Platt wore a battered old checked hat well back on his head, and a dark blue Burberry that had seen better days. He sat uncomfortably in a chair opposite Bannerman and began chewing dirty fingernails. Bannerman infuriated him. He had said nothing during their walk from the Rue des Quatre Bras and now he was flicking abstractedly through his notebook. No doubt he would say what he had to say in his own good time. But Platt did not have time. His second-edition deadline was pressing. By now his news desk would know everything about the Minister’s statement. It was hard to beat radio for instant news. He was going to get his ear chewed when finally he called in. The waiter from the previous day approached their table and nodded acknowledgement to Bannerman.

‘Monsieur?’

‘Two whiskies.’

‘I am sorry, Monsieur, it is forbidden to sell spirits in cafés.’

Bannerman raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘But you served me whisky last night.’

The waiter permitted himself a stiff smile. ‘Last night, Monsieur, you were drinking with the Inspector. Today you are not.’

Bannerman looked at Platt. ‘Beer?’

The reporter nodded, a smile dawning on fat lips.

‘Two beers.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur. I am sorry, Monsieur.’

Platt watched the waiter go and his smile broadened. ‘So you were drinking with the Inspector last night. Du Maurier?’ Bannerman made no reply, which Platt took as a yes. ‘And that’s how you knew what the Minister was going to announce today. What else did the Inspector tell you?’

Bannerman sat staring at his hands. He was annoyed that Platt should have discovered his source of information so easily. It had been a mistake to come here. Finally he looked up and said in a hushed voice, ‘Quite a bit, Platt, quite a bit.’ Then leaned forward on the table. ‘But that’s confidential. Just between you and me.’

Platt shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

‘You’ll see fuck all if you start getting clever!’ Bannerman paused for emphasis. ‘The only reason I’m talking to you at all is because I need someone who knows this city and the people who make it tick.’

‘In return for . . .?’

‘A share of the story. If I can make it stand up.’ He sat back as their beers were delivered to the table. Platt was containing himself with difficulty. He took a mouthful of beer and waited for Bannerman to go on. But Bannerman kept his own counsel and enjoyed Platt’s discomfort.

‘Well?’ Platt barked finally. He was like a dog anticipating walkies.

‘Well what?’

‘What’s the story?’

‘Ah, well, that’s between me and me.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Platt almost knocked over his glass. ‘What do you mean, between you and you?’ He glanced anxiously at his watch.

Bannerman lifted his beer and took several long, slow pulls. He drew the back of his hand across his lips. ‘When’s your second edition go to bed?’