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Chapters (45)
  1. The Man With No Face
  2. Also by
  3. Title
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. INTRODUCTION
  9. CHAPTER ONE
  10. CHAPTER TWO
  11. CHAPTER THREE
  12. CHAPTER FOUR
  13. CHAPTER FIVE
  14. CHAPTER SIX
  15. CHAPTER SEVEN
  16. CHAPTER EIGHT
  17. CHAPTER NINE
  18. CHAPTER TEN
  19. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  20. CHAPTER TWELVE
  21. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  23. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  25. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  26. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  27. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

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

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.’