Du Maurier nodded. ‘It is time we talked.’

III

Bannerman sat alone in du Maurier’s office. It was almost exactly a week since he had last sat here, on the same hard seat in front of the same cluttered desk. The same broken umbrella leaned against the wall beside the same pair of mud-spattered gumboots. In this little world, at least, nothing had changed.

Outside it had grown dark. The rain battered against the window. Bannerman was drained. His whole being was numb. The Anglepoise lamp spread its small circle of light in the darkness so that everything on the desk seemed hard and so finely focused that it hurt his eyes to look at it. Just as it hurt inside to think about the child.

The door opened and du Maurier came in, the habitual cigarette hanging from his wet lips. He rounded the desk and sat down, flicking ash carelessly at the ashtray and missing it. He let the cigarette burn in one hand while pulling with the other at the whiskers that grew from his nostrils. He regarded Bannerman for some moments. Then finally he said, ‘They finished operating two hours ago.’

Life flickered briefly in Bannerman’s eyes.

‘And?’

‘They say the next twelve hours will be critical. The surgeon gives her a fifty–fifty chance.’

Bannerman subsided into his gloom.

‘First, Monsieur,’ du Maurier went on, ‘we should deal with Lapointe. He has made a very full statement which has implicated both himself and René Jansen in the murder of Monsieur Platt. We should have the actual gunman in custody before the day is out.’ He lit another cigarette from the end of his old one and drew deeply. ‘I think we can safely rule out either man from involvement in the murders of Gryffe and Slater. I am quite certain that the man hired for that act was the one shot dead at Zaventem this morning. The child’s drawing was uncannily accurate. Unfortunately, one of the few things we do not know is who hired him or why. But I shall return to that.’

He blew smoke at a nicotine-stained ceiling.

‘On the basis of what I have learned from Lapointe I think it can be safely assumed that Slater was indeed blackmailing Gryffe.’

Bannerman leaned forward. ‘How?’

Du Maurier smiled wanly. ‘Lapointe has a daughter. She is divorced and until recently lived with her father before moving into an apartment of her own. They were quite close, father and daughter. She knew about most of his activities. According to Lapointe there were few secrets between them. Then . . . they had a row, she moved out. Her name is Marie-Ange. But she has kept her married name.’

‘Piard.’ Bannerman shook his head. He should have guessed. What was a woman like her ever doing with a man like Tim Slater? ‘Slater’s girlfriend,’ he said, laden with self-­recrimination. ‘Why did I not think of her before?’