by Peter May
‘Have a seat, Mr Bannerman. I take it you have not eaten?’
‘No.’ Bannerman moved towards the nearer end of the table and both men sat down to face each other along its length. Jansen was not as Bannerman had imagined. He seemed much older. There was a fullness still to his dark hair, but it was shot through with grey. His face was drawn, cheekbones high and angular, large eyes brown and watery as if he were on the verge of tears. His long, straight nose was almost aristocratic. But the line of the jaw was weakened by a loosening of the flesh at his neck, and skin that had turned the texture of crepe. Yet Bannerman knew that this was a man still only in his late forties. It showed only in the way he held himself, eyes gazing steadily back at Bannerman. His smile lacked warmth and he spoke with a voice that was clear and without accent.
‘My father built this house,’ he said. ‘And my mother still lives in it. You will have something to drink before we eat?’
‘Whisky.’
Jansen lifted a small bell from the table and rang it. A young man entered from an adjoining room. Without turning his head Jansen spoke to him briefly in Flemish. The young man disappeared and returned with a decanter of whisky and two glasses. He poured the drinks at each place and left. Jansen raised his glass.
‘Your very good health, Mr Bannerman.’ They drank in silence before Jansen said, ‘Shall we talk before we eat?’
‘I’d prefer that.’
Jansen clasped his hands together on the table in front of him and waited. They were like two chess players, and Bannerman had the first move.
He made his opening gambit. ‘You knew a man called Robert Gryffe.’
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
‘Both. But it is a question only out of politeness.’
Jansen smiled the same cold smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I knew him. But not well. I met him on only a handful of occasions.’
‘And Tim Slater?’
‘I did not even know he existed until I read about him in the newspapers.’ He shook his head. ‘I know what you are thinking, Mr Bannerman. But you are wrong. The assumption from what you and I both know is clear. That Mr Slater came into possession of certain knowledge with which he was blackmailing Mr Gryffe. But that is a conclusion we have both come to in hindsight. If that was the case, then I knew nothing about it. And I certainly had nothing to do with their deaths. Even if I had known . . .’ He paused to smile again. ‘You see, I can weather the storm of a scandal over illegal arms sales.’
‘You don’t deny it then?’ Bannerman had been absorbing the other man’s words with a growing unease.
‘Why should I? You are obviously in possession of the facts. Naturally I would prefer to avoid such a scandal, but if necessary I will ride it out. It will hurt me only a little. Heads will roll, but not mine. The burden of guilt will fall upon others, though it is I who shall accept the ultimate responsibility for the indiscretion of certain employees. In six months it will be forgotten. The government will be embarrassed, but then they need me more than I need them. As I have said, it is a storm I can weather, Mr Bannerman. Murder, however, is something else. One would not entertain murder lightly, and I not at all. Not from any moral standpoint, you understand, but simply because it is far too risky an enterprise.’
Bannerman stared thoughtfully at the man opposite. This was not what he had expected. And yet everything he said had the ring of truth about it. Men like Jansen never took the fall. They had all the advantages that money, power and influence afford. Effective buffers against retribution. Would he really need to resort to murder? But there were still too many questions left unanswered. He said, with sudden resolution, ‘You sent someone to recover files of cuttings from Slater’s office.’
Jansen nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But at that point it seemed as though our secret might yet remain intact. Lapointe attended to the details. Perhaps it was a mistake.’
‘And the house in Flanders?’
‘Ah, yes, it was burned down, I believe. I am told there will be problems regarding the insurance.’
Anger rose quickly in Bannerman. ‘Someone tried to kill me there, and damn nearly succeeded.’ He caught himself, and reined in his emotions. ‘I’m not at all sure I believe that you had nothing to do with the murders in the Rue de Commerce, Mr Jansen, or the attempt on my own life in Flanders.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘You set up a network of companies to sell arms to Rhodesia and South Africa in defiance of the United Nations embargo. That makes you just as responsible for the deaths of the people those guns kill as those who pull the triggers. So why would you be squeamish about killing your business partner and his blackmailer if you saw that as a threat? Morally there is no distinction.’
Jansen laughed. ‘How refreshingly naïve. Morality is not a word in my lexicon. Do you think I give a damn about UN embargoes and human rights, or Gryffe and Slater? Or you for that matter? Self, Mr Bannerman, is what life is about. Self.’
He ran a hand back through thick, steely hair.
‘Not even the ones we love, or like to think we love, are as important to us as ourselves. It is the true human condition, you see. It’s what we all feel but are ashamed to admit. Why, I don’t know. For selfishness is the essence of existence.’
He spread his hands to either side as if dispensing reason.
‘What, for example, determines the way we vote in an election? Of course, we vote for the party we judge will bring us the best advantage. Why do we weep when a loved one dies? Because of our own loss. All motivation is selfish, even religious motivation where the reward for a life lived piously on earth is eternal life in Heaven. And so am I motivated. When I think of selling arms to anyone I weigh up the advantages and the disadvantages. If the rewards are high, and the risks low, I proceed. But, as I told you, when it comes to murder . . . well, I would have decided against it. While the advantages might have been considerable, they would certainly have been outweighed by the risks.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you see?’
Bannerman nodded. He saw only too well. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I see that you are a man who cannot ever have known love, either as something given or received. Of course people are selfish. That is an instinctive thing, self-preservation, perpetuation of the species. But we have other qualities too. Or at least, most of us do. There is a balance in our design. For each personality trait necessarily there must be an opposite. As in all natural things. Night and day, light and dark, summer and winter. In people the contrasts are more subtle, but they are there if you look for them. Love and hate, anger and forgiveness, greed and generosity, selfishness and compassion.’
He leaned forward with his elbows on the table in front of him.
‘The thing is, Jansen, that without one the other can’t exist. Without night there is no day. Without hate there is no love. Without compassion there is no self. What you are is an aberration. One of nature’s rare mistakes. My problem is that I’m not quite sure whether I believe you or not.’
Jansen listened in silence, his face drawn and expressionless, before presenting a pale imitation of his earlier smile. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘I had hoped you might be corruptible. I should not have asked you here otherwise. Perhaps I was wrong. A man like you can’t be bought . . . can he?’ He paused expectantly and Bannerman stared at him for a moment.
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
Jansen smiled his first genuine smile. ‘You think you are very clever, don’t you, Mr Bannerman?’
Bannerman said, ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with the meal.’ He stood up and drained his glass. ‘Good whisky, though. Scotch, of course.’
Jansen’s gaze followed him all the way to the door. But he didn’t speak until Bannerman opened it. ‘Of course you realize that everything I have said here tonight was off the record.’
‘Then you should have made that clear before you said it.’
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p; ‘I’ll sue.’ There was an edge to Jansen’s voice now.
Bannerman held the door half-open. ‘I doubt it. It’s amazing how much unsubstantiated shit can get flung around in open court. And I doubt if you would risk all your splendid isolation to refute it.’
*
Outside the night was a little colder and the glitter of stars seemed a little harder. The frost glistened on the snow as the taxi’s headlights swept through the tunnel of trees. Bannerman glanced back and the receding house remained in darkness. The gates were open when they reached the end of the drive, and when they had passed through them, shut again with a soft electronic hum.
Inside Jansen’s vast mansion the billionaire climbed stiffly to the second floor and walked around the landing to his study without looking down. The room glowed faintly in the moonlight and he crossed to his desk to switch on a small reading lamp. It threw a bright pool of light on the desk, plunging the room beyond its halo into obscurity. Jansen lifted the phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Platt was waiting in Slater’s car outside the apartment block in the Rue de Commerce. He had been sitting with the engine running for nearly half an hour, his stomach aflutter with nerves and excitement. And a strange, gnawing fear.
He saw Bannerman’s taxi draw up in the rearview mirror. He switched off the engine and jumped out on the pavement.
‘Well, did you see him?’ He hurried up the stairs after the younger man. But Bannerman said nothing. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’
In the apartment, Bannerman drew a bottle of whisky from his pocket and threw his coat over the settee. He screwed off the top, got two glasses and poured stiff measures into each. Platt watched him apprehensively and snatched the proffered glass. He didn’t drink it immediately, but watched as Bannerman knocked his own back in one then poured himself another.
‘Well?’
‘I saw him.’
‘And?’ Platt felt the dull ache of his ulcer and sipped gingerly at his whisky.
‘First the company stuff.’
Platt laid his glass on the table and took out a folded Manila envelope which he thrust at Bannerman. Bannerman opened it and glanced over the photocopies of clumsily typed sheets inside. He dropped them on the table and poured the second whisky over his throat.
‘He wouldn’t say anything.’
‘What do you mean?’ Platt glared at him suspiciously. ‘He must have said something.’
‘What did you expect?’ Bannerman glared at him. ‘That he would break down and confess all? The man is untouchable, Platt. He has all his protective layers of power and bureaucracy and money to hide behind. And any number of scapegoats to take the fall. He’s just going to sit quiet. No comment. Why don’t you phone and ask him?’
Platt sat down on the edge of the settee. What had he expected? Of course the man wasn’t going to say anything. He should have known that. Still, ‘No comment’ can be expressed in many ways. Last night Belgian billionaire René Jansen remained tight-lipped. He looked at Bannerman. Bastard. He was holding something back. And Platt had no intention of missing out. ‘So that’s it?’
Bannerman nodded.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Then maybe you should leave.’
‘Now look here, Bannerman . . .’ He was unprepared for the speed with which Bannerman suddenly grabbed his lapels and lifted him bodily out of the settee.
‘Get out!’
Platt pulled himself free and straightened his coat with as much dignity as he could muster. In that moment he hated Bannerman as much as he had hated anyone or anything in his life. But he controlled himself. His time would come.
‘When do I get my copy of the stuff from Lewis?’
‘Whenever I get it. Monday or Tuesday.’ Bannerman turned away towards the window, and Platt allowed himself a smile. By then it would all be over. And yet, somehow, that didn’t seem revenge enough. He wanted to hurt Bannerman now.
‘You don’t care about anyone, or anything, do you?’ he said.
‘Get out!’ Bannerman still had his back to him.
‘That girl, all those years ago. You didn’t care about her either. It was me that got you the sack you know. I told the editor what you’d done to that girl. And I was right, wasn’t I? You never even turned up for the funeral. You just didn’t care.’
Bannerman wheeled round. ‘What are you talking about?’
Platt frowned. ‘That girl, the one from telesales, the one you got in trouble. My God, don’t you even remember?’ He stared at Bannerman in disbelief before realizing, quite suddenly, that Bannerman didn’t know, had never known. ‘She killed herself. Just a few months after the baby was born. Her parents threw her out. She drowned the baby and then killed herself. Didn’t you know?’ He felt a great inner joy. At last he had found the place where he could hurt him most.
Bannerman’s face betrayed nothing. ‘I’ll call you.’
Platt stood for a moment then turned and went out through the hall. Bannerman poured himself another drink and when he heard the car start up in the street below realized he would have to take a taxi again in the morning.
The whisky burned his throat this time, and he felt his tears hot on the cool skin of his cheeks.
*
Bannerman could not have said how long he had been dozing, but it felt like forever. His jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the floor and there were only three fingers of gold left in the whisky bottle. He was lying face down on the settee, one arm hanging over the side so that his fingers trailed loosely on the carpet. He did not hear the bell, and it took several minutes before the hammering on the door forced its way through the undulating folds of sleep and alcohol.
Slowly he pulled himself up into a seated position and tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes. He was still drunk and found it difficult to focus on his watch.
‘Christ,’ he groaned. It was after two. A fist hammered again at the door. ‘Just a minute!’ he shouted, and his head felt like it had been split by an axe. He made his way unsteadily through the hall and opened the door. Du Maurier pushed his way in and switched on a light. Bannerman blinked blindly.
‘Get yourself sober,’ the policeman said. ‘We’re going for a drive.’
‘What the fuck . . .’ Bannerman heard his own voice slurring in the half-light.
Du Maurier gripped his arm firmly and pulled him into the bathroom, filled a toothglass with cold water and threw it in Bannerman’s face. Bannerman tried to swing at him, but the policeman caught his fist and held it fast. ‘Take a cold shower. I’ll wait for you downstairs.’
When Bannerman came down ten minutes later the world was still swimming, but he was sober enough to realize that du Maurier must have a damn good reason for dragging him out at two in the morning. He slipped into the passenger seat and du Maurier turned his car away from the kerb.
‘Where are we going?’ The car drifted noiselessly through dark, deserted streets. ‘It’s not Tania . . .?’
‘No, it’s not. We’ll be there soon.’
They stopped outside a dark, anonymous building, with only the odd light burning in windows rising through two storeys. Du Maurier took him by the arm and they climbed steps into a dingy reception hall, before descending to the basement in an elevator. Light shone through the windows of double doors at the end of a long gloomy corridor. Du Maurier propelled him towards the light, and Bannerman screwed up his eyes as they pushed through swing doors into a large, white-tiled room. The stink of formalin filled his nostrils and did more to sober him up than any amount of cold water. A man in a white coat leaned out from an adjoining room and nodded them through.
The body that lay on the stainless steel table was naked beneath the glare of surgical lights. The stench of death and acid preservative was nauseating, and Bannerman felt his stomach heave.
There was a look of s
erenity on Platt’s face, but his chest was open, like a carcass in a butcher’s shop. The white flesh around the wound was tinged with blue, all blood drained from the body.
‘Jesus, Christ! Where’s the toilet?’
The man in the white coat took Bannerman across the hall to the men’s room, leaving him to kneel on the floor and vomit into the pan. Bannerman remained doubled over it, breathing hard for several minutes, before pulling himself to his feet and staggering to the washbasin. He turned on the cold water to sluice his face and swill his mouth, before taking a long, cool drink.
Du Maurier was waiting in the corridor and they went back out to the car. The two men sat in silence while the policeman rolled down a window and lit a cigarette.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Can you give me a formal identification?’
Bannerman answered mechanically. ‘Richard Joseph Platt.’
‘What was he doing with Slater’s car?’
‘He borrowed it. Give me a cigarette.’
Du Maurier lit it for him and watched him screw up his face at the taste.
‘What happened?’
The policeman sighed. ‘Someone used both barrels of a sawn-off shotgun. Close range. We found the body in Slater’s car. It was parked in a side street near the Gare du Nord.’
Bannerman tried to make himself feel something, but couldn’t. His only thought was why had Jansen done it. The man had played it smart until now. The Inspector held out a folded wad of paper. Bannerman took it. There were about a dozen sheets, all clumsily typed.
‘It’s in French,’ he said. ‘I can’t read it. What is it?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Maybe I can guess.’
‘And what do you guess?’
‘I guess maybe it’s a story about how René Jansen, Michel Lapointe and Robert Gryffe formed a consortium to sell arms. Knowing Platt he’ll have dressed it up a bit. He probably paints a picture of Gryffe as a high-powered salesman with access to heads of state. Lapointe as a kind of wizard of company law who set up a network of companies that enabled them to sell to whomever they liked from behind a veil of anonymity. And Jansen as the quiet power behind it all who supplied the money and creamed off the lion’s share of the profits. Of course, he’ll have made the biggest play of the sales to South Africa and Rhodesia.’