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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

Du Maurier said, ‘What will you do?’

Bannerman let his head fall back so that he was staring up into the falling snow, big flakes catching cold light. ‘I shall go to Flanders.’ Pause. ‘And you? What will you do?’

Du Maurier surveyed the chewed wet end of his cigarette. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I will need to think about that.’ He threw the cigarette over the wall. ‘Goodnight, Monsieur.’ And he turned away to cross the cobbles and start down the narrow steps to the Rue des Minimes below.

Bannerman watched him disappear into the shadows before pushing himself away from the wall. He stood for a moment, lost in thought, then set off across the Place Poelaert.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I

The first grey light of dawn hung in the sky. In the waiting room the electric light burned white and hard. Slatted benches were cold and uncomfortable. The sounds of the train station drifted in the open door with the fog that smothered the city. An elderly couple sat close and quiet, staring bleakly through the windows at porters passing with their trolleys of luggage and mail. Occasionally they exchanged a word or two in whispers. There was no reason for anyone to speak in whispers, but a voice more raised would have seemed somehow inappropriate.

A plump businessman, prosperous in his navy coat, camel scarf and dark homburg hat, stood puffing impatiently on a long cigar. He kept wiping the window where it was misting and staring down the line for signs of the train. It was not due for another five minutes. His premature impatience was annoying Bannerman.

The journalist’s eyes were gritty and stinging from lack of sleep. His mood brittle. He was tense without knowing quite why. The weather had changed overnight, the snow turning to rain, and a fine drizzle was drifting down the tracks towards the platforms that stretched away on either side. The damp seeped into everything, chill and raw.

Bannerman had risen early, the sound of his alarm drilling into a confused dream that dispersed with waking consciousness. The windows of the bedroom were milky white with condensation, and outside it had still been dark. In the living room the smell of stale smoke and alcohol hung in the air, the bottle of malt standing empty on the table like a reproach. The first cup of coffee had been good.

He shoved a few items into a holdall to see him through, in case he had to stay overnight. When he was in the hall the phone began to ring. He frowned and checked the time. Just after seven. He hesitated briefly before deciding not to answer. It was still ringing as his footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Had he taken the call he would not have been sitting in this station waiting room.