He hung up and sat for some minutes trying to resolve his conflicting emotions, the struggle between his personal feelings and his professional instincts. He needed a clear mind to steer him through the day ahead, and his thoughts turned to Platt. Platt was a problem. Bannerman had promised him a share of the story. He would have had no scruples about welching on that promise, but for the material Platt had unearthed on Lapointe’s nominee company. He needed Platt. It would take him too long to collect the data himself and the pressure was now on to run an early story. He couldn’t trust Lewis to sit on it if he held it back, even for a few days. And the stuff Platt had so diligently compiled completed the circle. It was within his grasp to prove beyond doubt that Gryffe had been involved in selling arms to rogue states in contravention of UN sanctions.

Even now he found it difficult to grasp the full enormity of the story. One thing he didn’t yet know was who had ordered the execution of Gryffe and Slater. Or who had shot at him in Flanders. There was also the riddle of Slater. That he had been blackmailing Gryffe seemed beyond doubt, but Bannerman had no proof. And how had Slater come by his information? It was not the kind of thing that you stumbled on by chance.

Again Platt wormed his way into Bannerman’s thoughts. There was no escaping it. He would have to take Platt into his confidence. With great reluctance he dug out the grubby business card Platt had given him at the party – how long ago that seemed now – and dialled.

‘Platt.’ The voice was thick with phlegm. The call had clearly woken him.

‘Bannerman.’

‘Oh . . .’ Platt was wide awake now and fumbling for his bedside clock. ‘What time is it . . .?’

‘Time you and I had a talk.’

‘What about? What’s happened?’

‘I’m at the Rue de Commerce. I suggest you get over here. I’ll expect you.’ The line went dead on Platt’s confusion.

Bannerman thumbed through his notebook until he found the unlisted number he had copied from Slater’s contacts book. There was a sense of urgency bubbling to the surface now. He picked up the phone again and dialled. It rang three times before a voice answered in Flemish.

Bannerman said, ‘Do you speak English?’

‘A little.’

‘I’d like to speak to René Jansen.’

‘Who wants him?’

‘Neil Bannerman.’

There was a long wait before the voice returned. ‘Herr Jansen is not available.’

Bannerman said calmly, ‘Tell him I intend to expose a company which is selling arms in breach of UN sanctions. I think he knows who I am.’

‘I don’t think . . .’

‘No one’s asking you to think. Just tell him.’