‘Yes, he did.’ The policeman paused and placed his hat carefully on his thighs. ‘Let me tell you something, Monsieur Bannerman. The B120 is a highly specialized weapon. There are very few of them around. To be in possession of one you’d have to be somebody pretty . . . special.’

Bannerman considered the implications. And du Maurier’s use of vocabulary. ‘Like . . . Special Forces, you mean?’

Du Maurier shrugged. He was not going to commit himself. ‘Let’s just say a professional marksman.’

Bannerman said, ‘So he wasn’t trying to kill me.’

Du Maurier inclined his head in silent acquiescence.

‘Well it sure as hell didn’t seem like it at the time. What about the gas?’

‘Tear gas, probably. Or something a little more toxic. But you were never in danger, Monsieur Bannerman. He left you a way out and you took it. Though neither you nor he could have foreseen how it would all end.’ He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. ‘How long was it since you had eaten?’

‘I had a coffee and croissant at the station before I caught the train.’

‘And nothing after that?’

Bannerman shook his head.

‘So you hadn’t eaten all day. You spent several hours in a freezing-cold house. You had lacerations to your face and leg. You inhaled a toxic or semi-toxic gas, then ran nearly two kilometres in sub-zero temperatures before falling into a half-frozen stream. You must have the constitution of an ox, Monsieur!’

Bannerman raised a wry eyebrow. ‘They breed us tough in Scotland.’

Du Maurier was unimpressed. He blew smoke at the naked bulb and watched how it clouded the light. ‘When the Police Communale found you in the road you were very nearly dead. They got fluids into you last night and a doctor from Torhout dressed your wounds. His recommendation is that you remain in bed for two or three days.’

Bannerman glanced at the window. There was no sign of light beyond the shutters. ‘What time is it?’

Du Maurier glanced at his watch. ‘Just after eight. It should be getting light soon.’

‘Where are we?’

‘A small auberge in the village of Smoelaert. Just a few kilometres from Monsieur Gryffe’s house – or what’s left of it.’

‘Are you going back to Brussels?’

‘In an hour or so. I have to square things first with the local police.’

‘Will you give me a lift back?’

Du Maurier shook his head. ‘Monsieur, you are in no condition . . .’

But Bannerman was dogged. ‘Will you give me a lift?’

The Inspector sighed. ‘If you insist.’

‘I do.’

They fell silent then, and there was not a sound in the place. Bannerman rubbed the stubble on his chin and saw for the first time that he was wearing an old woollen dressing gown with a faded checked pattern. He looked up to see du Maurier drawing on the last of his cigarette.

‘Who was he?’