The Man With No Face

by Peter May

  Palin’s face gave nothing away. Did he really know that? Bannerman watched him switch the matchstick to the other corner of his mouth and the chewing became more agitated.

  Bannerman said, ‘The way I read it, Jansen and Lapointe were also involved somehow.’ Although he had no idea how, or even if it was true. Platt was still wearing his implacable face. Bannerman pressed on. ‘I don’t know who murdered Slater and Gryffe, but it’s not unreasonable to assume that it might have been on the orders of someone like Jansen. Or Lapointe. Or both. And whatever you knew, or didn’t know, it was enough to figure out that one or the other might be interested in a folder of cuttings that Slater had compiled on them.’ He was flying a kite here, without the least idea of which way the wind was blowing. ‘What were you after, Palin? Money?’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. It makes you an accomplice after the fact. An accessory to murder.’

  Palin fought to maintain a façade of calm. ‘I heard they’d dropped the case.’

  ‘Maybe they have. But I haven’t. And you know I’m going to get to the bottom of it, Palin, don’t you? You know you’re in deep shit.’

  And finally Palin cracked, professionalism and morality eroded by drink. He leaned forward on his desk, dropping his head into ink-stained hands, and Bannerman watched him with indifference. A man of ability diminished by addiction, and finally succumbing to his own stupidity.

  Palin looked up, and Bannerman was shocked to see tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. A pathetic figure teetering on the brink. He reached into his back pocket for a hip-flask and flipped it open with unsteady fingers. He tipped his head back, and the neck of the flask disappeared between pale lips while he suckled on it like a baby at its mother’s teat. Then he banged the flask on the desk and looked wretchedly at Bannerman. ‘I really don’t know anything,’ he said, his voice breaking somewhere in the back of his throat. ‘Only that Slater had something on Gryffe. Little things I picked up. The tail end of telephone conversations. The file he’d been putting together.’ He took another pull at his flask from a shaking hand. ‘Then I found the cuttings on Jansen and Lapointe. I reckoned he must have had something on all three. But I never thought it was blackmail. Just a story he was doing. Something big. Something he was trying to hide from me. And that got me interested.’ There was an appeal for understanding in his eyes, and when none was forthcoming, he heaved himself out of his chair and turned away towards the window.

  Bannerman watched him impassively. ‘So what did you really hope to achieve by tipping off Jansen about Slater’s file?’

  Palin couldn’t bring himself to turn and face his accuser. His voice was drawn thin by anxiety. ‘I thought . . . I thought he might pay for the information.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Not exactly. He said he would need proof. That he would get in touch when he had it.’

  ‘And you agreed?’ Bannerman could hardly believe that Palin could have been so stupid. The man, or what was left of him, returned to his desk and picked up his flask. He took a long draught, and a little of its liquor crept out at the corner of his mouth to run down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  ‘What you said yesterday . . . about my appointment here being short-term. You were a damn sight closer to the truth than you thought.’ He paused. ‘I . . . I’ve been recalled.’ And he almost choked on his words. ‘Next month. New position. Second man on the night news desk. After all these years, put out to pasture. To sit like some stookie through the early hours. Deskbound. Paperwork. A glorified nothing. A has-been with a title. And Glasgow? I don’t want to go back to Glasgow. To some shabby bedsitter reeking of damp and stale cooking. I’d rather die. When you’ve been on the road all your life . . .’ He looked at Bannerman very directly, accusation now in his eyes. ‘Someday you’ll know it, too. When they don’t want you any more, and they stick you somewhere out of sight and wait for you to retire. Or die.’ His mouth twisted in a bitter little smile. ‘Only consolation I can think of . . . that some day even smart bastards like you will get put out to grass.’

  The alcohol was fuelling a revival of his aggression, the flask empty now. He opened a drawer and drew out an unopened bottle of whisky, twisting off the cap to thrust the neck of it to his lips. He sucked freely, all restraint vanishing.

  ‘Yeah, even bastards like you.’ He was swaying a little now, and Bannerman guessed there must have been another session earlier in the day. Palin looked at him. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell everyone.’

  Bannerman sighed and stood up. ‘No, I’m not going to tell a soul, Palin. You’re not worth the trouble. But maybe Jansen will think that you are. Maybe he’ll send someone looking for you, like he sent someone up here last night.’

  Fear blackened Palin’s eyes. ‘He wouldn’t . . . I don’t even know anything.’

  Bannerman stood up and advanced on the other man. ‘I hope he does,’ he said. ‘I hope someone puts a hole in your head so that maybe some brains might leak in.’ And he swung a tightly clenched fist into Palin’s face. Palin staggered backwards and sat heavily in his chair, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. Bannerman ran a hand over his knuckles. That had hurt more than he expected. ‘That was for last night,’ he said in a voice that sounded strange even to himself. Palin pulled himself up in his chair, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket to press to his face. A gurgling noise came from his mouth.

  All the anger drained out of Bannerman then as he looked at the wretched figure, and he regretted having hit him. He had thought it might make him feel better. It didn’t.

  He handed Palin the bottle. ‘Here. You’d probably better take some of this.’ Then turned as the door opened, to see Tait standing glaring at them. ‘Jesus Christ, Bannerman!’

  Mademoiselle Ricain appeared at his shoulder clutching a half-baguette filled with cheese and tomato. And her mouth fell open.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The day had not fulfilled its early promise. Snow was falling. This time there was a wind driving it in. And this time it was not a wet snow. It would lie. And if it snowed for some hours it would lie deeply. People in the street retreated into their winter shells. Hats, coats, scarves, boots. Heads bowed, tilted against the wind.

  Bannerman and Tait could see them passing outside the window from where they sat in a small bistro in the Rue des Patriotes. It was less than half a mile from the Berlaymont, and just around the corner from the Sacré Coeur church in the Rue le Corrège. Hams, and gourd-shaped cheeses, and sausages and chitterlings hung from the ceiling. Enormous flat loaves lay piled up in the window. It was quiet and darkly lit here. They were eating late, and very few other tables were still occupied.

  They had not intended to eat at all. Time was pressing. But Tait had spotted the bistro as they drove through quiet streets trying to find the church where the service was to be held. He had kept his own counsel since leaving the International Press Centre.

  A time-worn old waiter in shirtsleeves and a pair of baggy black trousers handed them menus. Tait ordered for both of them without reference to Bannerman. Plat du jour. Fillet of veal with lentils and two glasses of Moselle. Bannerman watched him light a cigarette before finally turning his eyes towards his reporter. ‘I ought to have sacked you on the spot.’

  Bannerman said nothing.

  ‘Don’t you care?’ Tait seemed exasperated.

  ‘Not particularly. I could survive without you or the Post. And besides, I think the union might have something to say about it.’

  Tait blew out his cheeks. ‘I think the union might have something to say about you assaulting a fellow member.’ He paused. ‘And, anyway, when did you start allowing the union to fight your battles for you?’

  Bannerman shrugged.

  Tait puffed at his cigarette and thought about it for a while. ‘Okay, tell me what it was all about.’

  ‘Palin’s a drunk. His paper’s
pulling him out of here, promoting him sideways so he can die quietly in some dark corner somewhere. He knew I was interested in a man called René Jansen, someone Slater had been keeping a file on. So the bastard tipped him off, thinking it might be worth money to him. Jansen sent someone to disappear it from the office.’

  ‘Did he get it?’

  ‘He did. And he also got me.’ Bannerman pulled back his sleeve to reveal the bruising on his right forearm. ‘Nearly broke my fucking arm!’

  Tait was frowning. ‘Jansen . . . I know that name.’ He seemed to have forgotten about Palin, and showed no interest in Bannerman’s injury.

  ‘A bright light in the Belgian business world, apparently. A man with influence as well as money.’

  ‘And why were you interested in him?’

  Much as he disliked it, Bannerman told him. About the folders of cuttings that Slater had been compiling on the three men, about his conversations with du Maurier, and the conclusion he had arrived at that somehow Slater was blackmailing Gryffe.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Tait barked, then quickly lowered his voice. ‘Blackmail! For fuck’s sake. How do you think it’s going to look for the Post if it comes out that one of its journalists was blackmailing a government minister?’

  It was no more than Bannerman had expected, but still it made him angry. ‘We’re journalists, Mr Tait. Or have you forgotten? We’re supposed to report the truth. And if it’s true, then people ought to know it. They also ought to know who murdered Slater and Gryffe and why people in high places are trying to stop us from finding out.’ He drew a breath. ‘I take it you do know about this morning’s statement by the Minister of Justice?’

  ‘Of course.’

  But Bannerman thought, how could he know? He was in flight when the statement was being issued. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since last night. They told me, off the record, since one of our people was involved. On the understanding, of course, that we adhered to the embargo.’

  ‘And you agreed?’

  ‘I did.’ Tait was getting uncomfortable.

  ‘And it never occurred to you to put me in the picture.’

  ‘As it turned out, you knew already.’

  ‘No thanks to you.’

  The old waiter arrived with their veal and began pouring their wine. Bannerman checked the time. They would have to make this quick. The funeral service began in less than twenty minutes. Tait took a mouthful of wine and they ate in silence. The old man watched them from behind the bar and wondered at two men sharing a meal together and saying nothing. Especially when they had been so animated just a few minutes earlier.

  Tait finished first and emptied his glass. He lit another cigarette and looked coldly at Bannerman. ‘I want you off the story,’ he said quietly. ‘Whatever I might think as a newspaperman, as an editor there are other things I have to consider.’

  Bannerman ate on without looking up. When finally he washed down the last mouthful with the remains of his wine he leaned back without a trace of emotion and said, ‘If you are prepared to allow other considerations to take priority over the basic principles of good journalism, then in my very humble opinion that makes you a pretty shit editor.’

  Tait angrily stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and stood up. ‘I don’t have to take that kind of crap from you, Bannerman. I’m telling you now, you’re finished here. There is no story. You’ll fly back to Edinburgh tonight.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Bannerman said, his face still impassive.

  ‘You’ll do what I fucking tell you!’

  Bannerman shook his head. ‘I don’t work for you any more.’

  ‘Like hell you don’t.’

  ‘I just resigned.’

  Tait’s laughter lacked any trace of humour. ‘You’ve got a contract of employment, Bannerman. Requiring you to give me three months’ notice.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s take it to an employment tribunal. See how you feel when I start explaining in open court just why I quit.’

  Tait’s face had lost all its colour now. His hands were trembling at his sides. The old waiter watched them with interest, although he had no idea what they were saying. A couple of workmen at a nearby table turned their heads. Tait became suddenly self-conscious and sat down again.

  Bannerman leaned forward and said in a low voice. ‘Here’s the thing, Mister Tait. I’ve never taken shit off anybody, and I’m not about to take any off you. Whatever Slater may or may not have done, however that might tarnish the image of the Post, it’s going to look a hell of a lot better for the paper if it comes out with it first. Make no mistake, if you force me out, it’s not going to stop me. And when I break the story, you can be sure the Post will be the last paper on this earth to get it.’

  Tait was ashen, and just for a second, Bannerman thought he was going to hit him. Then quite suddenly he seemed to lose the will to fight. He’d lost this round and he knew it. But pride was sticking in his throat. In a voice that was barely a whisper he said, ‘All right, Bannerman. You follow the leads where they take you. And when you deliver, if you deliver, then we’ll run it. Then you can empty your desk and fuck off. You have no future with this paper.’

  Bannerman nodded. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘Slater’s daughter . . .’

  Tait interrupted. ‘Whatever you might think of me, Bannerman . . .’ He stopped himself. ‘We are making arrangements for her to receive the best possible care back in Scotland. Until the arrangements are made she will be staying where she is in Brussels. A few days at the most.’ He looked at his watch. It was almost two. ‘Time to go. I’ll walk to the church. You can pick up the bill and bring the car round.’ He stood up abruptly and headed out into the snow, pulling his coat collar up around his neck.

  Bannerman sat on, letting his heart rate slow. It had been inevitable really, and he had known from the first day Tait arrived that his days with the Post were numbered. He thought of it with only a little sadness. ‘Garçon! L’addition, s’il vous plaît.’ And he thought how absurd it was to address such an old man as ‘boy’.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was many years since Bannerman had stood at a graveside. It seemed such an anachronism in these days of conveyor-belt cremation. There was something almost primeval about it. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

  The priest was a small man, bald, silver threads of hair plastered sparsely across his pate, gown flapping in the wind, a flash of purple in the lining. His face was pink, stung by the snow. He read from a Bible whose pages were wet and he laid one of his big hands across the lower half to stop the pages from lifting in the wind.

  Around the grave stood a handful of mourners. More pink, solemn faces. Pressmen with whom Slater had worked. The black of their suits and coats and ties under black umbrellas a stark contrast against the backdrop of snow. Hovering at a more discreet distance were a number of reporters covering the funeral for their papers. A television crew was sheltering beneath a knot of naked trees, the cameraman using a long lens. This would look particularly evocative on tonight’s television screens. A black and white funeral filled with all the bleak imagery of death.

  But if you were someone who had known the dead man, and not particularly liked him, you were probably standing in the cold out of a sense of duty, and the aesthetics would be lost on you. You would get little more out of it than cold feet, and maybe a lingering depression brought on by your own heightened sense of mortality. If you were here to report it, you would go first to buy a drink and then you would write fine words about a man you never knew, before contriving indignation at the way the case had been handled by the Judicial Police. If you were the priest, then you were doing God’s work.

  And if you were Slater you were dead and none of it could touch you.

  Tait shuffled impatiently beside Bannerman as the coffin was lowered into the hole that had been dug for it out of frozen ground. He had not spoken
a word during the drive from the Sacré Coeur to the Cimetière de Bruxelles, smoking one cigarette after the other. The dreary, almost pagan, ritual of the Mass had done nothing to improve his humour.

  Bannerman no longer cared. He was watching Marie-Ange Piard, who stood at the far side of the grave. She was wearing a three-quarter-length black dress beneath a black cape and wide-brimmed hat with the obligatory black veil. Bannerman could not see her face and so could not discern what emotions it might be concealing. But she did not have the bearing of a woman in mourning. She appeared almost bored, standing very still and upright, and perhaps if her face had been visible it might have borne no expression at all. Bannerman could not imagine that Marie-Ange was a woman who would shed tears for anyone. He found it hard to believe she’d had feelings for Slater, and yet she had been his lover. Apparently. The incongruity of their relationship came back to him. He had not thought about her at all since Slater’s death, and now she was resurrecting his curiosity. She was, it seemed to him, yet another ill-fitting piece in this strange jigsaw.

  Sally stood beside her in a long dark coat and beret. She had glanced towards Bannerman once or twice, but not approached him either at the church or the cemetery. Perhaps she had sensed the antagonism between Bannerman and his companion and decided not to encroach. Or maybe she was simply struck by the sadness of the occasion and did not feel it appropriate.

  The priest uttered his final words as he threw a handful of dirt over the coffin. Much of it was whipped away in the wind. The remainder rattled across polished wood. Then the mourners and the rest abandoned the graveside to the diggers who had been skulking among the gravestones beyond the path like lepers. And as the little group trod through the snow towards the gates they heard the first shovelfuls of earth clatter on to the coffin.

  Bannerman became aware of Marie-Ange walking at his side. Tait was two or three yards ahead of them. ‘I did not expect to see you here, Mr Bannerman,’ she said. She pulled back her veil to reveal a pale, quizzical face.