She watched him go through into Tait’s office and wondered what it was that was so attractive about him.

Tait was hunched over his desk in shirtsleeves. He glanced up momentarily from his paperwork as Bannerman knocked and came in. ‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Bannerman sat down and watched the other man patiently. Tait liked to make you feel that he was seeing you on sufferance, that you were interrupting much more important matters. Bannerman was not impressed.

The editor was a small man and had the arrogance and puffed-up sense of self-importance of many small men. A compensation for lack of height. He was of indeterminate age and could have been anything between forty and sixty. His hair was steely grey, cut short above a squat, ugly face.

He gathered together several printed sheets and slipped them into a folder before looking up again. He surveyed his investigative reporter with caution. He disliked him, but was also intimidated by him. By his calm, powerful presence, his obvious self-confidence. Bannerman didn’t jump, as the others did, on Tait’s command. And that annoyed him.

‘I’m sending you to Brussels for a few weeks,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Bannerman endeavoured to show no surprise.

‘We need some good stuff on the EEC in the couple of weeks after the election. Corruption, fraud, political back-stabbing, that kind of thing. Particularly when Common Market issues have been given such high priority in the election speeches of the major parties.’

Bannerman gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘Why so keen to get me out of the way?’

Tait leaned back in his seat and eyed Bannerman coldly. ‘Because I need time to consider what I’m going to do with you. You’re a troublesome bastard, Bannerman. A one-man band. I want to build a team here and there’s no room for buskers.’

Bannerman pursed his lips thoughtfully and Tait watched him with apprehension. Bannerman wasn’t tall, perhaps five feet nine or ten, but he was stocky, broad, and gave the impression of a bigger man. Tait knew from personnel records that he was thirty-five, but it would have been difficult to judge had he not known. He could have been younger, or older. Dark, wiry hair without a trace of grey fell carelessly across his forehead. He was not what Tait would have thought of as good-looking, but he had a certain presence, and there was something compelling in the gaze of his hard blue eyes.

Bannerman said, ‘Maybe you would rather I got a job somewhere else, Mr Tait.’ His voice was flat, toneless.

Tait grinned maliciously. ‘Trouble is, Bannerman, you’re too good just to ditch. Probably the best investigative journalist in Scotland right now, and very highly regarded south of the border. I’d like to keep you. But on my terms.’

‘I’m flattered. Maybe I should be asking for a rise.’

Tait laughed. ‘Cheeky bastard!’