She said, ‘Your office in Edinburgh has been trying to reach you for nearly two days. And’ – she fumbled among some papers on her desk – ‘a man called Platt. He has phoned several times. As has Mademoiselle Robertson.’

Bannerman sat down and glanced across at Palin’s empty desk. ‘Where’s Palin?’

Mademoiselle Ricain blushed. ‘He . . . he’s gone back to Glasgow.’ She hesitated. ‘You really look terrible, Monsieur.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Mademoiselle.’

She blushed again and slipped a sheet of paper into her typewriter.

Bannerman took an envelope from his pocket. It had been easy. After du Maurier dropped him off he had gone straight to the Post Office at the Place de la Monnaie and presented Gryffe’s card. The girl behind the counter had not given him a second glance, returning after a moment with the envelope he now held in his hand. Perhaps he should have felt more excitement than he did, but Tania still filled his thoughts.

He tried to detach himself from his emotions. Why should it matter to him? But it did. And then he thought, Let it feed your anger. Let it make you angry so that you want all the more to get the bastards. If he could not channel it into something positive, then his sorrow and his anger would become self-defeating.

He looked at the stamp and postmark on the envelope. It had come from Switzerland, posted at the beginning of the month. Nearly two weeks ago. He slit it open. There were two sheets of paper clipped together. The top sheet was letter-headed, a firm of chartered accountants in Geneva – Fouquet, Maxim and Schmidt, 50 Rue des Quartiers. It was addressed to M. Robert Gryffe, and the letter was brief and in English.

‘Dear Sir, please find enclosed, as requested, a quarterly statement of accounts for Machines Internationale S.A. for the three months ending the immediate past year. Your servants etc.’

The sheet attached listed purchases, sales and overheads in columns of figures down the right-hand side. They showed a pre-tax profit for the previous three months of five million pounds, with a rolling total for the first six months of nearly fifteen. Further returns were expected.

Bannerman was stunned. He ran his eyes up and down the figures. Just numbers on a sheet of paper. But now, he knew, he was starting to make real inroads into finding a motive for murder. Sales, purchases and overheads were not itemized, but that would come. Here was a beginning, the first inkling of what it was that Gryffe had been involved in. He was oblivious to Mademoiselle Ricain’s typing, to the late afternoon sunshine slanting across his desk, to the fine film of sweat on his forehead. He reached for the phone and dialled quickly.

‘Edinburgh Post.’ It was a good, clear line.

‘News desk.’

*