Bannerman had hated him for it. And wasn’t it Platt who had mixed things for him with the editor over the business of the girl from telesales? Wasn’t it Platt who had taken such delight in his hurt, and set off a whispering campaign among his colleagues? Bannerman had always suspected that Platt might even have been responsible for him losing his job. Anger at that had lived in him for a long time afterwards. Only the passing of the years had diminished the humiliation of that time before finally dispatching Platt to the mists of a painful and half-forgotten past.

And now, all these years later, here they both were, reluctant collaborators on a murder case in a cold winter city far from home. Bannerman had no idea what ebbs of fortune had brought Platt to his exile in Brussels, still chasing the dreams that had escaped him in his youth, but his antipathy towards the man remained undiminished.

Platt came out of the kitchen with two cups. ‘I can’t find any glasses.’ He set them down on the coffee table, opened the bottle of malt and poured two large measures. Clutching his own cup he dropped back into his seat and raised it towards Bannerman. ‘Cheers.’

How he detested Bannerman. His success, his arrogance, his self-assurance. He took a gulp of the smooth malt and grimaced as he felt the first twinges of pain in his stomach. Bannerman was watching him.

‘Ulcer,’ he said. ‘First mouthful always gets me that way.’ Still, he thought with some comfort, there are one or two things that I know about you. He grinned. ‘Where should I begin?’

‘At the beginning.’

Platt shifted in his chair and took another gulp of whisky. ‘René Jansen might well be the richest man in Belgium. His pedigree’s spotless. He comes from one of the oldest and most influential Flemish families in the country. An only child. Wealth and privilege lavished freely upon his fair head. Education, breeding, money – he’s got the lot. When his father died he inherited the Jansen empire. But he didn’t just sit back and enjoy it, he built on it, made it more than it ever was when his father was alive. He’s into everything. Owns the biggest private aerospace concern in Europe, supplying not only the bulk of the fleet for the Belgian airforce and the national airline, but also for half the major airlines in the world – and exclusively to a number of smaller Third World airlines.

‘He’s also into construction. His companies are almost single-handedly rebuilding Brussels and some of the bigger provincial towns. Nearly half of that is on government contracts, the other half in the private sector. Those are the two biggies. But he’s got fingers in lots of other pies. Property, department stores. He even owns a couple of provincial newspapers. He’s got interests in a shipping line and owns a brewery.’