nicely as the unacceptable face of capitalism.’
He sighed deeply.
‘I am no socialist, but I believe in democracy, Monsieur. Men like Jansen make a mockery of that. Political parties do not run on fresh air. They need money to survive. And it is men like him who provide the cash. And surely none of us is naïve enough t
o believe that it is done for love of party.’ He chuckled humourlessly. ‘Of course not. Such benefactors seek influence, a return for their investment, benefits if not power itself. Jansen’s business interests sail very close to the wind when it comes to the law, and sometimes he will steer a course that is discreetly outside it. But he has influence, you see. He has paid for it, and so he survives. I would dearly love to bring such men down, but that is not the way of things. Who am I? Too old and tired, that’s who. But I have no reason to protect him. Even if I thought Jansen were involved there is little I could do about it. You would be well advised to take my advice, Monsieur Bannerman. Don’t tangle with either of these men.’
Bannerman nodded slowly. ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘But my instinct is a journalist’s instinct. If Slater went to the trouble of putting together a folder of cuttings on Jansen and Lapointe and filed it along with his cuttings on Gryffe, then there was a reason for that. They might be connected with what happened, and they might not. But my instinct is to check it out.’
Du Maurier shrugged. ‘Then you’d better follow your instinct.’
‘I always do.’
The Inspector smiled wearily and finished his drink. He pushed back his chair. ‘I must go.’
‘There’s more,’ Bannerman said quietly.
Du Maurier’s face set. ‘What more?’
Bannerman signalled the waiter and ordered another two drinks. A group of working men in the far corner raised their voices in laughter. Some bawdy joke. Du Maurier set fire to another cigarette. ‘Slater was planning to leave,’ Bannerman said.
Du Maurier looked at him with resignation. ‘You have had a busy day.’
Bannerman nodded. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘There are many things I haven’t told you. Things I am not going to tell you. Things you will have to find out for yourself. Things that only I could have told you – and there are people who would know that. I am prepared to help you, for reasons of my own, but I am not going to be your sacrificial lamb.’ He paused as the fresh round of drinks arrived then leaned across the table again. He lowered his voice. ‘Slater had a flight booked Sunday evening for himself and his daughter. London, and then a connecting flight to New York. Tickets and passport were in his inside jacket pocket.’
Bannerman felt needles of shock prick his skin. For the first time he began seriously to doubt that there had been a third party. Doubt the interpretation of the child’s drawing. ‘It is just possible then that Slater went with a gun to the Rue de Pavie intending to kill Gryffe, take the money and skip the country.’
‘Possible,’ du Maurier conceded, ‘but I doubt it. It is a theory with very little to support it. Don’t forget all that I told you yesterday. Before I was instructed to drop my investigation, we found no way of connecting the gun to Monsieur Slater. In fact, I don’t think we ever would. The registration number had been filed off, and I’m sure that ballistics would have told us that they have no record of it. It was a professional’s gun, Monsieur. A once-only job. And Monsieur Slater was not a professional. Neither was he stupid. A man is shot dead, a man who others knew was meeting Slater in his house that morning. Slater disappears. Those are the actions of a stupid man. And Slater’s flight to London was not until Sunday evening. Even if he had meant to murder Gryffe and run, he would not have waited nearly twelve hours. He would never have reached the airport.’
Bannerman conceded du Maurier’s logic with something like relief. Since finding the packed cases there had been a niggling doubt in the back of his mind about Slater. At no point until then had he thought the man capable of murder. Du Maurier’s confirmation of Slater’s intention to flee the country had brought that seed of doubt to flower. But now it withered as quickly, leaving a greater clarity. ‘Then we are left with the original question of what business Slater had with Gryffe.’ He thought about it. ‘Blackmail?’
Du Maurier smiled. ‘Go on.’
‘If Slater was blackmailing Gryffe then there would be no need for him to make a hurried departure. Maybe,’ his mind was working overtime, ‘maybe if Slater had been blackmailing him for some time, Sunday was to have been the final pay-off. A quarter of a million dollars is a lot of money, but I wouldn’t have thought it was enough to make Slater give up everything here. Certainly not overnight. People win more on the Pools.’
Du Maurier poured water into his absinthe. ‘It’s all possible,’ he said. ‘Personally I like the idea of blackmail. It answers many questions. Though not all of them. If, for example, Slater had been blackmailing our friend for some time, where is the rest of the money? He certainly didn’t bank it, either here or in England. There was no money in the apartment, though it is possible that money was removed from the safe by your intruder. But somehow I don’t think so. It seems to me that if blackmail was the motive for murder, then the evidence is what was removed from the safe. So, if there was more money, where is it?’
‘A numbered account in Switzerland.’
‘Again, possible, but I think not. There would have been records somewhere among his personal belongings.’
Bannerman took a slug of whisky. ‘Seems like you’ve been busier than me.’
Du Maurier smiled and ran a hand through the remains of black, wiry hair. ‘More importantly,’ he said, ‘blackmail does not furnish us with any motive for murder by a third party.’
‘Someone else who felt threatened?’ Bannerman suggested. ‘If Slater had dirt on Gryffe, then perhaps some of that dirt might have stuck to others.’
The policeman scratched his chin. ‘Assuming that was true,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘would the murderer have left the money behind?’ He sighed. ‘There is little point, Monsieur Bannerman, in speculating. We could talk around the subject all night and only create for ourselves more questions that we cannot answer.’ He emptied his glass.
Bannerman placed a hand on his arm once more. ‘One final question. Gryffe had another place in Brussels. Where?’
The Inspector frowned. ‘He had no other apartment in Brussels, Monsieur Bannerman. Only in the Rue de Pavie.’
Bannerman shook his head. ‘Then you are not as thorough as you might have been,’ he said. ‘Slater lists two home numbers in Brussels for Gryffe. They are in his contacts book. Presumably one of them is the Rue de Pavie.’ He took out his notebook and flipped through to the page where he had noted the numbers, and pushed it across the table at du Maurier.
The other man’s frown deepened. ‘The first number is the Rue de Pavie,’ he said. ‘What makes you think the second number is Belgian?’
‘It was preceded by the Belgian country-code, thirty-two.’
Du Maurier looked again at the number. ‘It is not a Brussels area code. Somewhere provincial, perhaps.’ He took out a small black notebook and a pen and copied the number into it. ‘I will check.’ He scribbled another number on a fresh page, tore it out and handed it to Bannerman. ‘If you need to call me, phone that number. Speak to no one else but me. Do not come to the Rue des Quatre Bras.’
Bannerman took it and folded it into his top pocket. He said, ‘I’ll want Slater’s car from the pound.’
Du Maurier stood up. ‘I will arrange to have it taken to the Rue de Commerce.’ He nodded. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur.’
When he was gone, Bannerman stared at the remains in his whisky glass. He knew more now than when he had come in, but still not enough. He drank the last drop of whisky and noticed that du Maurier had left him to pay for the drinks. He drew out a 500-franc note and dropped it in the saucer, and left the warmth of the Café Auguste to brave the snow.
The newsboy was still selling papers. The news was still bad and business was still good.
II
Bannerman ate alone in a bistro off the Avenue de la Toison d’Or, a small, cheap eating house where they served good steak and Bordeaux wine by the carafe.
It had stopped snowin
g when he left. He headed back along the Boulevard Waterloo toward the Porte de Namur. Over the meal he had thought again about Palin with some disquiet. He had known plenty of drunks, abusive ones at that. But with Palin it was something else. Bannerman checked his watch. It was after eight. He had been unwise to leave the cuttings in the office, and he decided it would be safer to stop off at the International Press Centre and pick them up. They would be more secure at the apartment. He didn’t want to risk Palin getting his hands on them.
At the Porte de Namur he rode the escalators down into the Métro and spent twenty-five francs on a ticket to Schuman.
There were only a few lights still burning in the windows of the IPC building. A bored telephonist sat behind the reception counter. Up steps and beyond the desk, across a wide, thickly carpeted lobby, the sound of voices oiled by alcohol came from the press bar. Bannerman took the elevator up to the sixth floor.
The corridor was dimly lit, every second light switched off for reasons of economy. He watched his shadow overtake him, fade like a giant and then drift by him again as he passed under the next light. All the offices were empty and the floor was quiet as death except for the distant rumbling of traffic that came along the Boulevard Charlemagne from the Rue de la Loi. Bannerman looked out his key and thought about phoning Sally again from the office. The key wouldn’t turn in the lock. He swore softly and tried another key. The same again. ‘Shit!’ He tried the handle and the door pushed open. Someone had forgotten to lock it.
Perhaps because the hours of darkness are the hours of fear and danger, or maybe because of something he heard, or the slightest movement registered in the half-light, he stopped on the threshold. It might even have been some intrinsic sixth-sense warning of another presence that triggered the reflex action that raised his crooked arm to take the full brunt of a blow that would surely have cracked his skull. The pain spiked up his arm to his shoulder and his knees buckled. He staggered into darkness, falling, tangling with the legs of his unseen attacker. The other man lost his balance and toppled on to Bannerman’s back, grunting as he fell. A foot caught Bannerman’s throat. Bannerman choked back vomit and felt fire in his head and chest. His right arm and hand had gone numb already.