by Peter May
The old man was silent for a very long time. ‘What I am going to tell you is for your information only,’ he said finally. ‘Not for the record.’
‘I’ll make no promises on that.’
‘Then you make it very difficult for me, Mr Bannerman.’
Bannerman shrugged. ‘I’ll write it as I see it.’ He paused. ‘Though if you can tell me something that will shine a light on the story then you’d better tell me.’
The former party chairman made his way back to his chair and sank his bony frame into a softness that seemed to envelop him. He relit his pipe and said, ‘Gryffe was being investigated by MI5 on government authority. The agency had not fully uncovered all of his activities at the time of his death, but they were on the brink of doing so. I knew nothing about this until afterwards, when the Prime Minister called me to London. It is not unusual for the party leader to ask my advice. We have been good friends for many years and he has often consulted me. Even after my retirement. He told me then, and asked me what he should do.’
He pulled several times on the stem of his pipe, and Bannerman saw the glow of tobacco in its bowl. Smoke rose to hang above him in a pall.
‘Of course, the PM had no knowledge of my involvement in the killing of Gryffe and Slater, and for my part I have told him nothing. How could I? He revealed to me that Gryffe was being investigated, and that they were pulling every diplomatic string available to have the shootings played down. He also told me they had a man in the field in Belgium who had discovered Gryffe’s involvement in the sale of arms. He was a man in a state of shock, Mr Bannerman. He saw quite clearly what all this would mean if it ever got out. Which is why he was worried about you. About your investigations. It was my suggestion that they try to scare you off.’ He blew a long jet of smoke into the still air. ‘Looking back, I suppose it was bad advice. It misfired rather badly, didn’t it?’
Bannerman remembered the nightmare of that flight in the dark across snow-covered fields, the chill of approaching death, the human mess in the crater left by the landmine.
‘Yes,’ he said. And he folded the statement and slipped it into an inside pocket. Then he stared without emotion at the old man. A frail creature destroyed by his own misguided philanthropy. And yet, in spite of it all, there was a certain dignity that clung to him still. Bannerman wished he could feel hatred for him, but all he could find inside himself was the dull ache of emptiness. Sad, watery eyes stared back at him.
‘I’ve done what I can,’ the old politician said suddenly. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s enough. You can never undo your mistakes.’ His head dropped and he gazed at his hands resting in his lap. His pipe had gone out again. ‘I think . . .’ he said, but could not finish. When he looked up again Bannerman saw that there were large, silent tears running down his cheeks. ‘Excuse me.’ He rose unsteadily, drawing a handkerchief from a pocket to wipe away his humiliation and his shame. He rounded his chair and disappeared through a door into an adjoining room.
Bannerman closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He would return to Edinburgh and tomorrow would write a story that would bring down a government. The irony of it lay in its injustice. He thought back on the last ten days. Slater, Tania, Marie-Ange Piard. Gryffe, Jansen, Lapointe. And the old woman. Platt lying dead on a pathologist’s table. Du Maurier. Sally. What did he know about any of them? And now old man Armsdale.
A single, loud report startled him and he sat forward in his chair in a sudden moment of fright and confusion. Then he realized what it was. He rose and crossed slowly to the open door through which the old man had left a few minutes earlier. He found himself looking into a small, oak-panelled bureau. Lord Armsdale lay face down on the floor, a pool of blood spreading outwards and soaking into the carpet. Bannerman could see brain tissue spattered across the floor and the wall. The top half of the old man’s head was almost blown away and the revolver lay a few inches from his white, clenched hand.
He turned away and wanted to throw up, a hand against the wall to steady himself. No matter how often you saw death you never got used to it.
The door from the hall flew open and Arthur ran in. He stopped as he saw Bannerman at the door to the bureau and then rushed across to look inside. He turned blazing eyes on the journalist, and it was clear from his face that for a moment he thought that Bannerman had done it. Then his shoulders slumped in despair and disappointment, and he accepted the reality. Without a word he turned and hurried from the room.
Bannerman stood a moment longer before going out into the hall. There were footsteps on the stairs and he looked up to see Arthur coming down with a shotgun clutched tightly across his chest. He stopped when he saw that Bannerman had seen him. There was madness in his eyes.
‘You killed him.’ His voice was taut and brittle. ‘Even if you didn’t pull the trigger you killed him.’ He was fighting for control over some inner demon. ‘I loved that old man. I really loved him. I’ll kill you for it.’ He raised the shotgun.
‘Then you would be denying him his sacrifice,’ Bannerman said. His voice sounded abnormally calm, in spite of the fear he felt crawling across his skin. ‘He made a mistake. And he has taken the only honourable way out. Just as he had men killed to save his party, so he has killed himself in his final sacrifice. His own words.’
The seconds seemed to drag on for ever. The man with the white hair stood tense, the gun still raised.
‘You’d better call the police,’ Bannerman said. It was now or never. He turned his back slowly and walked towards the door, all the time waiting for the blast of the shotgun. His hand trembled on the cold metal handle.
And then it was over. He was outside, with the cold wind in his face and the door shut behind him. He let out a long breath and stood for a moment watching the trees swaying in the gloom. His feet crunched on the gravel as he walked to the car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Bannerman stood under a pool of lamplight on Platform Two. Preston train station was almost deserted. One or two shadowy figures stood further along, staring out across the tracks. The sense of loneliness bearing down on him was crushing. Beyond the lights of the nine platforms, red and amber signal lights shone distantly in the darkness to the north, and to the west he saw a far-off twinkling of streetlamps. The world was shut up tight behind closed doors and drawn curtains, except for a few weary travellers and a handful of British Rail night workers.
From the south he heard the sound of the Glasgow train crossing the junction where the lines divided, rumbling past the blackened remains of industrial dereliction. The light from its windows came brightly out of the dark and the train ground to a clattering halt along the length of the platform. Doors opened as Bannerman stepped forward to climb up into the First Class corridor. He found an empty compartment and threw his things into the rack before slumping into a north-facing seat.
The train stood for a few minutes before he heard doors banging and the sound of a whistle piercing the night. Slowly it began pulling away from the platform, gathering speed into the darkness. Bannerman looked across the empty receding platforms. Darkened waiting rooms locked up for the night, shutters pulled down on a news stand. A billboard poster flapped in the rush of air. Tonight’s headlines. The top half of the bill was obscured, but he saw the words, GIRL DIES, caught in a brief flash of light. The muscles of his chest contracted in a moment of pain before forcing tears to his eyes. Only one thought filled his mind. He had not even phoned to see how she was. She had died alone. And no one cared.
The door of his compartment slid open, but he was barely aware of it. Until the figure standing still in the doorway made him turn his head.
Sally smiled nervously. ‘Neil.’ She almost whispered his name. ‘I saw you on the platform . . .’ He stared at her blankly. His mind swam. He wanted to stand up, to take her and hold her. But it was as though he had lost all power in his limbs.
‘She’s dead,�
�� he heard himself say.
‘Who?’ Sally frowned.
‘Tania. I saw it on a billboard.’
Sally stood for a moment then opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a crumpled copy of the London Evening Standard.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said. She held out the paper and Bannerman saw its headline. SEX ATTACK GIRL DIES. ‘It’s some London story,’ Sally said. ‘Tania survived. I was with du Maurier when they phoned from the hospital. The doctors say she’s going to be okay.’
Bannerman felt as though a dam had burst inside him and everything he’d held back for all these years was flowing out. He felt the return of hope and light and love so sweetly. He rose and held Sally’s hands and kissed her, and drew her to him.
‘I’m so sorry about everything,’ she whispered. ‘I had to come back. I . . . I had to give us a try.’
He stopped her, pressing a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t be sorry. It’s a bad way to start.’
She laughed and kissed his finger, and he kissed her again and lifted her bag in and slid the door shut. She sat down and looked up at him. ‘Did you get your story?’
Bannerman smiled wryly. ‘I always get the story.’ He walked to the window and saw his own reflection staring back at him. ‘It’s funny how it seems so unimportant now. Beside the life of a child, beside the chance to love again. After all’ – the last of his bitterness seeped out of him – ‘it will only bring down a government.’
He pushed his hands into his pockets and felt a small scrap of paper between the fingers of his right hand. A scrap torn from a notebook which had remained undiscovered since a small, loving hand had put it there. He took it out and unfolded it to see three clumsily constructed words scrawled in pencil.
LOVE YOU NEIL.