Bannerman looked quickly around him. The large mahogany writing desk with its three phones and clean blotter. An ashtray stuffed with fat cigar ends. A suitcase packed full of large Manila folders open on the desk. The carpet was thick and soft underfoot and the walls were hung with copies of old Flemish masters. Or perhaps they were originals. The windows, along one side behind the desk, rose from floor to ceiling and looked out on a breathtaking view over the city from this tenth floor.

Lapointe himself was a short, thickset man, probably in his late fifties. A few strands of grey hair were plastered back across his bald pate. His face was flushed and he stared insolently at Bannerman from behind steel-rimmed glasses. He spoke abruptly in French.

‘Well, what is it?’

Bannerman did not reply, but took his time strolling across the office to look out over the damp mist that obscured the distance.

Lapointe’s voice rose with irritation: ‘For God’s sake, man!’

Bannerman turned and looked boldly at the Belgian. ‘You had better speak English. I don’t speak French or Flemish, and I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.’

‘What do you want?’ Lapointe was growing uncomfortable, and regretted now having the man sent to his office. ‘You have a message from the old lady?’

Bannerman drew a folded morning paper from his coat pocket. It was damp from the rain. He threw it on to Lapointe’s desk with a front-page story face up and ringed in red ink. Lapointe glanced at it and felt a stab of fear.

JOURNALIST SHOT DEAD IN CAR.

He looked up abruptly. ‘What has this got to do with me?’

‘Take a look at the name,’ Bannerman said. Lapointe’s hand shook as he lifted the paper to read of the discovery early that morning of a dead man in a car near the Gare du Nord. A journalist called Richard Platt. The paper fell from his hands and he looked up again at Bannerman.

‘Who . . . who are you?’

‘My name is Neil Bannerman.’

The colour drained from Lapointe’s face and he began backing off. ‘It . . . it was Jansen. It was his idea. I swear.’ Then he steadied himself. ‘You can’t prove anything.’ But his defiance was fragile.

Bannerman walked slowly around the desk. ‘Let me tell you something, Monsieur Lapointe,’ he said. ‘I am sick of playing the game according to the rules. Rules that protect rich bastards like you. I am way beyond caring about what happens to me any more, and I’m going to break you into little pieces and feed you to the fucking dogs.’