Bannerman knew now why the name Jansen had seemed familiar. He was one of that two per cent who own ninety-five per cent of the world’s wealth. Men who exist in billionaire bubbles, lavishing themselves with private jets, executive suites and country estates. Their pictures appear on the covers of fashionable magazines, dining with Royalty, on safari with film stars. They are never seen without a beautiful woman at their side. Jansen’s was the kind of lifestyle to which Robert Gryffe had aspired.

‘How does he structure his companies?’

Platt filled his cup again. He offered the bottle across the table but Bannerman shook his head. ‘Everything comes under the umbrella of the parent company, I.V. Internationale, which is headquartered in the Boulevard Bischoffsheim.’ Platt paused. ‘If you’re trying to find skeletons in his cupboard you’ll be hard-pushed. It’s been tried before. Everything’s above board. All I.V.’s activities are on record and can be checked. Business registration in this country is as accessible as it is in the UK. Companies are registered at the Tribunal de Commerce and there is one of those in every commercial court in the country. They are all linked to a central register held here in Brussels by the Ministry of the Middle Classes. And you or I or anyone can examine that register. You can find out the names of a company’s directors, its capital holdings, just as easily as you can obtain the same information at Companies House in London or Edinburgh.’

‘Financial state? Shareholders?’

Platt shook his head. ‘Companies are not required to divulge that information. But that’s hardly important, is it?’

Bannerman shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Go on.’

Platt drained his second cup. A little colour had returned to his cheeks. ‘He’s not married, he’s in his late forties and lives with his mother in a vast mansion in its own estate just outside Brussels. He’s got no overt political affiliations, although it’s said he contributes funds. Generally he keeps a pretty low profile, but he’s widely known as a bit of a philanthropist. Apparently he contributes large sums every year to worthy causes. But his private life is private.’

Bannerman frowned. It was not necessarily what he had been expecting. The philanthropic billionaire who steers clear of public politics and jealously guards his spotless reputation by keeping it out of the glare of publicity. All very virtuous. And yet this same man had sent a hoodlum to break into the Post’s office in the IPC building and steal an innocuous folder of newspaper cuttings. He checked the time and then drained his cup quickly. ‘And Lapointe? Make it quick. I have to go.’