Bannerman smiled. It was the game that reporters played. Seeking reassurance that they hadn’t missed something. Years ago when Bannerman was starting out he had very quickly learned that reporters did not compare notes for the sake of accuracy. The instinct was to hunt with the pack rather than rely on your own judgement. As his own self-confidence had grown so he had taken cruel satisfaction in leaving the pack in confusion with a parting ‘Bloody good story’, while they had been busy reassuring each other that there was ‘nothing in it’. Nothing was better designed to ruin their day, especially when there really had been nothing in it. But Slater just said, ‘Not a thing,’ and then reluctantly made the introductions. ‘This is Neil Bannerman, the Post’s investigative reporter. Jim Willis, Evening Standard, Roger Kearney, Euro-News.’

Kearney, the fair-haired one, said, ‘Ah, yes. Know you by reputation, Bannerman. What brings you to Brussels?’

‘I’ve come to rake a little muck,’ Bannerman said. ‘If there’s any to be raked.’

Willis laughed. ‘Fertile ground for you, my old son. The place is alive with corruption. You want to take a look at the EEC system of awarding grants to the Third World. Some fantastic rip-offs there. Large backhanders to Commission officials from some of these tinpot dictatorships where half the country’s gross earnings are spent on royal palaces and luxurious watering holes for the leadership. It wouldn’t take much to dig something out there.’

Kearney took a slug of beer and pointed a finger at Bannerman. ‘And there’s the allocation of contracts to companies in member countries for infrastructure projects. There’s almost certainly fraud involved. Why, for example, does France get more Community money for road building than any other member country, when a godforsaken place like Ireland gets fuck all?’

‘And agriculture’s another rich source of fraud,’ Willis said, ‘if you care to do a bit of digging.’

Bannerman made no attempt to disguise his contempt. ‘Then why the fuck do some of you people not do the digging yourselves?’

Willis frowned. ‘Oh, piss off, Bannerman. This is where we make our living. You don’t shit in your own back yard.’

Bannerman snorted his contempt. ‘Call yourselves newspapermen? You’re on a right cushy number here, aren’t you? Everything laid on. You should try making a living in the real world.’

Slater was eyeing Bannerman with distaste. What was his game?

‘You can fuck right off!’ Kearney’s voice rose angrily and some heads turned in their direction. ‘All right for you, floating in here, stirring the shit then buggering off. You’ve got no pitch to queer. Smart-arsed bastard.’

Bannerman raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Struck a sore point, have I?’

‘Let’s get out of here.’ Slater took Bannerman firmly by the arm and steered him away from the bar towards the door. In the corridor outside he stopped him. ‘What the fuck are you playing at, Bannerman?’