Bannerman felt the muscles in his throat contracting, and the fingers of his free hand trembled slightly as he reached for the notepad by the phone. One glance showed the name of the company he had underlined in the notes he had taken after Platt’s phone call. Corniche S.A.

‘Hello, hello? You still there?’

Bannerman was fighting to piece it all together. Corniche S.A., formerly a Belgian-registered company belonging to Lapointe, had uprooted and reregistered in Liechtenstein, and was now a new company listed to a Swiss lawyer. But wasn’t it just possible that Lapointe, who had used the original company to buy and sell other companies for Jansen, was still pulling the strings, still providing the cash? That this Swiss lawyer was just his front man? It occurred to Bannerman that he didn’t even need to prove that. A plain statement of the facts would make the connection by implication. Gryffe, Jansen and Lapointe had not only been selling arms to pirate companies who were in turn selling to the white-ruled African states, they also owned the pirate companies themselves. It wasn’t indirect selling, for Christ’s sake! They were doing it direct. The implications for the British government were incalculable. And for Jansen and Lapointe. International pressure would be bound to force the Belgian government to take action against the Jansen empire.

‘Bannerman, you haven’t died on me, have you?’

No wonder Lewis was seeking his pound of flesh. ‘I’ll call you back,’ Bannerman said.

‘No, no, no. You just wait one minute. None of this is for free. I want a certified cheque within twenty-four hours. When that cheque is in the hands of my bank you will get your documentary evidence. And if the cheque hasn’t shown by nine o’clock Monday morning, at the latest, I’ll sell the story elsewhere. You understand?’ The tone had changed. This was a hard statement of terms.

‘How the hell can I get that kind of money to you over a weekend? The banks are all shut.’

‘Just do it, Bannerman. Cash in bank before the records office reopens on Monday morning.’

‘I’ll call you.’

‘I’ll be here till midday.’

The line went dead and Bannerman dropped the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Shit!’ His voice resounded in the stillness of the room.

*

In Edinburgh it was raining, as it nearly always does. The grey and red sandstone tenements were dark and streaked with wet. The wind blew and rattled empty washing lines against rusted poles. In suburban Morningside big houses stood silent and solid behind long sloping lawns and trees that bent in the wind.