The man the Belgian Prime Minister had appointed to oversee the country’s justice system produced a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, slipping them on with a single easy movement. His voice was unexpectedly sonorous for so small a man. A smooth, persuasive voice, rich in its French fluency. Bannerman watched him carefully, but there was nothing to be gleaned from his demeanour. He read from a prepared statement, eyes lowered, spectacles perched near the end of his long nose. When he completed his delivery in French he raised one hand to still the buzz of incredulity soaring among the French-speaking journalists.

Platt squirmed excitedly beside Bannerman, scribbling furiously in his notebook all through the statement, then glancing at Bannerman. But Bannerman kept his eyes on the Minister as he began again in English. Bannerman did not bother to take notes. He watched and listened as the politician peddled his platitudes:

‘I have been advised by the Judicial Police . . . no evidence to suggest . . . after close consultation with the British government . . . who are in complete agreement . . . regret that the press should have made such an issue of this drawing . . . mentally disturbed . . . all parties are in no doubt . . . full and frank discussions . . . decision . . . the case has been closed. Thank you, gentlemen, for your patience.’

He turned at once, stepping down from the podium to head for the swing doors, followed by his entourage. A number of journalists were already on their feet and he was mobbed even before he could reach the doors. The single gendarme was hopelessly outnumbered, and the pinstripes had to push and shove to clear a way through for their master.

There wasn’t a journalist in the room who didn’t understand that this was a blatant whitewash. They also knew there wasn’t a hope in hell of getting the Minister to add anything to his statement, though it wouldn’t be for want of trying. Flashlights fizzed and dazzled. TV cameramen jostled for position. This, they knew, would look good on-screen. Minister of Justice mobbed by pressmen following controversial statement on the deaths of Gryffe and Slater.

At the centre of the undignified scrum Bannerman caught a glimpse of the Minister’s face, tight and grey. Angry. Maybe even frightened. His head was bowed, his hand raised defensively, before finally he disappeared through the doors.

Platt was on his feet and could no longer contain his impatience. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

Bannerman rose slowly. ‘More or less.’

Platt stared at him, his face flushed with excitement. ‘How?’

‘What about that drink?’

*

The big clock on the wall behind the counter at the Café Auguste showed eleven forty-five. The press conference had lasted a remarkably short time. It had seemed longer. And the walk from the offices of the Judicial Police to the café in the Boulevard de Waterloo had taken only a few minutes.